Whew. It’s dusty in here!

I know that I have not been around for years. Or a year. It’s been a hell of a long time. But I made a pact with myself. I’m not going to tell you what that pact is. Because as many of you know, I often make pacts with myself, others, and occasionally the devil, and I very rarely keep those pacts which explains why I have currently have no soul and my first 3 children will be Satan’s. I kid. Sort of.

So here we are again. I’ve missed you. And, oddly enough, I’ve missed this blog. It’s always been a bit of an outlet for me. But sometimes, when I put enough unneeded pressure on myself, it becomes a chore. And then I avoid it. Or, enough time goes by and I forget how cathartic it is to write and then pretty soon it’s been a year. Or, I find myself being extremely negative and really outlandishly rude and debbie downer-ish and can’t stand the words coming from my fingers and make a vow to only write when I’m feeling more positive and pretty soon a year has gone by. It’s amazing how fast time goes by. And it’s just not when you’re old, young people often feel the blur of the seasons, too. We’re just in denial, drunk, or preoccupied on other things and don’t mention it. In my literature class 2 semesters ago I came across a lovely quote: Optima dies . . . prima fugit — “The best days are the first to flew”. Yeah. I’m still trying to grasp the full meaning of that, too. Bonus points if you know which novel has this quote as its epigraph.

The past few months – ok…the past year has been filled with many things obsessive. Many of you probably already are familiar with my obsession with all things cosmetic. I kind of OD’d a bit on the whole make up thing, although I will willingly take any Inglot palettes anyone wishes to donate to the cause. I sort of found myself in a nail polish flurry the past few months where I found my modest collection of 20 nail polishes proliferate into a collection of just about at last count 600. A few days ago I stumbled onto a new obsession.

I’m not exactly sure how it happens – these fetishes. I find it insightful, alluring, entertaining, intriguing, …. to ask my callers at times where a particular “like” came from. It seems obvious for some things – a panty fetish is revealed to be connected to first seeing panties and instantly sprouting a hard on connecting the two things together in fantasy matrimony till death do you part. Other things a bit more complex. Balloon popping? Gas Pedals? asphyxiation? I can connect every thing I’ve wanted to collect into a single solitary moment, suspended in my mind by pleasure seeking threads. When I was quite young I remember having dreams of colored tights in my dresser. Every night I would go to bed and dream of them – pink, yellow, blue, every color of the rainbow. I would wake, run to my dresser, and to my disappointment find that my dreams never came true. When I see make up in rainbow color order I feel powerless. I need to have every color, regardless if it’s in my right color group or not. If I start collecting a specific brand of nail polish, I have to have ROYGBIV colors first before embarking on the other glitters and other spectrums of colors. It’s a rule – one that my friends find amusing but that I find a bit like being in a self inflicted expensive prison.

A few days ago I remembered playing on a friend’s typewriter she had “inherited” from her grandfather. It was a big, clunky black heavy thing – and we would hunt and peck out silly words on pieces of white construction paper, not knowing any better. When a mistake was made we would backspace backspace backspace and x, x, x over the offending word or words and then start over. Our typed words became a sort of distressed piece of art I suppose, but to us it was just a funny, old thing that smelled like mold, that would make funny click clack ding noises that we would play on. Until a few days ago.

In my creative writing class we had to come up with an author we wanted to study and then we were to research him or her and write like them. I picked, of course, Carrie Bradshaw. She wrote on a MAC lap top in front of her window of her New York Brownstone Apartment. And she wrote about sex. It really was a no brainer. But I still looked up other author’s I admired – real authors – not figments of the author’s imagination, as Carrie Bradshaw is to Candace Bushnell. Some wrote long hand on yellow legal pads (Toni Morrison). Some wrote on their computers and others, like Hemmingway, Burroughs, Plath, wrote their masterpieces on manual typewriters.

And so the search has begun. I’m determined to find a manual typewriter. Perhaps a Remington. This one has colored glass keys. She’s lovely!

