Honest ramblings...

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I think about lately. My daughter this morning told me that she read somewhere recently that ‘great’ people speak of ideas, ‘average’ people speak of events and ‘dummies’ (hm, don’t think she said dummies, however) speak of other people. I am taking ideas as meaning concepts. I think I mostly I think and speak of people, my relationships with them and how that makes me feel. And I am not too happy about this.

Ironically I am focusing on my feelings concerning this matter, which does nothing to resolve the issue that my focus is yet again on my feelings.

I am drawn to people, who speak of ideas, who have lots of interesting facts to share, yet I am quite selfish in conversation and as my other daughter will freely point out, I live in my own head. This does not invite the other people or person to bring the topic of conversation away from my endless self analysis, and as such I am denying myself the enjoyment of the other person’s company. Again, I’m analyzing.

Perhaps it is a feminine trait to focus so much on emotions and feelings. It’s not that I don’t have ideas and I love to explore them; in fact I have so many ideas that I find it difficult to stay with one and see anything materialize from any of them.

And then there’s the constant distraction of my pussy, I’d say my heart, but the reality is, it’s all about the pussy. This has been a recurring theme in my life for a very long time. I love the Sylvia Plath quote “If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time. ”

Someone recently told me I need hobbies, “and I don’t mean crocheting.” Well I do have hobbies, but they’re not very healthy ones. Poker is my number one hobby, and playing with my pussy is a close second. There are two reasons I enjoy poker, the first is that it allows me to zone out of reality, I click endlessly on the screen; check, call, raise, fold… I’m in a zone. The other reason is the company; I like the chat-box.

I wonder sometimes if the people I am attracted to online would hold the same attraction in real life. Usually in real life I like humble people who find me funny; I need to make people laugh. In my online world I am attracted to confident and highly intelligent people. The two people in the past four years of being trapped in cyberspace who have swept me off my feet are both extremely arrogant and very bright. I’m not very confident, although I can pretend to be and my self-esteem is very low, so being around such egoists in real life brings me down. For some reason these types online it makes me feel special. And these two individuals took my imagination on a flight of sexual fantasy that in all honesty was better than the real thing, which thus explains my other hobby.

My weakness is being watched. When I was a young teenager I was neighbors with a good looking boy who was a year older than me, he would call me up and ask me to stand on my window ledge and remove my top, I always obliged. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t be my boyfriend. He was perfect, intense blue eyes and broad shoulders, a year older, and very arrogant. He had two older brothers, they were all handsome and I think I would have slept with all of them had they asked me. One night we camped in a neighbors yard, Michael, my neighborhood voyeur came into my tent and kissed me, I was thirteen at the time, I had no chest; he put his hand down my PJs and fingered my tight cunt, then he left and went into my friends tent, she was a year older and had giant boobs. I was crushed. Any time he wanted I let him touch me, but he never wanted to be my boyfriend. It is my earliest memory of rejection. A few years later, Michael had left school and had become an apprentice chef, he obviously tasted his wares a little too often and had become quite a porker, we ran into each other at a night club and after walked home together, he went to kiss me, but first he actually asked me if I’d like to be his girlfriend, I said no, of course I said no; I wanted him when he was smoking HOT!

When I was in my early twenties, shortly after meeting my husband, I went to the Canary Islands for the winter to work. The plan had been to go back home to England, find a nice English boy and settle down, I had met my husband only days before going back home. I knew I was going to marry James; in part because a psychic had told me I would meet my soul mate in America and after eighteen months in the States and not having met one guy who came anything close to being a possible soul mate, I assumed he was the one. Staying on the island however was not an option, my flight was booked and I had no job, so back home I went. Upon arriving home, my Mum opened the front door and the first thing out of my mouth was “I met my husband.” ‘Steven?” She asked.

Steven had been my boyfriend for three months before he left for the winter to Telluride; he was by no means a soul mate, but we had fun. Steven was a non drinker and belonged to NA I had once said to him, I don’t see why you don’t have the occasional puff on a joint, I ran into him a few months later when I was back on the island and he had a giant bag of weed he proudly showed me, saying “I took your advice.” Oops sorry Steven, that wasn’t exactly what I meant.

I too was a non-drinker at the time, after a night of drinking my bosses’ beers with his underage nieces and his wife’s underage cousin on the roof of the building above their funky clothing store where I worked. The bars were letting out, we were noisy exchanging banter and singing with the drunks passing us by while they stumbled home. My boss told me to leave; I was jobless and homeless. It was suggested if I quit drinking I could have my digs and my job back so I complied, instead I had the occasional puff and it was around that time that Steve and I started to go out.

Incidentally Steve was also the first man I gave a blowjob to in a car, and this still remains my favorite way of giving head.

I digress… I was only home a few days when I realized why I had left England in the first place; the weather mostly, there is nothing more depressing to me that the damp grey days in the north of England; the lack of opportunity, and the grim attitude held by so many northern Brits. It’s as if they want you to fail and find great joy in the moments of others when things don’t go so well for them.

I actually had a pretty good time as I remember in the short time I stayed there before heading off to Gran Canaria. It wasn’t long before I began drinking again, my first night out with old friends, I announced that I don’t drink; I will never forget the look of puzzlement on the curious faces of my English friends. “Why don’t you drink?” “Are you allergic?” They were bemused and within a few minutes so was I. Yes why don’t I drink? Needless to say I am pretty sure I was wasted in no time.

