To answer a few questions: Yes, I have watched the movie before. It’s available on any free porn site on the internet. Look it up. That Linda Lovelace was pretty fuckin talented. Yes, I realize that it’s old-school porn and they don’t make them like that anymore. Yes, I’m aware that Linda Lovelace later stated that she was raped during her sex scenes, and that by watching the movie I’m basically watching her get raped over and over again. And yes. I now realize that the term “Deep Throat” didn’t exist until this movie, so thank you Deep Throat writers. I’ve used your methods many times in my calls, and my customers appreciate all you’ve taught me.

So- what about the Documentary? I highly recommend it. No, you shouldn’t watch it for porn. They show a lot of stuff, however, and I was pretty happy I didn’t watch this Documentary in front of my parents or anything (whew!) But you don’t watch it for the multiple (ok, hundreds) of shots of blow jobs, or the occasional sight of cock, tits, or ass. Especially cock, tits and ass from the 70′s. I’m just sayin… Just watch the documentary for some great history of the industry of porn, and just what happens when people start taking porn seriously. Or, what happens when we allow the government to govern our bedrooms…

The beginning of the movie was all “I got a brand new pair of rollerskates” 70′s music, colors, drugs, and attitudes. People wanted the freedom to make decisions about their own actions — I don’t know – I got it. It was more than the whole free love free sex stuff, it was more about men and women’s roles, and just the awakening of a whole new sexuality. A medical doctor testified during the obscenity trial and actually stated that women should only have vaginal orgasms; that clitoral orgasms were dangerous! The documentary focused on the writers and directors not wanting to make money, but wanting to do something different in film. They really felt that this new genre would be competing with the Hollywood movers and shakers. Which is funny, yet pretty tragic. At least back then they had stories in the movies. Badly written, improbably stories, but stories none-the-less. I was amazed by how many directors and film makers started in porn. yeah. I know! And I was even more surprised by how little these women and men were paid in the movie. Linda Lovelace made something like 1200 bucks, and the Dr. guy who discovered Linda’s clit in her throat (haha!) got a little under 200 bucks, I think. So – porn wasn’t about getting rich. It was about getting laid. And yet – there was something non sleazy about that admission, ya know? Maybe that’s why people in these old movies actually look like they are enjoying themselves. (?!).

At first the ending seemed a little bit too preachy preachy for me. Like someone feared the documentary was making porn too fun so they had to bring in politics, the mob, and greed. But I think that that was the point. Porn was too much fun. Everyone was going to see Deep Throat, and no one was making apologies for it. Everyone – stars, comediennes, old people, young people — there was a natural curiousity about the movie that, to me, mirrors what people’s attitudes towards sexuality. People shouldn’t put a label on it one way or another. It is what it is. Take it or leave it… but leave the judgements at the door.

So my final thoughts about the documentary? I think everyone should see it. I think it’s so important to realize what porn was about, and what porn is like now. I think it’s important to remember to not take things so seriously, but to use porn as a way to explore or find out about yourself. I think porn, in it’s best light, celebrates human sexuality. In it’s worse light it smothers (figuratively, not literally – haha!). I learned a lot. It was a great documentary. Great cast, great writing and funny, thought provoking points of view.

And watching Linda Lovelace deep throat definitely didn’t hurt.

So yeah- I own a lot of porn. Actually I don’t own a LOT anymore because you can get it for free with out subjecting your computer to serious venereal diseases/trojans and the like. No membership fees, no discs to hide in your documentary DVD cases in an obvious attempt to disguise them. Yeah – I know all about that. I’ve babysat before and all babysitters snoop. And eat all your good food in your pantry. And let your kids stay up way past their bedtime and eat tons of sugar and pizza. What? I had to get job security somehow!

I’ve seen my porn tastes develop and bloom over the last few years. At first it was enough to look at a picture, or even read a story. But now I like the actual sounds and the action. And before I enjoyed a great babysitting movie just like the next …uh…girl. But now I have an insatiable crush on Dirty Harry. And there are other things that I’ve developed a liking for, too. But they are private and I’d like to know who I’m confessing to. Although I do have a “going-to-go-to-hell-for-this” fantasy including confessionals, too, come to think of it.

The other day I was speaking to a new caller named Chris. We’ve talked a couple of times and I’m JUST getting to know him a bit better. He’s a gentleman — the rare new caller who asks me what types of things I like so we can both have a great time. It’s not a requirement — I definitely get pleasure when hearing you guys pleased. But it’s nice to have someone genuinely care about your orgasm and get paid for it. So we’re having some pillow talk and I mention my porn collection. I know that when you die things really won’t matter. I mean, you’re dead. But I’ve seen Ghost several times. And I believe there will be some Whoopi Goldberg that will be hired by some person in my life to contact my spirit that is just hanging around and thanks to that bitch I’ll have to sit around while my family members discover my huge collection of porn, vibrators, and .. yeah – compromising pictures of me and text and audio, etc. Not to freak anyone else out, but I think about shit like that all the time. Well, not all the time – but often enough that I sometimes lose a little bit of sleep over it. I think about it enough to have recently taken a close look at my diet and exercise regimen. I gotta stay alive as long as possible. At least to outlive my parents.

