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Tomorrow night I have a pretty fabulous play date. I am blissfully in the dark about what will be happening to me. However, I know there will be rope skillfully applied by a brilliant artist. There will also be a wicked sadist, giving a generous dose of pain. I’ve been asked to bring my toy bag as well so I know there will also be some delicious vibrations.

Am I nervous about being left in the dark? Well, a little bit but I’m also beside myself with excitement. So here I am, ass out, waiting for the first swat and expecting to be taken but not knowing where.

These are some of my favorite panties. They are simple and cotton and cute. And I like how my ass looks in them. I don’t have any particular memories of them (although I’m sure they have been peeled off of me during a variety of sexy moments.) I just know I like them a lot.

Sad thing is, they need to be put out to pasture. See, they still look cute and colorful but too many washings has degraded the elastic. That coupled with a bit of weight loss means that they just don’t stay up anymore. They slide off my hips easily when I stand and move around.

Today, walking across campus with a student, I felt them sliding. I am wearing a dress today. As we made our way to the library I try to tug at them inconspicuously without pulling my dress up over my hips. I clench my knees together and take smaller steps hoping that I don’t become a living Art Frahm pinup (there are worse things to become, but I didn’t even have any celery!)

When we arrived at the library I excused myself to the bathroom to remove the runaway panties, and stashed them in my purse. What a pity to be gallivanting around the library panty-less and in a sun dress with no elicit purposes and no one to blame other than the man who ensured the manufactured obsolescence of the elastic.

So, raise a pint (or pour a drop, whatever your style is) for my cotton panties with the little pink flowers. They will be immortalized here on this Half Nekkid Thursday, but my ass just won’t be the same without them.

A few days ago I was thinking. I was also being fingered. Neither of those two occurrences are peculiar in isolation but they are usually independent of each other. Nonetheless, as Jay slid one hand under me to cup my ass and deftly worked at my pussy with the fingers of his remaining hand, I found myself in thought.

I quickly realized that these were thoughts I have had before.

Over, I thought. Yes, right there on my clit. Mmm, with your thumb, that is lovely.

I was thinking these things and they were happening. I looked at Jay and he was intently focused on my pussy and nibbling on my hip. I listened carefully, was I speaking?

I heard the sound of my wetness being stirred up. I heard my own moans and my breath catching in my throat as I shifted my hips to meet his touches. But I didn’t hear myself issuing directions.

This is when it hit me. Jay touches me in the exact way I want to be touched. He anticipates what will make me squirm and quiver. He seems to deliver it instantaneously, as the thought crosses my mind. Or perhaps before.

His touch is part of my body’s memory - the history and geography of who I am and how I feel. Thinking of his hands on me is soothing, it feels like home, and it makes me slick just from the memories.

I have been trying to consolidate and organize things around here. You might notice the new theme (snappy, huh?) and that I did some blogroll cleanup. While in the process, I went digging through the earliest version of this blog that lived on Livejournal (in early 2005). Turns out that I posted tons of pictures there that I don’t think have appeared here before. I uploaded them all to Flickr, here are a few samples. Notice the poor composition, grainy resolution, and general cam-whorishness:

The rest of the batch live here.

I bought this little crinoline slip the other day and have been wearing it almost constantly. Jay caught me laying in bed reading and wearing onlythis the other day.

New slip :)

Originally uploaded by lumpesse

I was talking to D just a moment ago (holy crap, why is he so hot?) and released some pent-up aggression and rage about sex blogging at him. Carry on - if you don’t hate me now, you might pretty soon.

Ellie: Yeah, I’m just feeling like I should go back to being a boring blog attention whore and stop trying to think
Ellie: ::giggle:: here are my tits, ooh I got fucked so hard last night
Ellie: that is the only thing anyone responds to
Ellie: not that I”m trying to elicit a response
D: I think it’s sexy when you think, and then include a picture of cum covered ass
Ellie: yeah, that was sort a big “fuck you” though, don’t you think?
D: I like the challenge of thinking with limited blood rushing to my penis
Ellie: lol
Ellie: I think I’m just being a bitch lately.
Ellie: Like I’m really bored by sex.
Ellie: Well, not sex, the way people talk about it.
Ellie: For pure titillation.
D: ok, I was confused for a minute
Ellie: Mostly, I read the Sugasm this week and only found 2 things I wanted to finish reading much less vote for.
Ellie: The sexual education is the same information I’ve heard a million times.
Ellie: The BDSM blogs mostly make me want to gouge my eyes out because of the aggressive takedown of the English language that they are trying to stage.
Ellie: and most of the single chicks with shitty webcam photos. . .ugh
Ellie: and I have no doubt that these people are all very interesting but they fucking conform to this silly set of memes and expectations
Ellie: sex blogging doesn’t feel any more exciting or revolutionary than food blogging
Ellie: but at least I read food blogs and think “hmmm, I want to try that recipe”

Now, I won’t argue with you that I am a total cunt here. Also a pretentious asshole. I remember when I first started this and it was fresh and exciting and who am I to begrudge someone else their early moments in the sun and the excitement and titillation of exhibitionism?

