Falling Away Mature content No. 73 Published November 23rd, 2018 5:44am pst read ( words) Past entries "And here I am. Years later. The same, yet more analytical and slightly insightful. Did I learn? Not really. The difficulties, pain and desire still rule the roost. There seems to be nothing available. Not long ago at a party I spied one of the most picturesque female forms I have laid eyes upon since Ellie. Tall, slender, long legs carrying all of the terms splayed here for years. Yes... Another. She was so dreamy and with every single radius on display. Breasts countering a tiny waist, thighs that seemed built by my endless need, and fingers which followed her height. Neck, shoulders... Everything. And she was wrapped in a leotard. Fuck me. Hours passed as I stared while other women seemed to be appraising me. Huh? Really? Yes, but it mattered little. My focus was already away from the remainder of the room as I attempted to understand just why that woman commanded my senses. There were no answers, just the thighs, waist... Other things. She was in charge of my brain. Attention paid to me by others? Nope, the body was all of it. Why? Fuck. Falling. Her legs are still in there, deep, along with such a little round ass just staring back at me while I admired the inner thighs of my desire. There is no way around the feelings due to years of yearning, wonder, and pain over having little chance for obsessing over such form. Now I am a broken, disjointed soul with few options and very little drive to give a shit about anything. And I mean any fucking thing. I am left thin, frail, and twisted of mind. Wrung the fuck out by visions unavailable. Andrea... Unavailable. Juliette, Ashley, Lanie, Ellie... The same. And Michelle? That one nearly took my very life right in the Goddamned parking lot outside her door. The tears could have carried me into the fucking bay. At least after watching Andrea the goddess gazelle her way out of the Venetian I had some fall back options to drown deeply. Now I have nothing. Nothing. Again. Fuck. I really have no idea of any positive direction. None. After dropping and publishing the scathing 'Eden and the Edge', I just do not see it. Even sitting here at this early hour after sleeping well does not allow forward thinking. Everything still swirls through my head. All of them, Vegas, the fucking Raven and Her unspoken understanding conveyed through huge eyes, Andrea's loving compassion, and the never-ending visions which stab at me constantly. The leotard legs were simply the latest. She did not know. She was attending a party and showing off the form. If I were female and shared such a shape? I would have done the same. Why the fuck not? I enjoy almost nothing anymore. Temporary distraction, alcohol (and that ends up causing the burning desire to advance), and the occasional venture to the mountains which is approaching now. Up there the work and home life get shelved in favor of that atmosphere and physical comfort I need so much. The resort also drips with sex due to the fact that much of Nevada's gaming industry was built upon the same -- along with loads of money. Yep, a sex- and money-driven location which should cause me to dive into the ground but generally ends up becoming relaxed. I know not why. Perhaps the fact that none of it is available to me is cemented enough to keep hope away. Maybe? Nah. There are desires and visions aplenty in that place -- often serving cocktails in the casino. That can be tough considering the gorgeous outfits and scented hair. I've made it through four days there in the past without getting drunk and letting the tongue push forth reckless words, however that is not easy. Close? Yes, on a few occasions (I am there at least twice a year) with servers or dealers, and once with the hostess on the top floor. I wanted to be on top of HER, for Christ's sake. That is the extent of my fucked up psyche. No outlet, no opportunity, and the need focusing my paths into one very narrow tunnel which leads nowhere good. I will be mired in the fold of alcohol and foggy dreams very soon. That means I will have to fucking deal with it. Again. Issues pile up and weigh me down yet will be carried along as we venture into Nevada. The simplicity of a trip to the deli is an example. We strolled over there one day to see what was available in the hot case, but I became immediately distraught due to a pair of jeans wrapping a new employee who was stocking the dairy. Tall, slender, and looking wonderful with long hair and legs aplenty. The woman did not veer from her duties at all, and as I circled the lunch items I lost my train of thought upon noticing such an example of physical attractiveness. I ceased functioning, forgot about lunch, and only returned to the bar to compose myself. She was displaying all of it, along with big eyes, leaving me a mixture of torment and need. The next day -- as usual -- she was still floating in my head. Why? Because the obsession and addiction continue to rule me. Moments without visions are there but also being reduced by the sheer number of falls through the floor after seeing a woman so aligned to my thoughts and needs. I just do not understand why any of it has become so overwhelmingly difficult. Her legs, the way in which the jeans showed off her angelic form