Archive for April, 2011

29th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

So I sit here waiting for my delayed flight, stuck here because I’ve made it past U.S. pre-clearance immigration. Luckily I was painfully hungry enough to have eaten a lovely filling breakfast in the main terminal beforehand (large croissant, orange juice, fruit, yogurt, ham and brie); otherwise I’d be a pissed-off camper. Cold enough to invite sniffles and have me in long sleeves, a sweater and a coat, I absorb the last of the bleck that is Dublin. I can count the number of smiles that have been returned on one hand – 3 fingers to be exact. Two in the airport in this dismal terminal. I guess the employees are starving for a little bit of joy too.

28th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

Into my tiny apartment and into bed we go. He spends what seems like thirty minutes licking the hell out of my pussy; so the verdict on his slightly gay look? I don’t think a gay boy could be there that long. It occurs to me later that his look is partly due to his teeth that project slightly too much – as if he’s had imperfect veneers installed. Well, I’m not a big oral girl; I respond more to stiffer, bigger tools, so onward we go.

He expresses some reluctance toward the condom that I attempt to put on. WTF? His penis starts out a nice width around the base and gets progressively smaller till it reaches a small head. I pull the foreskin back, start rolling the condom on, and it manages to slowly get pulled back. Only half or less of the penis is covered despite my best efforts. He tries as well, seeming to try to anchor it to his small balls. It occurs to me that the condom itself isn’t rolling off his penis, but his penis’s foreskin is so ample that it’s actually rolling on itself, bringing the condom with it. Damn. Why don’t more people in this country fix their toolbox?

With his ill-clad, oddly-shaped but at least straight (conical) tool, he attempts many positions, one bizarre with me on my back, ass and legs folded over like a hard taco shell and him almost lying on top in the air. Um, needless to say, very little works. As I am twisted into unnatural positions, I feel the weight of reality pushing a soon-to-be-bruise into the nook of my shoulder. We don’t fit. Yet another pretty, defective Spanish boy. And I try to rectify the situation with my mouth, but after some of that, he really wants me to jump back on top of him to which I say defeatedly, “It doesn’t work.” I’ll give him this much, he’s a hard worker and a determined one. He tries less bizarre stuff, and I get some pleasure out of our joining, but in the end, just a couple of hours after we had come up the stairs, he puts his clothes back on, gives me a dismissive kiss and is out the door. And I am relieved.

Would I have been better off without this experience under my belt? Who’s to say? But it doesn’t matter. You just never know when you’ll turn up a gem in bed. You can’t tell by the wrapper. You just have to probe further. Maybe a conical penis with a flowy foreskin would have been a dream cock. You just have to wait and see.

27th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

So a slightly gay-looking friendly bad/good boy starts laying his charms on me, his half brother trying to pimp him out. And I decide the swarthy bad boy doesn’t deserve me and this good/bad boy does. He isn’t possessive and assuming. He just keeps smiling at me, is social with many girls and boys in the club along the way, and he kisses so well with his soft, full lips and smallish mouth – better than the bad boy’s squishy big lips. So I’m decided. He keeps me within his sights – again not being pushy but politely asking if he can accompany me to the restroom for example (to keep his talons within reach) to which I happily said yes.

On the way down to the restroom, it is the clown and the dark bad boy in the way, which is AWKward. To the bad boy’s protest, I tell him I had been his but he hadn’t paid attention to me. There is some grumbling, but I finally leave with the good/bad boy, his brother and their wasted cousin.

The next twenty minutes are pretty horrible and almost end with me in a cab alone, angry and in tears. First there’s him outside pulling down one side of my dress as I quickly compensate by cupping my bare breast in my hand and he puts his mouth on it from below, showing his friends and other club-goers his prize, and then there’s the onslaught of trying to push me into a threesome with his brother who’s ended up girl-less. Finally, the brother agrees to drive the hopelessly stumbling drunk cousin home to Getafe outside of Madrid, and I, who have fond memories of Carles flooding back into my head of how he’d treated me well – at least when he’d been with me – how he’d held my hand, how his eyes had been just for me since we’d met… And along with the flood of memories come tears. The good/bad boy – who has now graduated into the bad boy camp – thought I was complaining about the drunk cousin – which duh, wasn’t the issue. I tell him I wouldn’t care if we had to drive six hours to drive him to Barcelona. It’s that I’m being treated like shit. He calms me down saying he’ll just take me home and won’t come up with me if that’s what I want, and I finally agree – what the hell – and at some point, I just will the tears to stop and tell him, “It’s over.”And he says, “What is over?” To which I respond, “My emotions.” On to the random one-night stand that will be disastrous or possibly a little fun. But there are by then no hopes that it will turn into anything else as I’ve been lucky enough to experience in the past.

26th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

It’s Thursday night. And I am dressed to kill in my short red strapless retro dress with covered buttons which is very flattering to my breasts and has gotten me a (politely rejected) proposal of payment for services rendered once before (pre-amplified). I could go to small Shoko or Pacha, huge Kapital, or random tourist-packed clubs littering the neighborhoods around the Plaza del Sol (Sun).

Then I remember fondly the club called Posada de las Ànimas that my special friend had introduced me to, a place filled with horny Spanish wolves staring at all the potential prey that pass them by. This club does not appear in tourist guides or in the top ten of Madrid clubs, so it remains a best-kept secret among Spaniards and the few they pull into their circle. The music is my most favorite, a vibrant combination of international and American dance-pop, Spanish songs, and salsa, which never bore. The first floor dance floor is packed with people not moving at all which is an odd feature as are the ugly poorly dressed girls dancing in front of the raised VIP area. The constant people pushing their way through makes it impossible to dance without my wanting to punch them. Then I discover the less congested second floor and find a great little spot out of the path of traffic with a fabulous view of the first floor. Passing through the crowd up here, there is a seductive hint of cologne which arouses me and makes me want to get laid, mixed in with the many fashionably-dressed firm bodies with great hair and uncommonly straight teeth.

I make my way back and forth between the first floor – where I’d been invited into a little boxing-ring like VIP booth by a very good-looking, fit clown and his sexy, swarthy, big-nosed, thick bad boy friend, and I immediately think that I’d be happy to fuck that bad boy. But the idiot simply doesn’t pay enough attention to me besides a few short make-out sessions. Even bad boys need to fix their attentions on one prey to maximize the prey’s vulnerability, and I look too good to settle for less.

25th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

This trip on the streets of Madrid, I seldom turned heads, almost never invited a greeting, was almost never told by random strangers or waiters that I was good-looking (except in my knock-out dresses), nothing spectacular and out of the ordinary happened, and I didn’t meet any special someones.

I contributed to this descent into peasanthood by spending a lot of time indoors. But it was the scarcity of friends I thought I had that kept me isolated in my tiny little apartment without the desire to enjoy new foods all by my fucking self. I spent most of my time sleeping, as I simply didn’t want to sit there entertaining solitary feelings. It was me, sitting alone at a table for four in a Korean restaurant – supposed to be a place that offered comfort food – that highlighted my loneliness. There were no tables that seated fewer than four. Groups of friends happily chatted inside and out on the streets. I had no one. And to top it all off, my offending Bi Bim Naeng Myun had no meat in it!

There were peaks and new experiences, as I’ll talk about in other posts, but by day three of five, I wanted to get the fuck home. When I reached home, I’d surprisingly found I’d reached my dream weight, 111.0 pounds. This I’d done with the diet of loneliness. One little highlight to an otherwise lackluster trip.

24th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

La Madame is a mere shadow of its former self. The large stage that had housed up to ten scantilly-clad models and huge ripped Spaniards et al. has been converted into a VIP section and when dancers do come on, there are only three and the guy is burdened (as am I) with layers of clothing and the female go-go dancers are typical but not enviable. The most notable is the large number of transsexuals there, which I am now aware of because of my accidental partying with some a couple of years ago. Then I wonder where those two women are. One had hinted that she was somewhere in her forties. She and her friend who drank like a fish are nowhere to be found.

Which leads to me to wonder what happens to older transsexuals? What kind of lives do they lead after their glory years? They’ve lived most of their adult lives as prostitutes – it isn’t like with men who abandon their families at age fifty and undergo a makeover into a masculine womanhood. These trannies try over-hard to be the sexiest women around, though with narrow hips and strange calves. I discuss this with my friend, and he seems to think that they may simply become normal, average-looking middle-aged women later in their lives, abandoning their vanity like most women born as such.

But back to La Madade. There are never enough partygoers to get the room hot enough for guys to take off their shirts, and it’s likely that I wouldn’t want to see them shirtless as their are few muscles to be found. And where are all the gay boys? There used to be beefy gay boys aplenty. I like pretty things; I don’t care if I don’t get to play with them. So I leave at a disappointing 3:15am to be back in my gorgeous Barcelona home to sleep off the ill effects of a deeply trouble economy.

23rd April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

I’m pretty sure they aren’t just Spanish women. Most are likely tourists. Mingling among the lean or skinny Spanish boys, they look like hippos running amuck in a garden, trampling on its splendor. So where are the fat men? Smart and kind enough to stay away from the clubs – thank you! Fat women are not as considerate. And they are smart enough to know that some Spanish boys will be desperate enough to settle for a fat chick as Spanish women are not known for their eagerness to hook up. Thanks to us vagina-endowed travelers, fat or thin, Spanish guys and we can get laid.

22nd April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

It is partly the possibility that Fede may very well call that causes me to leave one of my formerly favorite clubs in the world, La Madame, early. I don’t want to be too tired to enjoy my few stolen moments with him. And bringing a guy home would also be problematic as I’m not one to be rude and kick someone out because another lover is stopping by in a few minutes.

He calls at 10:30am and I groggily answer. He’ll come after lunch. *Yay*

He comes in, in a T-shirt and sweater on jeans, setting aside his motorcycle jacket and helmet. Nice so far. Wow, he’s a big boy. The few minutes are spent almost like an uncomfortable first date, with him asking me questions about the apartment, about me, my man, etc. Then he says that it’s too bright with all the sunlight coming through the windows. He wants it more intimate, much more intimate.

And we start kissing on the sad little sofa that buckles under his weight and I feel him rock hard through his jeans, his huge mouth and super-plump lips engulfing my small mouth like a big bass swallowing a goldfish. Not the best kissing but what do I expect from such a huge guy at 6 foot-5 inches tall with muscles everywhere?

He pounds me hard and it is divine. I had dreamed the day before of how it would be to have this massive mountain of a man on top of me, and it is similar but more comfortable, minus the tugging and rough manhandling of my full breasts that leaves me sore, with tiny bruises and red hickie-like marks and my back fucked up geriatric-style that I sometimes feel even two days later. It is the roughness and the fact that I’ve been pent up that has made me so ready. He curiously asks why I yell so much. I tell him because I feel a lot and that he is making me yell. I hope that he’s proud of that. I like him a lot, this guy, even though he hasn’t done anything loving like caressing or telling me sweet things – we don’t even kiss goodbye. It’s simply a wham bam thank you ma’am long-overdue. However he is sweet enough to offer to take pictures of me, and when he shows me the results, I find several with just my face though my body had been sprawled out for him. Curious.

And I feel these pangs of longing as I am wont, and he tells me he might call again the next day but he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t, and when the alarms I’d set go off, my heart leaps into my throat thinking it is him again. And it is more than likely that I’ll never see him again. Like those guys in Barcelona I’d pinned so many emotions on, he is another one that will have walked out the door to never come back.

21st April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

It has taken me two years to figure this out. How are the gorgeous, glamorous Italian women of Rome able to gracefully navigate the evil cobblestones that line so many streets of that ancient city without falling or destroying their designer stilettos in the wide deep cracks in between?

When I descend the ramp to the beachside clubs of Port Olimpic in Barcelona, I remember the unfortunate reality of the walkway – it is wooden, so there are gaps between the planks wide enough for my skinny heels to slip through. And it is then that I have an epiphany that translates into my looking like a model on the catwalk. My heel comes down as if it will settle on wood, but it is an illusion. In fact, I never put any weight on the heel. The ball of my foot comes down and takes the weight of my swinging hips. In this way, the movement of my brilliant, shiny dress hugging the curves of my kick-ass body take center stage.

I have joined the ranks of the Italian donnas. I am woman. Hear my roar and watch me walk like a diva. Oh, and don’t touch me.

20th April
2011
written by Dame Suzy

It is my second night in Barcelona; I could have slept instead, but I also know that I’d likely wake up at three in the morning and by then it would be too late to go out; I’d be stuck bored inside, no awesome dance music to be heard, to putz around in my pajamas.

I will myself as I often do to go down to the clubs at Port Olimpic overlooking the beach. And I dress to kill in my shiny turquoise Bebe corset bustier dress and criss-cross Carlos Santana stilettos. I try not to get excited by the thought that I just might see the bouncer I’d met almost a year ago, Federico. In the taxi cab, I keep my jacket zipped to the neck – I don’t want to incent another taxi driver to do anything stupid. But when I step out, I unzip it and fling it off in a tough-girl movement, eliciting some cat calls from a passing car of Barcelona boys. I pass by the entrance of Catwalk, Sota and Opium with their long queues. I’d learned a long time ago that if I entered from below, there’d be no line at this hour – 1am, and three out of four times, they’d just let me pass through.

I can feel people looking, but that’s why I’d worn this dress.

I have to fend off random (some creepy) people and roses offered by vendors, but I make my way down the ramp. Then, with barely any human obstacles, I walk my style – hips doing their boom-boom walk and confidence pouring out of my face, arms just swinging slightly to show off my lovely shoulders and collarbones. I pass through and by so many people bundled up in dark, sombre jackets. People watch me, including the doormen. And as I approach Opium, the two doormen there are among those who stare as I approach. And when I go up to them, I look up and see that most beautiful of things, a familiar (gorgeous) face. And I exclaim, “Fede!” and wrap my arms around his neck and we give each other the two-kiss greeting. And I am so happy complete with adrenaline rush. And his dark-brown sincere eyes regard mine and there is recognition. I say, “I can’t believe it. It’s been a year almost. I’m so glad to see you again.” And we speak, and I tell him how I’d been unable to sleep a year before waiting for the second call that only came after I’d come back to the States.

And again, he isn’t able to tell me for sure if he’ll be able to “escape” to see me. And that uncertainty feeds into this swirling pool of emotions the next day. Would he call, or would he leave my high and dry yet again? And would I put up with it? And when I lay in bed the next night after a short, uninspiring night at La Madame, wondering if he’d call the next day, feeling these feelings of being in love – crap – and how could I fall in love with a guy I’d never even kissed on the lips or seen the curves of his body beyond this unsuggestive suit he wore? How was it that I could so easily manufacture these exaggerated emotions that I could fall in love so easily? I guess I could consider myself unique…or cursed, or a sentimental sap.

Would he call?

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