I hung out with my friend John. John was a wild man who lived with a very normal girl-scout-leader; he smoked lots of weed, rode a motorbike and made me laugh. He owned some houses; I love telling how he came to be a landlord; how he went into Macclesfield forest before Christmas, chopped down some trees, sold them, with the money bought a car, drove it down to London, flogged it, hitch-hiked back to Mac and did it all over again until he had enough funds to buy his first house.

John knew I had no money, and no job, so he asked if I would like to come and clean out a house of a non-paying tenant of his. The idea was he would toss out anything that was not needed and sell off anything of value at a car-boot sale. While sorting through stuff I found an ATM card, “look John!” ‘It’s no good without the pin.” he said. A few minutes later I found the pin number in a stack of papers. We ran to the bank, not knowing what to expect, I put on leather gloves to be sure my finger prints would not be found and we withdrew as much money as we could from the account, we did this for several days until the funds were gone, and we split the dough. I rented a car and drove to Wales to go visit my old Buddy and then booked a flight to Grand Canaria.

It was in Gran Canaria that I profited from my exhibitionism; I rented an apartment in a building full of transients, the rooms were small and very cheap. My breasts fascinated the manager of the apartment building; in exchange for a months rent he asked that he might see them. All I had to do was remove my shirt. He obviously wasn’t very bright he could have come to the rooftop any morning where I was usually topless sunbathing and seen them for free.

I don’t look back on my three months in Gran Canaria as a happy time in my life, however I do think it makes for a great story. The first morning there I spoke to the pervy manager, enquiring about where I might find employment. There was an older Spanish man at the reception, who began singing, I of course joined in and he liked what he heard, asking me if I was interested in singing with him that evening at one of the hotels. We went back to his placed and practiced for a while and that evening headed to the hotel where he set up his keyboard. The hotel was full of German tourists. My accompanist had written the lyrics to the songs phonetically on the score, I began singing along “I’m sinking wit terrain, just sinking wit terrain…” I had had a couple of drinks to calm my nerves and as I stared out at the stony faces of the un-amused Germans I lost it, and there was no way I could continue. My fellow musician was not amused, he drove me back to the apartment tried to grab my pussy, I told him no effing way, and he threw some bills at me making it quite clear my singing career was over.

The next morning I told the manager and a Welsh guy who was lurking near by the funny tale of my first night s employment. The Welsh guy said “Well you seem industrious, would you want to be a hostess at a strip club?” I had seen what hostesses did for the past 18 months living in the states, it seemed pretty easy, they greeted people at the door and showed them to their seats; “sure, why not?” So that evening we went to the strip club where I met the manager, he said “I’ll hire you.” Oops, I didn’t quite understand the job description at all, I was expected to sit and talk with men and persuade them to buy me champagne, which was cheap, nasty and cost them an arm and a leg. I did manage to make a little money and I needed the cheap champagne just to get my head around what it was I was doing. In some strange way I actually had fun, I liked watching the girls dance and observing the weirdness of the night, almost as if I was not in my own body. I didn’t go back though; one night was all the experience I needed.

The following morning I went back to the reception, my Welsh friend was there again. “How was it Natasha?” “Not exactly what I’m looking for, any other ideas?” I answered. That night he took me to a small bar in a shopping complex next to a round-a-bout; the bar was ugly, painted red and black. My job was to stand at the round-a-bout and accost tourists arriving in cabs to get them into the bar, armed with little tickets that said two for one; I got paid a commission on the tickets handed in. It was one of the most degrading things I have ever had to do in my life. I remember standing waiting for the next cab and looking out at a high-rise building across the way, imagining that James (my future husband) would land on the roof in a helicopter, would jump out and call my name through a megaphone. I really had the wrong guy, this is about the most unlikely thing James would ever do.

One particular night I walked over to a cab, two young good-looking guys stepped out, “hi, where you guys from?” I asked. “Greece”, the one answered with a boyish smile… ah “Ti-kanis?” (How are you?) I had spent a summer in Crete, so now I was feeling confident I could persuade the boys to go to my bar. I told them about the special, and the flirty Greek boy agreed if I would join them. I sat with him for a few minutes before having to leave but I agreed to meet him later at a nightclub. He turned out to not be Greek at all, he was Italian, not only Italian but also he was a drug smuggler, who packed a gun and was part of the Gambino family. I became his bitch, and I was not sure if or how I could squirm out of it. One night we were together a man tried to talk to me, he pulled a gun out on the poor fella and told him to leave me alone. I was a little afraid for my life. I don’t remember his name now. He was an extremely sexy lover, but I was relieved when he vanished without a trace.

I didn’t work at the round-about for long, I got word of a temporary job at another bar as a bartender, a girl was going home for Christmas, could I cover for her? Hell yeah!!! The little bar didn’t do a lot of business; the girl I was covering for was short and stocky. The owner had not yet understood that having attractive, friendly people working for him might actually attract customers. I flirted with the guys, played the right music and in a very short time had every bar stool filled. Needless to say my job was safe for as long as I wanted it. I met the sugar cubes manager there one night and ended up in bed with him for a week, he was dreamy. I also ate bull penis for the first and last time (an Icelandic delicacy, I do not recommend).