Well, Chris understood what I was talking about. And he mentioned that I need a porn buddy. I think that was the term he used. Not someone who sits around and masturbates over porn with you, but a buddy who will clean up your … um … messes when you die. Someone you can entrust your computer to when you’re gone. They can come in and manually douche out your cache and files and – take your hard drive and bury it with you or something – I don’t know. I suppose you can specify exactly what your porn buddy’s duties will be. This of course should be done prior to your untimely death. It all makes perfect sense! What a perfect answer to a most terrifying question that has been hanging over my little head for years!

I just wanted to share this with my callers in case they hadn’t thought about this option. And, because we’re all in this together, I wanted to offer my services, free of charge, really, to be your porn buddy. You can bequeath me all of your hard drives with all of your various porn and I will keep it nice and safe for you – far away from suspecting friends and family and your reputation will remain untarnished. I will destroy all toys, dresses, lingerie, wigs, etc. I will destroy all real dolls, pocket pussies and fleshlights. I will be your clean up woman, baby, ensuring that you will really rest in peace. Now who will be mine?

I have lots of things to do before I “sleep” though – so enough about all this morbid death talk. Although one should always be prepared for events that are unplanned, right? If you need help with any of it, or care to confess about why you would even need a porn buddy – give me a call.
You’ll be glad you did!

So – I started school since the last post (I think. I mean I think I hadn’t posted since I started school, not I think I started school…). School is, once again, kicking my ass. But the good part about it is that, for the most part, I’m enjoying the ass kicking it provides. My sleep pattern is all messed up (um – it’s 4:00AM currently!) and I have homework up the arse, but I’m enjoying my classes (most of them) and enjoying my teachers even more. I’m taking an Anthropology lab, Algebra, and English Literature II. Thankfully I have tutors for Anthropology AND Algebra (Karl and Doc B.) so I just might pass those two subjects (haha!). Actually, let me stop pretending to be the typical “dumb blonde” and fess up. I’m smart. I’m not always LOGICAL, but I can apply myself to subjects I don’t excel in if I put in the time and effort, it’s easy for me to express myself so I do well in the humanities I also do well in English classes, I know how to apply my stubbornness and make it work for me, and I can charm the socks off of any professor if need be. I’m also learning to finally apply myself to things from the beginning instead of petering out towards the end when things get tedious and a bit boring. Sound familiar? I’m not always good at gauging how long a task will take, and so I’m often times overwhelmed by the amount of homework or reading I need to do, but I’m getting better at managing my time. Sometimes you just don’t have time to do EVERYTHING in your life, but I’m learning to make decisions I can live with. Like I said, I’m pretty smart. I get it.

So like I was saying before I side tracked myself, I started school. And with school comes schedule changes and messed up sleeping patterns, and later hours, and multi-tasking, and shortened patience and fuses, oh my. I can’t do it all so I’m not going to try. But I AM going to have a good year. I’m going to get A’s in all of my classes (yeah, even Algebra) and I’m going to enjoy my free time when I get it. So, give me a little bit of time (a week or so) to work out how everything is going to fit together. I need some time to know how many hours I need to complete my homework –especially my reading assignments (my English Lit class is no joke! I already read Huck Finn, 10 Emily D. poems, A Henry James short story, and my all time favorite poet Walt Whitman!, and it’s only the 4th week of classes!). I also totally believe that a social life is crucial for — well anyone with a pulse! All work and no play makes for a very dull and scripted phone sex girl. If I don’t go to the mall how else will you get the pleasure of hearing about my make up hauls? If I don’t ever go the DMV – how would you ever be blessed with my fantasies I create while waiting among California’s finest (ahah!). If I never go to a sing-a-long, how will you ever have the pleasure of hearing me sing Lonely Goatherd? All these things contribute to not only my sanity but your entertainment. Imagine how dull and boring I’d be if I never stepped out of the house or associated with the rest of the world? Yeah, I know, sex slave tied up in the basement sounds strangely erotic to me, too. But it can’t be. Yet. In a few weeks this schedule should be clearer to me and I’ll set times that you can definitely find me. For now – here’s the tentative schedule for the rest of the week. As always, if you happen to find me not on during these times, send me a message. There’s something in it for you if you do!