Or maybe a Royal.

There is, for me at least, the holy grail which is the Hermes 3000, a mint green manual typewriter, rumored to type like a dream.
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I’d like a few electric typewriters from the 60′s or 70′s, too. Something that might sit on the desk in the office of Madmen, perhaps.

I have no desire to have a typewriter that doesn’t function. I don’t want it to be for looks. I want to use it. I want to hear it. I want to smell it. So there you have it. You’re the first to know of this new collection that I have been drawn to. A door in to my newest fetish. I figured I’d invite you in, as many of you have invited me in through your front doors to your fetishes through out the years. Take your shoes off. Stay a bit. Let’s talk of the best days. Before they flee.

About a week ago I decided I needed a new adventure. Maybe it’s my ADD – maybe it’s avoidance. Maybe it’s that I still haven’t quite kicked my smoking habit as much as I’d like and I need to do something with all this inner ‘teenage’ angst I have. Who knows. Maybe it was a moment of insanity that made me google training for your first 5. Now even though I’m athletic (I’ve sprinted before – short distances, mostly, played softball, danced (not THAT KIND!) – and been a gym rat as of late) so this running more than a minute thing is SERIOUSLY a challenge for me. I’m definitely not a couch potato, but the thought of heavy breathing (why do all my posts take on a sexual vibe?) and sweating doesn’t exactly appeal to me. At least not when I’m alone in the elements first thing in the morning while running.

So I started this whole training project. And this coming week I’ll be on week 2. Ill be running a total of 2 minutes by the end of this week, I think. Supposedly at this rate – in 8 weeks I’ll be running 30 minutes non stop , which “they” say is a 5k. I think I’ll have to run 45 minutes straight to go that distance. I am not running fast enough to do a 10 minute mile. 3 miles is 5 kilometers, right? Damn American school system. Haven’t we been trying to move over to the metric system for the past 50 years now? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just do it already instead of giving us water bottles with liters and telling us how many cm something is next to the inches to avoid confusion. They tell us it’s easy – easier than the American system of units, yet the only people who are using the metric system are doctors and scientists. The smart people, basically. But I digress.

Running is hard. Anyone who runs has my complete attention and then a healthy dollop of respect on the side. People who run past me as I crawl along on my 20 minute mile are impressive. Their leg muscles inspire me and their even breath as they actually say hello to me as they pass is impressive beyond words. If I look in your direction as I’m “running” by you, consider yourself lucky. Half of the time I can’t see through the pain.

I’m exaggerating.

Slightly.

The thing is, I kinda like the challenge. I like running and knowing that whatever is inside of me – any fear or anxiety or worry or whatever, leaves my body because struggling for air and longing for my next breath takes precedent over any emotional trouble I might be feeling at the moment. I like the feeling when I forget the task of running and I look up and see squirrels running up trees, and flowers crawling slowly up someone’s white picket fence, and the fat Morris the Cat body double that lies in the middle of the path every Wednesday morning at about the same time every day as I gasp by. I love how at the end I’m always amazed at what I’ve accomplished. I like how strong I feel I am at that moment, and how my sweat catches up to me all of a sudden — like – “whoa! I’m hot!” flood of sweat that literally drips off my body in rivers of varying size and shape.

I wouldn’t say I’m addicted. Yet. But I’m fast on my way. I wouldn’t say it’s my drug of choice in making myself feel better, but it’s definitely in the top 5. I wouldn’t say I believe this whole process will work and in 8 weeks I’ll be running 30 minutes straight, but I’m definitely willing to try.

What do I have to lose?

