At the beginning of Bear's health problems, I'll admit, I was not quite the mellow girl you see before you today. The man I loved was in pain, significant amounts of pain, and I could do nothing about it. I cried myself to sleep some nights, thinking of how different our lives were going to be and dwelling on everything I was going to miss out on.

Needless to say, his zen-bear "it is what it is" attitude mildly offended me. I couldn't handle it. Every time that phrase would come out of his mouth, I nearly flew into a rage. How could he say that?! Even worse, how could he actually feel that way?! That's unheard of. It is what it is... bullshit. What it is (and was) was awful; what I needed was that parental pat on the head and to be told that everything was going to be alright, regardless of how true or untrue that statement actually was.

Nearly 6 months later, my views have changed substantially. I've said before that I don't believe in god and I don't, really. I do believe in lessons learned and the importance of the little things, those momentary spots of uncomfortableness that teach us much more than simply drifting through life unscathed. I'm much more comfortable with the uncomfortableness these days; in fact, I relish those moments as the few I truly feel alive.

Have we had a satisfying sexual relationship lately? No. Yes, that makes me feel uncomfortable, but mainly because so much of my self-worth as a teenager was wrapped up in being physically pleasing to someone else (I obviously valued myself a lot back then *laugh*). I've learned to enjoy the small moments of intimacy that we hadn't really had in the previous few years - we cuddle, we lie in bed together and talk... we don't skip all the more meaningful parts of our relationship and jump right into fucking like rabbits. We're so much closer for that and, if I had let my libido get into the way, we wouldn't have gained all that. Of course I miss it, it's a basic part of myself, but it will come back and I'm not suffering in the short-term. Not really, anyway.

I love him, for what it's worth. Of course, I have my moments of feeling helpless and lonely - we all do. And I feel those things, really feel them, when they appear. But mostly, I learn. I watch, I listen, I feel, I learn and I move on.

I am who I am. But I am also a work in progress. If you see value in me, in the journey, you'll be there. If not, if your lives are much too busy to find room in your heart and with your time for me, then I simply wish you good luck on your life path. We all have our lessons to learn, regardless of how grown up we wish we were. If I ever stop growing, stop learning, my life will be over. I would want nothing less.

Last night I had a delicious orgasm thinking about you fucking me on the hood of a car. Where have you been?

I'm certainly not all happy happy joy joy (I'm very rarely that, entirely) but I do feel better. All it took was a weekend away from it all - a weekend to forget about the mundane responsibilities of life and dwell instead in the positive, philosophical and exciting aspects of life.

There really wasn't much different about this weekend than any other weekend, save that I seemed to need it to replenish myself more than usual. It's Monday and I am ready to face the week fearlessly, as usual. I'll be back here in no time.

It's hard to pound out an entry, something to remind you guys that I'm still alive and kicking, when I'm feeling this run-down. I've never been slapped upside the head with a 2X4, but I would imagine it feels similar to this. I actually slept not 8 but 12 hours last night. 12 hours. That's more sleep than I had gotten in the last 3 days combined.

Needless to say, my trigger is slight. A whisper, almost. Small things turn my blood to ice. I won't be told how to act, what to say, how to behave and how to feel... I simply won't. When my base level returns to normal, when my ability to reason resumes... then I'll continue my regular relationships. Until then, consider me a ghost. I'm not quite the meek, mild girl that my alter ego is so good at pretending I am. Underneath this all lies a caged tiger, waiting to get out. I may be a vegetarian, but when I'm not feeling good all I can smell is meat. I want to bite, attack, worry, kill; my mind doesn't let me forget or bury my carnal instincts.

So, for the good of all involved, I'll be scarce until this illness is over. God help everyone I come into contact with in real life.

My throat hurts, I'm tired of being on my feet 6 days a week, I want to move to Portland, I keep hoping that Bear's back would suddenly get better so that things could go back to normal, I really wish I were clothes shopping, I'm not ready for school to start back up Monday, I would be so happy if the girl that I've been crushing on lately would be more straightforward, I have absolutely no time for myself, I'm tired and my entire day tomorrow consists of cleaning and working...

but life is still so beautiful and sweet.

Since Daemon from the wonderful Sadistic Excess may be sending some of you lovely people my way, I thought I'd write a brief post to welcome you and explain what I'm looking for. I'm Aine, by the way, if you're new here.

For as long as I can remember, I've always gotten off with rape and non-consensual fantasy. It's my main kink, it's what I think about nearly every time I masturbate... it's my thing. I get frustrated reading most non-con stories because I think they cop-out way too much. The woman starts enjoying herself, the typical "bitch deserves it" storyline, the way that the stories never really "end," per se... all these things make me stop reading a story cold. I get no enjoyment out of those sorts of things and, frankly, that's the type of gentle non-consent that permeates most of the erotic literature out there.

So I'm looking, over the next few months, to start a website devoted to rape and non-consent stories. Nothing that takes the easy way out, nothing that strives not to offend delicate sensibilities... in other words, if you're writing to please the masses, please don't email me and ask to contribute. I'm looking for writers who are (obviously) technically skilled and, more importantly, not afraid to offend. If you think you're that author, or authoress, please drop me a line. I'm looking both for regular and guest contributors... your content will remain your own and I will have no license or ownership over it. Post when you'd like, what you'd like... and join me.

I can be reached at ainegirl@gmail.com.

During a mediocre orgasm, I moan. If sounds are coming out of my mouth, even sounds of pleasure, than I was aroused enough to come but not aroused enough to want you to get the fuck off me and stop touching my extremely sensitive body. I need you to keep going, to keep fucking me until I'm satiated. Don't blame yourself, just suck it up and keep going. I'm a difficult bitch to please.