Wednesday: Noon-3:00PM. 10/10:30PM – 1:00AM (or so).
Thursday: 9PM-2/3:00AM (Earlier Evening Hours Available by request)
Friday: TBA. Will log in during the morning, and will log in during the evening hours as well. If you’d like to set up a specific appt, please email me and I’ll make arrangements to be on at a specific time for you.
Saturday: OFF Looks like I will be unavailable for all of Saturday. It’s possible that I’ll have a few hours in the later part of the morning (10:30AM/11:00AM – 2:00PM) but I’ll probably only be able to log in late Saturday night/early Sunday Morning…
Sunday: 1:00PM-10:00PM.

I have a busy weekend ahead of me and it looks like Saturday will more than likely be a day I take off completely. If you want to catch me this weekend you should aim for Sunday afternoon or Friday evening/early Saturday Morning.

Ok – this “quick update” ended up being a regular blog post. It’s 4:41AM and I should try to get a few minutes of sleep before I get up again and get ready for the school day. I am logged in now for some sleepy morning sex, but you better hurry while I’m still sort of coherent. Sleepy sex in person is pretty hot, but sleepy sex over the phone might be more of a study on dreams and sleep talking than getting any sort of sexual relief. Just sayin’.

*ahem*

Just because a woman CAN have multiple orgasms, does NOT mean that she wants to have 20.  To be more specific, just because this woman can have multiple orgasms, does NOT mean that I am comfortable having 5.  To make this easier to digest, I will break down my argument into 3 main issues: Energy, Pleasure, and Pain.  I think that about covers the topics.  Although there may be more, these are the ones top on my list.

1. Energy.
1. Cumming takes energy.
2. Energy requires energy.
3. When a person creates energy by putting forth energy, exhaustion will occur. 
4. Successive orgasms with no recovery time while pretty in movies and intriguing by men who are largely unable to achieve multiple orgasms, is exhausting.
2. Pleasure.
1. Pleasure feels good.
2. When a man can make a woman feel good, it will result in the man feeling a certain amount of pleasure.
3. Unless he’s a selfish ass and then he’s probably not reading this because he’s never made a woman cum out of his own self centered need to achieve an orgasm as quickly as possible so he can roll over and go to bed.
4. You can actually get too much of a good thing.
5. I realized this when I ate 1/4 pound of peach candies in one sitting.
6. the first 20 pieces were delicious, and then it just got painful.
7. a few orgasms is lovely, but after 5 or 6 orgasms, discomfort will be a result. This is especially true if one is using the Hitachi Wand.
8. Energy creates heat (See Einstein’s whole theory on relativity).
9. A clitoris bursting into flames could be the result of too much of a good thing turned very bad and, I’m guessing, this would be extremely unpleasant.
3. Pain.
1. Have you ever had an itch in the middle of your back that you couldn’t reach?
2. Then you find the right stick (or fork or fingernails of a friend, parent or lover)  and you ask them to scratch your itch for you…
3. And at first you just move around like some cat in heat because it feels so fucking good.
4. But then they just stay on that one spot, and they start to go harder and you try to move away from them…
5. But they are kind of dense, and they keep up with it until finally your itch is gone, and in its place is a hole where your back use to be?
6. Yeah.  I believe I’ve made my point.

So dear caller.  I love the fact that “you” delight in my orgasms.  When I tell you that I’m cumming, please take pleasure in knowing you are responsible for the great response (well, and Hitachi wand, of course!) If you want me to have a second – ask me if I’m ready or if I need a bit of a break.  I will tell you honestly how it is.  When I say something like … “ouchie” – that usually means that smoke is beginning to come off of my clit and I need a bit of a break.  I’m not being cute.  If you wonder if I’ve reached orgasm (sometimes I have to be a bit quiet…sorry – sucks living at home!), please don’t hesitate to ask me.  If you need me to tell you “I’m cumming” – I will be more than willing to do so.  Please – for the love of my clitoris and all that is holy, when I tell you I can not cum anymore, don’t consider that a challenge.  It’s not.  I mean I. CAN. NOT. PHYSICALLY. CUM. ANYMORE. WITH OUT. DOING. DAMAGE. TO. MY. WOMANHOOD! 

This blog post is my own personal opinion and I do not intend to speak for every other woman in the entire universe.  The specific details may be different (maybe SarahICanCumFiftyTimeswhileSquirting can cum 50 times with out setting her clit on fire…) but I assure you that all women do have limits on how many times they are able to cum with out experiencing discomfort.  The clit, like the penis, becomes very sensitive after arousal and should be handled with care.  Thank you and goodnight.

“I love books!”

“And you would have loved this one.”

I could practically hear the laughter in his voice. I became worried, but still asked,”What kind of book?”

“The Big Penis Book.”

I erupted into laughter. “What the hell?”

“Yeah. I felt a little inadequate even picking the book up.”

“You picked it up?”

“Yeah. Was kind of heavy. Of course I picked it up! It was begging me to pick it up.”

“So what was it? A book of ….”

“Big Penis’”

“You’re lying.”

“Nope. Actually I was thinking of buying it for you.”

“You made me choke just then.”

“Yeah well….”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t know where you would put it though…”

“Put what?”

“The book!” He said, sounding exasperated. “Focus, please.”

“How big is it?” Hopefully he realizes I’m talking about the book and not the items inside of the book.

“Oh, it’s pretty big. It kinda has to be to contain all the pictures of these large penis’” he said, not missing a beat.

“What is it? A coffee book table?”

“Yup.”

“Oh hell no!”

And so our conversation continued. Me growing curious about the big penis book and John Holmes becoming more and more uncomfortable discussing male anatomy by the minute.

A few weeks later I found myself in a Barnes and Noble Bookstore. I was in heaven in this particular Barnes and Noble. The store was about 4 stories high, and took up the whole corner of main street of the outside mall. Everywhere I looked there were people, books piled on their laps with the kind of ecstasy that only book lovers really understand. Where there were no chairs, people occupied corners and spread their good finds, starbuck coffee cups, and several hours too old pastries around them like a fortress. I have happy sighs for moments like these. Sometimes you’ll hear them after a satisfying orgasm, or if you’re lucky (?) enough to catch me sucking on some frozen pineapple tidbits. I. was. in. heaven. I settled in a chair on the 3rd level, close to the windows leading out to the patios that were of course filled to their capacity. I was close to the stairs, and occupied myself with watching people walking towards the various cashiers. Occasionally I would jot something down in my notebook – some observation or thought or something I wanted to write about later. My little notebook I carry around with me in my purse is a new thing I’m trying lately. It seems that I have these ideas and write things on napkins, church bulletins, or tell myself I’ll somehow remember. I never did. By the stair case there was a large wooden table with books displayed. Big books. Big coffee books that one might display to impress visitors. I never quite understood the need for such books. Once you saw all the pictures in them, didn’t the book just become one more thing to dust under? You had to really love the photography in the pictures to make room for such an obtrusive thing.

And then I saw it. The Big Penis Book. Displayed proudly on the landing of the 3rd floor. As people rounded the corner on their descent to the first floor you could practically hear the screeching of brakes. I noticed that the majority of the people who stopped and did a double take were men. They would walk by, looking over their shoulders carefully, and then look back at the penis book. If the coast was clear they would open the book quickly, flipping through the glossy pages of phallic delights, and then attempt to put the book back on the table with out anyone noticing. This last feat was difficult as the book was proudly displayed on an acrylic stand for all of humanity to see. Most of the lookie loos would place the book cover down on the table and walk away quickly. A few minutes later a clerk would come by to straighten up the table, pick up the book and place it back on the stand, and the cycle would begin again. From my vantage point it was easy to see the variety of men and women that stopped by the table. All shapes and sizes and colors, all turning various shades of embarrassment. I began to imagine what they must have been thinking as they opened up the book to see what defined “big”. I wondered if the men could be impressed slightly at the sheer magnitude of some of the penis’. I mean from the cover itself, the book looked like a Large Penis Extravaganza. There on the front of the Pepto Bismal pink book was a man donning only a pair of briefs, and his penis, somewhat flacid and reaching up to his belly button showing through the thin cotton material. I imagined the book to be the Dairy Queen of Pricks. Chocolate, Vanilla, Butterscotch Swirl…

Anyway — I don’t have the book. I’m satisfied to receive in my in box a P.P (Penis Pic) of the day. The buyer wishes to remain anonymous, not because he’s insecure about his own masculinity, but because copying pictures out of book violates some sort of copyright law I’m pretty sure, which also explains why I won’t be displaying any here. You can all breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s the force of the music as it drives through loud speakers.

It’s my eyes focused and almost not looking at the instructor who urges the class forward.

It’s the sound of exhausted grunts, pleading sighs, and faint "oh God’s" that respond to the request to turn up our tension.

Occasionally I scream — not a scream out of some horror flick but some "wooo hoooo!" sort of call to announce the adrenalin bursting out of the newly elated and overjoyed me.

There are towels beneath my bike soaking up the droplets of sweat pouring off of me – baptizing the floor.

At some point I become aware of the seat beneath me.  I squeeze the saddle with inner thighs while I climb Mount Everest, and the curve of the seat slaps against my buttocks reminding me that rest is going to come.

Sweat seems erotic during the hour.  It carves little paths along the most fit bikers in the class, outlining muscles and curves and dips.  It completely ruins hairdos; leaving pony tails limp and wet and plasters bangs against foreheads wrinkled in concentration and exertion.  I notice my own sweat – soaking through the neck of my T-shirt, slowly moving down the spine of my back to the waist band of my panties. down the thong occupied crack of my ass.  My thighs sweat, my arms sweat, my shins sweat. I’m wet.

When we’re allowed to peddle a bit and sit straight up in our saddles, I shift slightly and lean back so that the saddle doesn’t rub against my inner lips. I guzzle down water – tempted to pour it over me and shake my head back and forth like the guys do in the Just Do It commercials. 

Do you ever just want to fuck someone after you’re done at the gym, I ask  the only one I can.

"Hell, yes!" He replies with an excruciatingly silent "No Shit!". I breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes I worry that I forcibly knit sex into every fiber of my life which yields some crappy, artificial penthouse letter blanket.

The truth is that during a particular groove filled song I lean a bit forward and rock a little back and forth and though I don’t cum – the feeling of the sudden burst of energy combined with the sweat and grunts and heat and music and throbbing and pushing and driven beats to the ultimate goal makes me feel like I could …

I just might …

I kind of would if it were at all possible to do with out falling from the platform onto the cold hard sweaty tile floor…

cum.

I don’t creatively write as much as I’d like…but tonight I felt inspired to put it into words in a way that even the most exercise weary person could get excited about.    Thank you for indulging me.  I’m going to bed but will be logging in tomorrow once again … probably a little bit in the afternoon and then I’ll come back on late at night.  I think I’ll even blog again (watches her readers faint one by one… lol!) and give an update of my week OTHER than the gym.  I know. It’s truly amazing and brings a tear to my eye, too! 

Have a great evening/morning/weekend!

Listen, it’s not my fault.  I could stop if I wanted to.  I just don’t want to right now.  I was minding my own business when my cousin asked me if I was going to go to spin again tomorrow.  I suddenly thought to myself – wait a second – if I don’t go she’ll go and she’ll get the "burn" with out me and I’ll be jealous.  Before I could stop myself I said yes. And that, my friends, is the final step to my addiction.

Don’t worry.  I’ll be fine.  I’m more complaining just to complain and draw attention to the fact that I hurt.  But I signed up for it.  I knew that on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I would be spinning and then about 7 hours later returning back to the scene of the crimes and having the nazi trainer kick my ass.  I knew this – and yet I continued on.  My reasoning?  I need to get cardio in somehow.  So why not?  Just a second, my arms are telling me the many reasons why not…

The good news is: I haven’t felt better.  I really have not.  I think since the moment I stopped smoking I have been funky inside.  Just feeling kind of blecky and not quite right.  I definitely feel a big difference and much more myself now after the gym. I know I get a bit obsessive about certain things and I’ll try to even things out a bit by next week, I promise.  I know I’m all jock heavy right now and you’re all wondering if I’m planning on beefing up and competing for the title of most outrageous muscles on a girl type contest.  I totally don’t want buff – I want the slight jiggle I gained when I stopped smoking to tone up under my arm right there.  I want the little back fat pocket right there to go away and never return.  I want a firmer ass and more toned arms. More than that, I want to be able to run on the treadmill one day just cuz I can, I want my endurance to carry me further than I thought it could.  I want to be able to fill my lungs up with air and not start coughing from asthma or left over tar in my getting pinker by the day lungs. I want to beat my trainer in planks on Friday.  Today I held mine for 1 minute 30 seconds.  My goal is 2 minutes. I’m gonna beat her ass and make her cry on Friday.  Yeah.  (no – there aren’t tickets available or audio quite yet…)

I just got done reading about cigarettes – and as much as I told myself I wouldn’t be one of those ex smokers who lectured people about smoking, I’m about to be. Yeah Yeah Yeah – I know your erection just took a nose dive – but seriously – nicotine makes your dick go limp quicker anyway – so those smokers who are reading this won’t mind the familiar.   This is all I’m going to say though about it.  I really liked smoking.  I wish I could do it and not get sick and have lungs that worked right and not increase my chances of cancer, but unfortunately I can’t.  So listen up all my callers that are smokers:  If you can honestly tell me that you’ll quit this year, I will give you a free relaxation mp3 that could (it hasn’t been tested so I’m not making any claims! lol) help you relax and refocus and not freak out.  I can (and Tiffy can, too – along with all the other clients I have who stopped smoking…) provide you with lots of information and cheer you on and give you incentives (like the dick that stays harder longer isn’t incentive enough???!!!). The thing is: I’m going to be that kind of ex smoker that everyone hates.  I’m going to be this cheer leader for going to the gym, working out at home, getting some exercise (to the best of your physical ability…) and quitting all those nasty little habits like cigarettes.  Masturbate instead.  I mean it.  Keep your hands busy.  If you are interested in joining the smokefree dreamers (I’ve lost my mind…) then email me on NF or at celinawetdreams at gmail dot com and I will send you a form to fill out (a friendly contract that will hold up in any court of CeCe!) and we will start our make over.  Your family will thank you — and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with global warming because EVERYTHING causes global warming!

That’s all I got for you today.  I’m exhausted and I have some things I still need to work on before I have to go to sleep and do this all over again tomorrow.  I’m taking a nap tomorrow though.  Fuck it.  My day off from the gym is Tuesday – and (sobs) Tuesday was just a few days ago which means I have a whole lotta pain to endure before my next break.  I will (I promise) log in tomorrow.  Probably afternoon.  I have to go to my writing class in the evening (remember?) so I won’t be logging in late that nite.  I WILL be logging in during the day on Friday because I have no social life basically and working out makes me horny.  It really does. I haven’t thought about fucking so much since I found the hitachi wand and named him.

Talk to you soon!

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.

On Wednesday I attended my writing class and learned more about plot points. LOL. I’m not so bitter about it anymore though. Honestly. Tiffy – you can put your letter away – I won’t be needing it anymore. I realized that truthfully – my teacher is just doing what I need him to do right now and that is give me a handy dandy excuse as to why I’m not writing. We go through this a lot here on this diary, people … feel free to just power ahead – skip a few paragraphs and pick up around the time I talk about my favorite callers. I won’t mind.

See, my teach wants us to know about the whole plot point thing to the point that we recite them every time we see a movie. Hmmm .. that was plot number 14 me thinks! It impresses your friends and other movie goers. But for reals, he really does want it to sink into our skulls. The plot points are our mid-term and the 30 pages of script are our final. I should be a bit more, um … what’s the word I’m looking for? … oh yeah! I should be more appreciative (lol) of my teacher. The other reason why I should be thankful is that I have not written a thing. I really hate when Rolf is right (lord knows I do!) but he’s right. There is absolutely NOTHING that is getting in my way of writing. There hasn’t EVER been anything that has gotten in my way. Even when I didn’t have the right software (which now thanks to Uncle Randy I will – thank you SO much U.R. for buying me Final Draft! You are a Godsend and I absolutely love you for giving me such a great present with out me even HINTING at it. I’ve hinted to other people about that damn program but never to you *smiles* so it was really sweet that you saw I needed it for class and went ahead and got it for me!) I didn’t have an excuse for not writing SOMETHING. Even before I knew what plot points were I certainly had ideas in my head and I certainly could have written them down. The sad truth about me – when it comes to writing in particular – is that I have this fear factor that haunts my sweet ass whenever it comes time to really do that one thing that I really love. And truth be told I will find all kinds of excuses or reasons for not doing any of it. First I needed to de-clutter my home so I could think. Um – I decluttered and I still didn’t write. Then I thought – okay – I need to take a class or something – so I took a class. Still did not write (and this was before the current class I’m taking.) So then I thought what I really need is a writing partner – but then I sort of have sabatoged those friendships in various ways so they can’t hold me accountable for writing. Ok – so then I thought what I needed was books – paper – a printer – a lap top – um… a brain transplant. The truth is – while all of these things will help me TREMENDOUSLY (especially that brain transplant) I have had the ability to write every single day – at least something – and I haven’t done it. So ok, Rolf, you got me. Once again. I’m not even mad about it anymore, honestly. I’m too tired of my tired ass excuses to be.

Wow – that could be a downer of a paragraph, couldn’t it? I’m going to leave it as is, though. Summarizing things and giving some clever little solution makes for a tidy blog, I admit, but I’m tired of making promises I have no intention of keeping. What’s that saying about Bullshit walking? yeah. So…

On Thursday I took my Algebra test and I got 9/10. Right – for all you smart asses out there…(I can hear you now … 9 out of 10 wrong, CeCe?) There was one question that I really just freaked out about – but I worked it out and I still got the wrong answer though it made ALMOST good sense to me (my answer) – so hey – I’m happy that I at least got 50 percent of the process correct while solving the problem. Course there is no “almost” in math. Either it’s right or it’s wrong – but like most things in my life I’m realizing that there is some poetry to a process that really should be honored/appreciated. If you do things enough and there is a rhythm to it that seeps into your brain … hey … eventually you’ll grow some confidence, right? I’m trying to cultivate that in my relationship with this whole Math thing. It’s cool how sometimes you’ll do a problem and your fingers just fly about and you piece things together and you come up with the right answer and you wonder HOW the hell did I just do that? Practice hasn’t made 10/10 perfect but it certainly has helped me grow a bit more confident about a subject that use to give me panic attacks. Progress is a good thing.

Friday – Saturday I signed in and took quite a few calls. I don’t remember having such a busy weekend since last month! I had a really great time – met some great new callers I’m looking forward to knowing/exploring/spoiling/being spoiled by/teasing/humiliating and seducing. Whew! I really like those calls that just fall in line with the types of calls I like to do – my personality – etc. It’s like meeting a new friend and you’re stumbling all over each other when you talk. It’s not due to your not knowing when they are done talking or whatever – it’s due to your “energy” really. The way in which you already know what the other person is thinking – what they need – and you’re so excited that your words are boiling over onto each other type energy. I sold some more pictures to a great admirer – and also got more feedback than I remember receiving in a long, long time. That’s always nice to see! Oh – and I also received a really nice tribute from a long lost caller who called me up for a great hour role play. If it was simply about the “money” and “job” situation I would call tomorrow a day of rest, go to church and absolve myself, and do some laundry – but um… I don’t wanna! *grin* I will be on probably late morning/early afternoon. At least I’ll be on alerts if nothing else. Then I’ll log in for a few hours before calling it a night and getting some rest for Monday classes. I gotta talk to Tiffy and Mama Tee about revising my schedule ONCE MORE – as I’m going to have to be available during Saturday DAYs more often. I had forgotten how much fun I have on Saturday mornings – in my pjs eating cold cereal and excusing myself to take calls and be naughty in between my favorite cartoons.

Ok – so yes – I still love my little man, Jackson. And yes – he’s still testing his limits every chance he gets. My Doc, hearing my anguish about the torn up pee pads (Jackson now tears 3 of them up daily whenever I leave him alone for more than 5 minutes in his play pen – which consequently has every toy imaginable from every Pet Store in Southern California!) bought me the wizdog I had mentioned a few posts back. That should help with much of my pain. Jackson is just a bit stir crazy. He is outgrowing his little cozy room in the kitchen and has gotten a taste of freedom and peeing on area rugs. He is not an easy one to contain any longer and often times, yes, I ask myself what the flying fuck I was thinking by getting a PUPPY at this point of my school year. But then I pick him up to take him to bed with me at the end of the night – and hold him on his back in the crook of my arm, you know? Like a baby. He looks up at me and kisses my arm, fingers, any bit of skin he can lick, and I just melt. He yawns and the smell of his puppy breath (which always gets me) intoxicates me. And then I remember the “why”. I got him because a part of me really needed it. Hopefully I didn’t get him as a further excuse for not writing – but more for a sort of inspiration that I so badly needed. It is indeed much more of a responsibility than I ever imagined but one that I’m happy to embrace. A lot of this is just him being a puppy and I really can’t take it personally – or like he’s some asshole that is setting out to make my life more difficult, you know? Jackson has… completed me by being something I can so easily give my affections to. If I was a guy with this cute puppy Jackson would also be getting me laid. Seriously – this dog is cute…everyone says so.

Alright … I’m going on alerts while I watch a movie and doze off for a few hours before I face the end of my weekend. I’ll speak with you soon – if not tomorrow then definitely Monday (12:00-2:00pm, 7:00-12:00 is my tentative plan) Thanks again to all those who gave me such sweet feedback – and for the new callers I had the pleasure of meeting. Looking forward to many more sweet encounters!

Jackson sleeps with me – well at the foot of my bed in his “crate” like a good puppy should – and I bolt out of bed around 6:30AM so that he can pee. When I open up the crate and hold out my arms he walks into them … all drowsy and sweet like. Then he starts to whine. I imagine he’s telling me how full his little puppy bladder is because as soon as I put him down on his puppy pad he unleashes what can only be described as a small pond. I always just stare in amazement – not because I’m into the whole toilet type thing – but more because I’m wondering how the hell my little son managed to hold it that long and never complain to me about it. Of course I always express my delight in his toileting – and I often laugh at myself for doing it. yeah – I’m still somewhat impressed with how quickly I’ve joined yet another club.

Remember – there was the MAC club of which I am still a member. So much a member that my desk top computer which is a DELL sits and looks at me like – “um – could you finger me now and then just for old times sake, bitch?” Now that my MAC club status is in full bloom (I’m already trying to plan for a IMAC desk top…maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get one for next year…) I’ve entered another club: Pet Owner Club. Like the Club O MAC – Pet Owner Club sort of snuck up on me. I started going to PetSmart every Saturday and this was before Jackson even arrived on the scene. I kinda looked in on the other owners and followed a few of them around the store, touching things they touched and listening in on conversations they held with PetSmart employees on best trainers, best doggy biscuits, best kitty litter and best brand of food. I also bought several things PRE Jackson because of course I had a list of items. This is what I kept telling myself – and after the 4th trip to PetSmart in the past month I suddenly realized what had happened. Actually, one of the employees asked me if I needed any assistance – and when I smiled and said “no” she replied, “Oh – you’re just doing your regular Saturday Shop day…” as if to insinuate that I did this, well, every Saturday or something. I actually blushed and nodded – and went to buy some chew toys. The 5 billion that Jackson currently owns is not quite enough. Plus he needs one for his overnight bag… In case he stays over night at someone’s house and needs something to chew on. What? It’s necessary.

Just one more thing about PetSmart because I realize that part of being in the PetSmart/Pet Owner club is that no one really is as interested about trips to PetSmart (or any pet store) as you are. Their eyes start to glaze over and they begin to yawn when you tell them some cute story about some cute thing your cute dog did – and they literally begin to bob their head when you talk to them about the toys and outfits (yes, I said outfits!) you found for your pet/son during one particular great shopping trip. Humor me. So the “one more thing” about this club – is that people at PetSmart are really crazy. Honestly. Especially the older ladies that own cats. This one lady struck up a conversation with a rather attractive black man at Petco – and when she saw his white wife and their gorgeous human children (I did have to specify – because they could have fur children as many people at PetSmart call their pets) she remarked really loudly, “Are you sure those are your kids? Oh – they’re your kids for another year or two until the tests come back, right?” I just stared at her. She had never met these people in her life! I must have gasped or drawn attention to myself in some other way because her attentions suddenly were on me and she started to tell me all about her much younger boyfriend (she was dating her best friend’s son…. um…. call opportunity?!) and then told me all about her cats and how she kept young and (her words – not mine!) freaky. As I walked out of the store I met up with her again – and she hugged the huge statue of the Dinosaur or whatever that thing is in the entry of the store – chatting the whole time about how she was tired of nursing old men and now she had a young man to nurse her. I realized as I left that this was the new club I had entered. The club of cleaning up poop from your animal and thinking nothing of it, kissing your dog after you know he’s been chewing on his paw that walked thru the poop before you cleaned it up and thinking nothing of it, dressing your dog up in clothes and taking pictures of it because you feel it’s cute, showing people on your families cell phones the picture of your “kid” and thinking it’s absolutely normal to do so, striking up conversations with other pet owners because they are the only ones that now “get you” and your strange obsession with your pet, scratching off Staples (gasp), Best Buy, and even Linen and Things/Bed Bath and Beyond off your list because there aren’t enough Pet items in the store to make walking in the store even worth your while, surveying restaurants, stores, and other public places to see if you and your pet will be welcome – and I could go on because the most obvious clue that you’ve become part of this club and know the secret hand shake is the ability to go on and on and on and on and on even though you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re boring the ever living hell out of the non pet owning humans you’re speaking to.

School is a riot. My screen writing class is an absolute joy. My teacher is an accomplished (and I am laughing while saying that… 2ns knows why – I’ll tell the rest of you but only on the phone because – yeah – it’s “top secret” – *slaps knee*) screenwriter himself so he has some great tips for writing for Hollywood. I value his opinion – but I wouldn’t be CeCe if I didn’t have some issues with his teaching, right? While I appreciate his wanting his students to pitch ideas to Hollywood and write stuff that we can actually sell and blah blah blah – I am also wanting someone to give me the idealistic “write your story, CeCe – and it will sell itself” type Hollywood/FairyTale shit I’ve grown up to and basically watched my entire life. I guess you only get to write that type of stuff after you play the game for X amount of years, right? Then no one cares if you do a period piece (lol) because by then you have a ton of people ready to invest in just your name and box office brilliance? Somehow I don’t think that Mike Myers is going to come out with his life story any time soon though – even if he wanted to. He has a definite “niche” right? He’s not going to do anything different I don’t think…unless he gets a ghost writer or something, maybe. Ok – so that’s my screen writing class. My sign language class is okay – it’s just a little quiet (lol! – get it? ok – bad joke…). My teacher is funny and sweet and she will make class an absolute joy, I’m sure. My biology teacher is also female so there goes any opportunity to dress up(or down) in hopes for a good grade. I don’t know where the smart boys in class are or I’d sit next to them. I’m good at memorizing and our teacher gives a great study guide (sounds sexual but isn’t…) so I’ll be okay. The challenge is definitely going to be my Algebra class. I don’t even know how I managed to get into this class. I thought I was taking the idiots guide to mathematics class where we add and subtract big numbers and stuff. Apparently my placement exams thought I was smarter than I actually am. My teacher (and he’s a guy) said that I could try it out and see how it goes – but that that class will probably bore me to tears. We have lecture in that class for 30 minutes – and then we do “group” work. Are you kidding me? I HATE group work. Just let me get a tutor (someone who will laugh at me AFTER I leave the session, preferrably) and I’ll be on my way. I don’t know these people – and some of them are scary. Most of them seem to know what they are doing already, too – I need to be in the lower class where everyone is on an equal I’m so humiliated and I so suck at Math level. But I’ll see how things go for the next week. My teacher is kinda funny and a bit on the cute side, too. He’s also Married and talks about his daughter. It would be cute except he refers to his daughter when explaining mathematical things… like, “My daughter remembers this symbol because it looks like a crocodile opening his mouth…”. I don’t care if it is the greater than/less than sign that he is talking about. No one wants to know that a 7 year old understands Algebra symbols and such. That’s just…rude. )

Ok – it’s almost 1:00AM – I gotta go. I will write again – I have one more day of classes (after tomorrow) and I will write what I was suppose to write this time but just couldn’t do it. I won’t talk about Jackson again until … well… Saturday. Unless he does something really cute or learns to talk or something.

I promise.