Oh yeah, I got fucked last night with my legs up over my head. Jay pounded me until I screamed. I’m sure it woke the neighbors.

Here is a blurry picture of my tits and about an eighth of my books:

Yep, still feels mundane. Sigh. . .

Well, maybe not really. But they are pink with scandalous/ized French phrases on them:

I am so pleased with the connections I have made and ideas that are arising as a result of this post. To get a full feel for what I am trying to get at, please read the comments thread as well as the post. My half-baked ideas are starting to form down there because the original post was written without editing and without structure.

It is official. The connection I find between knowledge/schooling and sex moves beyond the theoretical and beyond the fact that I want to fuck my professors.

My notes scribbled inside The History of Sexuality Volume 1 could be for a future paper and they could be for this blog and I’m not sure which venue is appropriate anymore. I’m not sure that my identity as a potential scholar is at all divorced from my identity here. Each day that identity gets more fluid. I tell one more person that I am a phone slut for hire or that I am polyamorous or that I am kinky or that I own sex toys or any number of other details that are starting to feel mundane.

This evening I went to a Foucault reading group. It was 6 graduate students plus Jack, a professor in my department. I refer to him now by the name I gave him in a piece of fiction I wrote 3 years ago (and by “fiction” I mean “daydream committed to blog“). That piece was written near the beginning of my graduate studies (and at the beginning of this blog) but I have known Jack since I was an undergraduate. I don’t kid myself that I have come full circle in some way, but over 3 years of documenting my feelings and thoughts about sex must mean something.

The nature of blogging is that it busts up our ideas about narrative, there often isn’t a clear story or arc of reasoning. Especially in the world of personal blogs, the evolution of emotions and ideas is what carries the real narrative quality. With each post I write I know that it will reach the readers that have read every word I have ever published here (a *very* small group) as well as those that stumble upon it in isolation of what comes before and what comes after. They may see it 5 minutes after I write or 5 years but it stands on its own in a way that it absolutely cannot. That is my cross to bear of course, but sometimes it makes the writing unbearable and impossible. An impenetrable wall of hyperlinks, exposition, caveats, and insecurity. But I still write.

This isn’t an essay about what compels me but this is rather a story about how I am longing to set myself free from this anonymity. It sounds like a contradiction, right? Anonymity is supposed to bestow my freedom on me, allow me to say and be the things that I never could be in the rest of the world. But what if I want to be those things out in the open, proudly, and productively. What then of my ubiquitous “head shot” that features my arm flung over my face? Where my body is capsized, the emphasis of my being not on my eyes but on my mouth and my tits. Am I just a mouth and tits? I have a voice and I have a sexuality (or at least desireable curves) but I can’t be seen and perhaps I can’t see out. Perhaps you didn’t come here for a deconstructive analysis of my own dirty photos. Perhaps you are the reader I cited above and (if you are even still reading) you are thinking “what is this chick on? what can I get off to? isn’t this supposed to be a sex blog?”

I know that risk. I know that being a sex worker I have this privilege of being myself that I can only exercise to a certain degree. I do have to be always on, always willing to serve, I do have to present an image of myself that is both real and hyper-real at the same time. Am I horny? Generally, yes. This moment, of course. With you, absolutely. That is my mantra and it reflects who I am to a degree. It also determines me. Is it a fabrication if I have *become* what I strove to represent myself as?

So I was talking about Jack and the Foucault group. I sat with a group of my peers today and I talked about Foucault. Simple enough, something that graduate students do. But it felt like I had so much more at stake. Every fiber of my being was screaming to really dig into the implications of these ideas. What about sex workers? What about BDSM? What about bisexuality? What about a million other predilections/perversions that are all around us but I may not be personally invested in?

But we talked about power. And there is nothing wrong with that, it is the guiding idea in Foucault’s work and it is crucial to understanding what he says about sexuality and sexual identity/orientation. But I craved something else, an honesty that would shock and impress and be productive. I wanted to share knowledge, an ars erotica, with my peers but instead I operated in my usual capacity. I listened to Jack, I nodded my head, and occasionally I re-phrased what he said in order to make sure I understood it. He agreed and all was well but my insides were screaming and my mind was racing with ideas and questions that were both on the tip of my tongue and impossible to articulate.

So, I’m left in this chasm between my academic authority and the authenticity of my experience. Neither is represented here or there and I feel incomplete.

I know this post went in a million different directions and there are more still streaming around in my mind. What would Foucault say about this? Why do I even care what Foucault would say about this? Really, it is an absurd and laughable question but I still find myself clinging to it.

Oh, and happy fucking Half-Naked Thursday, here is a picture of my ass splattered with come. It was taken with Jay’s camera phone after he fucked me during a call with a client. Posting this feels so mundane.