During a mindblowing orgasm, I pant. Sometimes I make no noise at all. If, when you're fucking me, I sound or look like I'm in pain, you've done something right. Those are the times when I need you to stop afterwards, where my delicate body couldn't possibly handle another round of fireworks. Congratulate yourself and get off of me. You've won, I'm spent.

For the record, the ratio is usually about 80/20, and I'm not entirely sure technique has anything to do with the fact that mindblowing orgasms just don't happen for me that often. You've got to have my head involved, my entire body focused... and that's usually quite the impossible task.

This has been another installment of The More You Know.

The newly brunette look is really growing on me. It looks like a mess of frothy chocolate, the type that drips all over your fingers and forces you to lick them clean. Or lick me clean, whichever.

Besides my fabulous ass, that's also the newly painted wall being featured. I absolutely adore it - it's called "Radish" and has sexualized a room that's only used for sleeping, reading and fucking tenfold. I barely walk into it before that gorgeous red color, the color of blood as it comes into contact with oxygen, hits me in that sacred center where very few other colors register. I'm drawn to fits of fucking myself over and over, the sheets covered in my juices, my fingers continuing to pound out their rhythm on flesh.

Now I'm off, making some brown rice, black bean and cheese burritos that I can refrigerate until dinner time since I'm working late tonight. (And yes, Daemon, they're horribly lacking in meat. Vegetarians tend to do stuff like that. *wink*)

And oh, on a semi-unrelated note, I'm debating starting a website entirely devoted to fantasy fiction of the non-consensual type. If there are any authors out there who would like to be a part of it, you can send me ideas or submissions (no pun intended, I promise) at ainegirl@gmail.com.

Of course, any other emails are always appreciated. I'm a literary slut, folks. Write me and I'll love you forever.

So I'm getting ready to go from my signature red tresses to a little more mature light brown color. I was born brunette and, apparently, in my old age (*laugh*) I have the desire to go back to it. At least for a little while. Fall and winter are cooler seasons and, to me, it's a little brash to have red hair during such a mellow, dreary time. I'll post pictures when it's all dyed - it will definitely be weird to be brunette again. Wish me luck!

In BDSM, I consider myself fairly old-hat (I would never claim to be a pro, I know I haven't done or perfected it all yet). I've been on both sides of beatings, humilation, blood-letting, roleplay... you name it. Through it all, the one thing that scares me the most is deprivation.

You see, I'm a creature of sensation. The five senses are like gods to me - sight, smell, touch, hearing and taste are things I can see and appreciate. Deprivation, and being denied, are the only things I truly struggle with. I was a spoiled child, my parents gave me everything my heart desired, and I have trouble not getting exactly what I want at the exact moment I want it.

It's like standing in a dark room and hearing something in one corner. You don't know who, or what, it is. You can't see it, you can only feel it coming closer... hear it as it edges nearer and nearer. I like to see what's coming at me, I feel much more prepared. Perhaps that's a flaw.

You see, it's not what I'm being denied. It's that I'm being denied at all. I offer nothing poetic in this, just the simple understanding that life ushers in far more excitement when you let the little things gain more importance. Small moments, like this one, can mean something. It's not about forever, it's about this exact moment. Living and dwelling here, enjoying what I have right now... that's something I will not be denied.

Call me a spoiled brat. Come on, I dare you.

As I walked through the darkened hospital to drop off some laboratory work, I came across a tiny chapel wedged in between medical offices. It was artificial twilight inside, a mixture of the fluorescent lights filtering in through the stained glass and the few bulbs inside filtering their stale light back into the hallway. Intrigued, and in no rush to get back to work, my hand twisted the silver doorknob before I knew what I was doing.

I've always been spellbound by beautiful things; it's a quality I've become more comfortable with as I've aged. I was struck by the detail on the stained glass, the lack of religious motive behind it. It was simply gorgeous... no pretense, no purpose.

I'm not quite sure if it was my imagination or not, but I suddenly became very uneasy about being there. It's a running joke in my family that I would burst into flames if I were ever to enter a church; I was once asked to leave a Catholic wedding because I couldn't keep my composure and laughed loudly during the "serve and obey" section of the sermon.

I looked around and thought of all the believers who had sat in those tiny pews, all the people who had prayed to God for strength and courage to get them or their family members through an illness, and laughed a little to myself. How odd, I thought, for an atheist (for all intents and purposes) to be standing in the middle of this place of worship. How very much like the Devil I was then, grinning at the thought of people hoping for something bigger to step in and save them, the perpetual big brother figure who would stop the bullies from attacking.

It was then, smiling like a madwoman, that I noticed the altar. It was a tiny thing, really, more like a very well-made box than a real religious article of faith. There was the obligatory crucifix hanging above it, making sure that no one forgot the man who had suffered and died for their sins less they should become complacent about their worship. There were a few candles on it, and an empty basin to the right.

And all I could think about then was knocking all those things off and getting fucked against that altar. I wondered what the wood would feel like as it pressed against my naked hips while I felt the eyes of Jesus on me. I wanted my hair pulled, I wanted that wax dripped onto my bare skin, I wanted to use holy water as lubrication. I wanted to scream out "Oh, God" and "Fuck me, Jesus" and mean it. I wanted to practice mortification of the flesh, to know what it felt like to have a cilice pressing into my thigh as I was taken. I wanted our blood, sweat and sexual fluids to flow down the sides of that altar and baptize it with our shared passion.

If there is a Hell, I'm certainly going there now.

Found this from last year and wanted to share the wealth. Maybe if I get around to it I'll take some new pictures in the next few weeks - I have very few from the last 6 months for some reason.

Want to be my best friend? I told you my birthday was coming up, right? *grin* I'm mostly kidding but if you really feel like showing me some love, click here baby.

It would certainly make a lovely addition to my dining room.