When I was a bit younger and a whole lot more innocent, I had a major crush on one of my older brother’s friends named …well, let’s just call him Tom Joel. He use to play the piano like … I can’t even think of a proper analogy.  He just played the piano extremely well.  Like EXTREMELY well.  He would sit and just listen to a song maybe once or twice, and then he would play it back like memorex. He use to play this one piano song (a Rag) by Billy Joel that amazed me. His fingers looked so good gliding across those keys.  *swoon*  Being a piano player myself, I quickly developed a crush on him like no other.  In order to impress him, I started to collect Billy Joel CD’s and quickly learn all the lyrics to every song I could.  I love you just the way you are (or whatever the actual title of that song is!) was one of my favorites.  "I hope you know that you will always be…the special someone that I knew…WHAT will it take till you believe in me – the way that I believe in you?"  LOL!  Classic, right?  Tell me a tear didn’t just slowly fall from your eye.

So this title came to me quite a few weeks ago and I didn’t get the chance to write about it.  But when another incident happened to remind me of that song, I knew that me writing a post called "Don’t Go Changin’" was inevitable. 

We all have taken… wait… let me rephrase that.

Most of us have painstakingly thought about our screen names.  Now that I’m 20 years old I realize I should have taken a little bit more care in choosing my name.  We all make mistakes.  But honestly — I know that most of you have screen names on NF that really MEAN something to you.  Sometimes you’re delighted when a flirt asks you about your name because your name is from a book you love, or a movie character you look up to, or the name of the street where you parked to get your first blow job from that chick you had a crush on or whatever.  The point is – names are special for the majority of you and I completely understand. Hell,  I completely agree.  A name is everything.  I have one "client"/friend/lovah who has my name as part of his screen name.  That is pretty much because, as I explained to him, he’s smart enough to make another name for himself should he ever wish to speak to someone else (LOL!).  It happened a very long time ago and it’s really way beyond even the confines of NF so I can’t even really discuss it that much because I start getting embarrassed and fidget and talk too much.  Let’s just say that it’s a one time deal and I have, since then, separated myself from the practice of informing anyone or suggesting that anyone be CeCe’s ANYTHING.  It’s just a bit too much attention for me, and as much as I am all out there and bold like floats during GAY PRIDE in West Hollywood, I am really actually very shy when it comes to affections.  So – don’t go changin’ – to try to please me.  I love your name just the way it…are.

The other day I was glancing through my customers when I see my name attached to a person’s name.  I recognized this person’s name from an order he had placed with me.  Nice fellow.  I rather liked him.  I don’t think ill of him and I wish him well (wink).  He had found someone on NF that … floated his boat, let’s say, and he changed his name to suit his preference which meant that the names on my customer list and feedbacks changed to reflect his newest devotions.  Again – no biggie.  I am not available enough to claim anyone’s loyalty.  And when nature calls us we must answer the call by any means necessary.  I get that.  I am honestly not insulted.  But there is a slight rumor, I think, that is going around the halls of NF that this type of devotion is what some of us ladies love.  A few more of my feelings on using my name as your moniker:

• You can call yourself Tatu, or even Jesus if you’d like.  Just get on the phone and give me a call and have a great time.  You can name yourself MarysJesus if need be – you’re giving me a call and that is what matters to me at that moment. 
• I don’t impress easily.  Tattoo my name on your body and I might be!
• Nothing says devotion like a few dozen roses in her favorite color (I love pink)
• Nothing says devotion like a few gifts off a wish list (I’m thinking that purple Ipod Shuffle needs to be mine).

I believe I’ve made my point.

Earlier today I get an email asking me to break some major rule on NF, and the individual has changed his name to include a part of mine.  As if I’m going to look at that sign of "devotion" and think – hell yeah.  Anything for you, "cece"dude.  It takes seconds to change your name to reflect my name in it, but it takes many days and hours of devotion to earn a place in my heart. It’s far more important to find a place in my heart.    So please.  I beg of you.  Listen to what Billy Joel is saying (WWBJD?) and don’t go changing to try to please me.  I love your name just the way it … are. 

Before I leave you and … pass out, I think.  (looks at time… maybe I can hang for a few more hours….) I need to make a public service announcement in regards to my blog and the comments held with in.  The comments do not in any way reflect the opinions of this chick (points to self).  The comments on my blog (the replies I’m talkin ‘ about) are the individual’s thoughts and as such, I will not be held accountable for anything that anyone says in my blog – and I will not um … how do I say it… ?  If they claim somethin and it turns out to be false… sowwy.  Not my fault either.  (just put it in lawyer speak to make it sound fancier if you’d like).   I say all of this because it has come to my attention that there are people who are afraid to comment in my blog after reading some of the exchanges between readers and myself – or readers and innocent bystanders/commenters.  Many have been bullied by a nazi named Rolf, and  a few have been befriended (Nazis need love, too!).  Some have gotten through the wrath of many of my more adoring ‘fans’, and others have left weeping never to return again.  A few customer’s told me that they would not be commenting in my blog ever — and some of these customer’s are very tough and intelligent people (maybe that’s why they will not comment – ilut!).  One of my customer’s today told me that after reading some of my feedback and comments he realized that he might be jumped into some secret society gang type thing and had a dream that he actually was accosted by one of my submissive fans.  This submissive turned Dom – tied up my new customer, blind folded him, took his wallet and credit card, and proceeded to use his information to pay for his calls to me on NF.  He called me up from his phone, and I laughed at him while being impressed by my submissive turned Dom caller.  My switch customer then later tortured him by showing up at his door in ski masks and the like.  I have to get into it all a little later, but wanted to touch on it today as it relates to my topic.  It does.  The connection is there!   Listen – do not be scared of any thing you read.  I don’t think that any of my callers will hurt you, tie you up and blind fold you, steal your credit cards and use them to pay for their sex calls to me, or anything else.  But just in case, don’t leave your real email address when replying.  And you may want to use an alias.  Just use one with out my name in it because… (sing it with me now!)

I love you just the way you are!

I’m on until 1:00AM or so.  Fading fast though.  Will be back on tomorrow evening — feel free to make an appointment if you need to.

Last night I slept like a baby. My mouth was closed – I was breathing through my nose (a great thing when your mouth is closed, don’t you think? *duh*) and I had the most enjoyable dream! I was in a play house – playing with some kids of a friend of the families. Their father I guess was recently divorced or something – not sure. He was playing with us in the play house for a bit – peeking through the curtains from the outside – chasing us around the house and other things like that. The kids were squealing and laughing – and jumping on me and I was having so much fun protecting them from the “big bad wolf”. I started to write these little notes and slipped them through the door of the play house. One of the notes said “No boys allowed – not even handsome big boys!” I managed to open up the door and slip the note through it with out letting in the “boy” – but after I closed the door I realized that I really did want him inside of the house again – so I casually opened it… well – you get the picture. I was flirting big time – and having a wonderful time. The thing that was so great about this dream was the energy that we had. There were other people around playing with us but it seemed like it was just the two of us. Jackson was running in and out of the house – and my old dog Maggie was inside on the couch just chilling – watching all of us but too tired and content to join in. I think my family was somewhere in the house, too – but they never really “appeared” in this dream. So just as I was waking up – this father of 2 little girls and I made our way into the family room. He was sitting in our big over sized chair – and I was sitting on the couch that has been my bed for the past week or so while I’ve been ill. It’s in front of the big screen T.V. – so it’s clearly THE hospital bed. I looked at this guy – laughing and smiling – and said to him – “We’re like little kids who have played together for so long but refuse to say goodbye at the end of the day even though we may start getting on each other’s nerves.” He just sat there and smiled at me. Minutes seemed to go by and then he stood up and walked over to the couch where I was lounging. He sat right by my feet – picked them up and placed them in his lap. His hands were just posed – so delicately above my feet – while his eyes searched my face for the “ok”. After a few moments of intense penetration (his eyes!!!) I asked him what he was thinking about. He said, “I was thinking that there is nothing “kid like” about the way I am feeling. I hope you really don’t feel that way, either, Ce.” And he slowly lowered his hands to my feet and started to rub them. “I hope this is okay.” He said – and I stared into his eyes that were some intense shade of something (you know how in dreams you see things and they are so intense but it’s almost like they have no shape – no color and no face?) smiled, and curled my toes into his fingers. And then something woke me up! I tried to snuggle back into my bed so I could figure out what was going to happen next – but I couldn’t go back there. And I know he was waiting for me too! Man!

A few weeks before I got sick my ex boyfriend called me up. He casually asked me to come over – which everyone knows means “booty call” – even him. He seems to think somewhere in his demented mind (probably because there was a time when that was really ALL there was to “us” was the physical part – like somehow if we were fucking long enough the fact that we had absolutely NOTHING in common wouldn’t bother either of us….) that we still have that “thing” that propels us together or something. It’s so magnetic that all I need to hear is his voice – and I’ll jump. I figured almost a year of my not calling him would have given him the message that this “magnetism” is indeed a myth he conjured up in his own feeble mind, but apparently that year doesn’t count when he’s with someone else. Time just stands still. (laughing). And I’m really not bitter about it. I don’t “want” him any more. It would be really nice if I did however, because according to the calls asking me to come over – and then to talk with him before I went to bed (um…. yeah – phone sex) he was all ready to jump into some sort of “thing” – but it sucks because I’m not even half way attracted to him or the idea. I spoke to a few of my callers about him (my therapists I call them… lol… thanks guys!) and the whole thing didn’t really bother me that much. It wasn’t like I was sitting here crying because my ex finally called me and “wanted me back”. As a friend of mine once told me “they always come back”. It was more a general feeling of sadness because I couldn’t be there in the happy receiving mode. I seriously have no attraction to this person left – and all the “good times” are just some sort of filler for future dialog in some screenplay. But I wish that there WAS something. Sometimes when you’re incredibly lonesome it’s possible to take that “wish” and attempt to create reality from it. Things that bother you about the other person can be weaved into some fantasy and not bother you at all because that “want” of “having someone” is stronger than your damn logic. My only defense when feeling that “vulnerable” is to run far far far away and not look back. So I said “no thank you.” and committed his new number to memory for future “screening” opportunities.

I have always had this plan – and “this plan” is to finish school. Then my plan is to move and go back to school for maybe my Master’s. If those things don’t “click” for me then I’ll simply move (East Coast I’m thinking) and just … well… write. I’ve had this “plan” in my head for a long time – and I’ve allowed a lot of things to kinda come and distract me from it. Including boys. I’ve told myself for a while that it simply isn’t worth the trouble – which is why my relationships with all of “you” on line works for me. We talk when we talk and there is no pressure, is there? We flirt – and occasionally you all rub my feet and I rub … yours (laughing) and we have a great time when we are able to. No complications. No mess. No fuss. It’s a mutually beneficial release. I remind some of my callers of our relationships when they start feeling pressure. You don’t have to let me know what you did last night – and you don’t need to get my “permission” to hang out with the boys tonight instead of stopping over to watch Sleepless In Seattle with me in bed with a tub of popcorn. That’s what makes “us” so special, right? The girlfriend ultimate experience with out the guilt.

A dear friend of mine told me once that maybe he wasn’t like my “other callers”. He really LOVED his wife. He loved being married to her, he loved coming home to her – he thought she was the sexiest woman alive and he wanted to make love to her constantly. He told me these things in a rush of emotion that made me adore him even more for having said it. He wasn’t concerned that I would pull the plug on what kind of relationship we had because I wasn’t THE sexiest or the woman he wanted to be with – he understood (with out me explaining it) that it was not even a realistic contest between the “fantasy” me and the REALITY her. I’ve always allowed “you” to have that – and recognized and accepted and clung to my place in the reality of our fantasy. Make sense? But the thing about this dream that I THINK I’m starting to understand is that I haven’t ever really allowed myself the same sort of possibilities. There are “plans” and then there are things that just happen. There are – laps willing to accept my feet in them – and hands longing to touch them with my permission. There is playing house – and then there is making a home and well – there are boys. And then there are men.

I think I’m feeling a lot better.