without appearing stiff, smooth lines and defined radii all over; they add up to that familiar map of my drenched brain. Day in and day out I feel drained by the need. My strength is waning, patience is thinning, and the drive to move forward and seek those things I still enjoy is fading. The woman in the deli? Not her fault. All me. There have been plenty of others, and I know full well that the Nevada trip will hold more. I see it every time. Above I mentioned that I always make it out of there without significant trouble, but this occasion may be different. After five months of sporadic analysis of myself -- not much here due to the ongoing story from the past, though -- I believe the resort will look different. Of course women will come and go because they always do, however my failure to realize any dream since the Raven has become second nature. I am more accustomed to the feelings which push my mind each time and that familiarity may help me to steel myself in preparation of a vision. It MAY help. I do not know at this point. The hour is late, leaving my mind exhausted. The energy to carry forward with any semblance of normalcy and push myself up no longer exists. All I have are the little distractions that I still enjoy. Even they are being truncated. I do not know in which direction to turn other than wallowing with the alcohol. At least I can stay clear of the city and its slew of picturesque females. Better than nothing. Recently I had a conversation with an acquaintance of mine from the bar. The woman is very tall and her hands equally lengthy. I asked of measuring and photographing her beautiful fingers after stating that my interest is purely mathematical. She reluctantly agreed, however after just two days of messages the contact fell off. I may try again soon, but I am confident the idea sunk into her and she subsequently shied away. No blame there, of course, and I did my best to avoid coming across like a freak. Her hands reminded me of the Raven, albeit with lighter skin and more years. That thought enabled my need to reach. We had spoken in the past as I complimented her beauty on more than a few occasions. She told me there were no worries or thoughts of me being strange, just different. I have no idea of why the communication ceased, but after weeks I have lost faith in that endeavor bearing fruit. The entire affair is extremely disappointing because rarely has any woman entertained anything beyond simple words. My requests likely seem deviant or odd, and such thoughts cause discomfort enough to force a person to protect herself. Yes, Andrea and Ellie allowed me to do anything I wished (like the Raven), but the situation at home is different. We are merely acquaintances and nothing more. The two women in Vegas were romances, for lack of a better term. I had been very close to both and intimate of mind and body. Here? Nothing so grandiose. Just hands. Her fingers are gorgeous, slender, and wondrous. I am dying to see them again and study, but alas they may have gone away for good without me knowing why. Hands. Fucking hands! Not her breasts, legs, rear end, none of it. The fucking hands were enough to force my asking of her. Maybe I alienated that beauty for all time. No surprise there. Fuck me. Why is this so important? Could the idea be enticing due to the odds being so slim? Hmm... My needs are elusive, odd, and very uncommon I would suspect. But impossible? No way. There are far too many people in the world for the chance to be nil. What about another? Yep, days earlier just outside the salon around the corner from where I now type these irritating words. Black hair, tall, and wrapped in some of the most form-fitting pants I have seen since the Raven, along with legs to match. Fucking shit anyway. I stared and fell, went back to the bar and fell further before finally composing myself enough to operate my brain around others. The image remains, of course, and still holds a bit of detail after the passage of time. I cannot help it. Just look at the fucking images on this site. Obsessed. Broken. Losing faith and waning hope. All of the things that once defined me are falling away. I am at fault anyway, so the analysis is for naught. Why am I still writing? No fucking idea. The words come together within my head and I have to place them here because the operation of this is pretty much all I have left. The desire burns, the visions hurt, the memories hurt more, and the future is shaky at best. But I need to hold it together for the trip to Nevada. The comfort, atmosphere, dreams of sex and beauty, all of it. I need it like the breath of life. I just fucking need to be within that machine for a little while before looking deeper into where all this shit began. The show car photo of Mercedes Terrell from a decade ago was a part of it, but the why remains elusive. I stared at that photo for days, weeks; no clear thinking grew from my effort. Her waist and tummy, prominent upper thigh gap, and bare midsection seemed to combine unlike any model I had seen before. Years later Mercedes and that bikini are still deep inside as one of the first representations of the mechanics I seek at every moment. I look upon her shape now and still do not understand. That is one of the earliest images placed here at the very beginning of the Raven period. The early part of that year was one of the most endearing and difficult times of my life. By attempting to analyze myself and spend time with the Raven was at times bliss. The image of Mercedes was a natural kickoff to the direction which has dominated these pages since the transition. The Raven resembled Mercedes' form in said image, making my head a blender of sorts. Her midsection was basically nonexistent and upon being allowed to see without restriction, my head spun. Right in front of my eyes, the Raven revealed Her skin and that was that. Between the void below Her prominent breasts and the narrow waist contrasting Her slender thighs being pressed by the seated position, I saw a dream for the first time after more than a decade of yearning and study. She smiled at me and asked of my thoughts, so I spilled everything toward those huge, welcoming eyes. That was the beginning of a period I will not forget. I gushed about form, the image of Mercedes which drew me in like nothing else, and my never-ending need to see and understand. The Raven took my face in Her slender fingers and expressed to me that I was allowed carte blanche -- anywhere, anytime. Holy fuck did that ever send Mercedes out of my head. I sat there floored of mind and inquired as to why. She simply stated that I was beautiful. This has been gleaned in the past, yet I felt the need to mention that moment due to how it relates to the present. Nearly four years later I sit here with none of it available. She was the peak of each desire and the top of my world. Now? Nothing. The obsession flares with no outlet. The Raven was everything. Fucking everything. All of it, inside and out. Her loss wrecked me in fifteen and I am still there. Our time in each other's eyes was short. It flew away like frightened birds. Falling further. All of the years and excruciating analysis have left me tired of mind. The Raven has become a point of reference within my ongoing exploration. She showed me that the possibility was out there in the world -- somewhere -- and tried to convince my damaged self to keep trying. Being so discouraged and tired out from the effort as well as the idea that such a person is no longer there presses me down almost constantly. Naturally I search with vision, however I have no faith in the idea of finding a woman with such a beautifully open mind. She is gone. Above? Yep, I am still shoveling out details of Her appearance. That soul was unmatched, and though I rarely speak of our deep connection and understanding, I do not worry about trying to convey beauty. She would not mind because knowing how my mind operated was something She felt was beautiful. God love that woman. Back to Mercedes. The image which graced the index years ago took my thoughts of the female midsection and shredded them into fine pieces. Yes, she shows off some skin (the woman is a model, for fuck's sake), and the lines are clear. As seated, the upper gap is visible -- which is generally unusual -- and the lower absent. Due to her extreme thinness around the stomach, the small garment appears absolutely flat as it hugs her tummy. The disparity between her upper thighs and hips is exaggerated somewhat, and combined with such a small waist the ratio of God is prominent. Yes, THAT ratio. Golden. Fibonacci. Less than seventy percent? I do not know, and that is part of the difficulty. I have to know, I need to actually measure it for reference and to attempt an understanding of how far the numbers can be pushed before she would become unattractive. God damn it, I know none of it. Had I been able to slather the Raven with measuring equipment perhaps a bit of insight could have birthed. Nope. Nothing. As a result, Mercedes became an obsession of sorts, forcing me into scouring the earth for more images that might follow suit. After months of exhaustive reverse image searching and endless scrutinizing of her features, I began to use the tools at my disposal along with the center-to-center distance between her pupils to derive a reference with which to measure said images. Over a period of time I had amassed thousands of photos from many shoots for magazines, car shows and the Internet. I tried over and over to find numbers, took pages of notes, and eventually went back to the original. I broke down badly in the realization that studying her form by way of software was not going to work. I needed a woman directly before me, and that had to be one of uncompromising shape. A body which aligned with my needs. Hmm... Difficult? Holy fuck, yes. I did not try because telling a person that I wish to wrap her body in a seamstress tape in hundreds of positions is just not going to get me anywhere. One recent search yielded a higher resolution shot which brought additional detail to her shape along with increasing depression within me. I stared and fell, followed by more searching. Did anything help? Fuck no. There is no easy path considering the level of my need. Will I find someone as open as the Raven? Not likely. The connection there was as deep as the ocean. Falling still. Away from everyone. Getting away from the subject of Mercedes and that fucking image which chokes me, the issue remains of the failing fantasy and how it relates to my obsession. Unavailability is the key. