October

I am just going to take this risk and expose this, feeling that I need to let a lot off my chest. Perhaps, these thoughts might be taken as pure insanity; it is what it is. I do sometimes feel that there are two minds inside my head: one tries to reason, the second is about acting upon visions and divinations (those occur rather frequently these days. Is it insanity looming, or is it the result of my cumulative earthly experience, or both? I don’t know, friend. At any rate, if you tell me that I am crazy, you’re not the first to come up with the idea. Quite often I think that, too. Crazy, yet, somehow, content.

We are entering my favorite season in this hemisphere. It is the time when the boundaries between the worlds are thinning, and the hidden things become more obvious. The Halloween, celebrated so readily in the States, is just one pale reflection of what in fact is happening. Most people sense it and feel the urge to act upon it, yet only few do have an idea of what is really going on. I must admit, it is hard for me to describe and strictly define, but I must try, for the purpose of this diary and my other work.

This season is gray. There is a milky mist that sometimes raises above the gray, but most of the times – it is just that color. The other shades of the fall – like the orange and yellow that we like to think about in October – they are like the red herring. Those are to throw you off, to distract the viewer from the actual. In the Fall watch for the gray. What you need to see is written in that color. It is scribbled on the sides of mountains, on wet asphalt underneath your feet, on building walls. I am not trying to romanticize the Fall, I am just sharing this knowledge while I can.

As much as I have been trying to avoid sex and sexuality lately, this is the time when I really feel the need for intercourse. Not masturbation, nothing from the fantasy realm. In the fall I need the carnal, the primordial, the basic – just that. It gets so bad, I find it hard and very annoying to walk at times. I am just going to take this risk and expose this, feeling that I need to let a lot off my chest. Perhaps, these thoughts might be taken as pure insanity; it is what it is. I do sometimes feel that there are two minds inside my head: one tries to reason, the second is about acting upon visions and divinations (those occur rather frequently these days. Is it insanity looming, or is it the result of my cumulative earthly experience, or both? I don’t know, friend. At any rate, if you tell me that I am crazy, you’re not the first to come up with the idea. Quite often I think that, too. Crazy, yet, somehow, content.

We are entering my favorite season in this hemisphere. It is the time when the boundaries between the worlds are thinning, and the hidden things become more obvious. The Halloween, celebrated so readily in the states, is just one pale reflection of what in fact is happening. Most people sense it and feel the urge to act upon it, yet only few do have an idea of what is really going on. I must admit, it is hard for me to describe and strictly define, but I must try, for the purpose of this diary and my other work.

What I liked to do in October was to stay in hotels. Away from the domestic routines, I was no housewife, but the queen of it. At home I usually served; at hotels I assumed the empowering role. I absorbed smells and flavors: wine, meat, honey, spice, flesh – ultimately. And what I felt was the unbelievable physical and psychic power. The spring had always drained me, but the Fall had given me something that feels like thick liquid. The term “energy” does not quite define what it is. It is the time when I often see prophetic dreams and foretell.

I knew from day one that my pregnancies (both happened in October) were male. I felt it – a son was just conceived. And the memory of the conceptions were like – golden shimmering spheres spun around inside me. The children are more than what we think of them, as they come from a place that holds all the knowledge. Their instincts are powerful. Mine become close to those of a child in October, peaking at ten days after Halloween, then just after Christmas I am back to the usual self.

Sex-wise I become a predator. It requires all of my will power (which is made of steel in case you don’t know) to overcome the urge. I know that I can seduce at “hello,” that is why I try to stay away from the vulnerable – the younger men. I mean, the much younger men – we are talking about those under 25. Anything over 25 is a whole different story. In fact, that is the age interval in men that does not interest me very much at all – 25 to 33. I see it as their coming into manhood age, and sex is not their priority at all (although it may not seem like it).

But the ones younger than twenty-five and older than thirty-three see in me exactly what I want them to see. And, yet, this day and age I live in a small town, where being discrete is about impossible. If your partner won’t tell where and when you’ve been intimate, the taxi driver will spread the news. Can’t afford that, can’t risk.

Local women frequently make advances at me, but sex with another woman is completely different in its meaning and its energy exchange. When (two) women are involved, no-one gains anything. The orgasms just cancel each other out. For me, it starts with the smell. The scent of another woman switches the reproductive instinct off, and the quality of sex is reduced to entertainment. As skilled as women are in bringing the female partner to an (almost immediate) orgasm, it is woven in red: a penis is necessary. Even if you had never experienced lesbian sex firsthand, watch a video and you will see – they need something inside that resembles penis. Whether it is a finger or a toy – they just keep sticking it inside themselves. To me, it seems like a prosthesis, nothing else. The moment when two women agree to penetrate each other with a double dildo just throws me off; if they had invited a man [or two], their encounter would have been much more meaningful [and productive, in sense of energy exchange].

So, I turn down the female advances here as well, because we seek different things. I am about sex that empowers me. They look for entertainment, and I am not here to entertain. In this town I am learning my lessons, doing fairly well so far.

Back to the sex, and my thoughts and feelings; based on the experience that I have had, male and female is best, [I am not being a bigot, if you are gay, congratulations to you, but I am sharing my own here. This day and age one simply has to put this disclaimer into every piece of writing. Hey, I am not gay, or racist or stupid! I just fuck white guys when I get to.]

Alright – male and female, because it may [and is meant to] lead to conception. That is the most erotic element to me, everything else slides down the scale.

I’ve never been very excited in bed with a partner whom I didn’t want to have a child with. I am that much a female, that much a doe.

I had tried a couple of one-night stands though, just to explore what acting on pure sexual attraction would feel. Alright, this will switch this narrative off its grimoire mode and make it a bit anecdotal.

The first guy’s name was Vanya. He was twenty-five [eww!] Absolutely gorgeous [which also sucks], and all of my girlfriends wanted him, but he chose me. I wonder why. Maybe because I just suck men in, like a fucking vacuum, into the black hole of my animal charisma. I mean, try going out with me to a nightclub. It is not that I am all naked or grinding or drunk out of my wits (must admit, all those things did, too, happen). But I am just irresistible, no other way to define it.

So that poor Vanya invited me to dance, he was tall and all muscles and a bag of cherries. And we talked. Yeah, we were in a nightclub on some Russian night in Seattle. I got his phone number and his address. He rented a room in a large house on Capitol hill. Actually, the whole place was stunning. But Vanya's room was just a smal chamber in the basement. Probably paid like a couple hundred bucks per month for that coop. I put on black lace and covered it with an Adidas jogging suit, fuchsia-colored. I drove my beautiful new SUV to his place, then we locked ourselves in his itty-bitty room. He felt the need to show me his photo album “my last year in Samara.” Ah alright. What the fuck, as if looking at the other members of his synagogue was supposed to make me feel excited. I said, Vanya, dear, this is wonderful, but I am here for sex. So, he undressed me, going “whoa and wow,” as he stripped the black lace, and then he began to touch me. He fingered my clitoris and the inner lips, and reached for my vagina, - all normal, right? Except one thing, Vanya moaned like a fucking porn-star as he touched me. Wait, Vanya! Haven’t you seen the shows? You are not the one to moan. Women moan, men fuck, Vanya, come on.

He couldn’t stop. He kept touching me, inserting his finger, then two, then trying to squeeze the third one into my vagina. I’ve always been very tight, and that excited him, he kept moaning, saying – my God, this is tight, my God, this is tiny, this will feel divine. He rolled his eyes so far back, it felt like he was about to have an epileptic fit. I felt disturbed and turned off. I said, knock it off, Vanya. You have something hiding in your underwear, use it. Too bad. He had come just fingering me, no thrust, no penetration, no pleasure for me. “But I can lick you,” he said. Oh sweet Jesus, he can lick. If just as well, as he can fuck, I’d better be out of here, I thought. And so I was, gone in sixty seconds. Too sad to tell.

The girls asked me later, what was he like? Was he awesome? Poor Vanya, I couldn’t ruin him that much as to give him a bad reference. I said, the landlord came to inspect the property. We couldn’t fuck. Better luck next time.

The thing with sex is that it cannot be taken light-heartily. People do, in most cases, but that just shows that the quality is low. Because were proper [good or bad, you decide for yourself] sex is, there is also life and death standing near. When you fuck the way we should, you always release and absorb so much, you can make new people or recharge the old ones.

Because, an orgasm alone is a puff, a leap in heart rate, a daily blood pressure peak, a sweet and painful sensation – that is all. But when there is more meaning to it, and your conscience, imagination and the senses of taste, sight, touch, smell, and sound are involved – that is so much more than the muscle contractions.

This brings us back to the grimoire part.

Recent analysis of my sexual preferences brought me to a number of conclusions.

(to be cont) October is my time.

Local women frequently make advances at me, but sex with another woman is completely different in its meaning and its energy exchange. When (two) women are involved, no-one gains anything. The orgasms just cancel each other out. For me, it starts with the smell. The scent of another woman switches the reproductive instinct off, and the quality of sex is reduced to entertainment. As skilled as women are in bringing the female partner to an (almost immediate) orgasm, it is woven in red: a penis is necessary. Even if you had never experienced lesbian sex firsthand, watch a video and you will see – they need something inside that resembles penis. Whether it is a finger or a toy – they just keep sticking it inside themselves. To me, it seems like prosthesis, and nothing else. The moment when two women agree to penetrate each other with a double dildo just throws me off; if they had invited a man [or two], their encounter would have been much more meaningful [and productive, in sense of energy exchange].

Alright – male and female, because it may [and is meant to] lead to conception. That is the most erotic element to me, everything else slides down the scale.

I’ve never been very excited in bed with a partner whom I didn’t want to have a child with. I am that much a female, that much a doe.

So that poor Vanya invited me to dance, he was tall and all muscles and a bag of cherries. And we talked. Yeah, we were in a nightclub on some Russian night in Seattle. I got his phone number and his address. He rented a room in a large house on Capitol hill. Actually, gorgeous. But not his room, it was a small little chamber in the basement. Probably paid like a couple hundred bucks per month for that coop. I put on black lace and covered it with an adidas jogging suit, fuchsia-colored. I drove my beautiful new SUV to his place, then we locked ourselves in his itty-bitty room. He felt the need to show me his photo album “my last year in Samara.” Ah alright. What the fuck, as if looking at the other members of his synagogue was supposed to make me feel excited. I said, Vanya, dear, this is wonderful, but I am here for sex. So, he undressed me, going “whoa and wow,” as he stripped the black lace, and then he began to touch me. He fingered my clitoris and the inner lips, and reached for my vagina, - all normal, right? Except one thing, Vanya moaned like a fucking porn-star as he touched me. Wait, Vanya! Haven’t you seen the shows? You are not the one to moan. Women moan, men fuck, Vanya, come on.

This brings us back to the grimoire part.

Recent analysis of my sexual preferences brought me to a number of conclusions.

(to be cont)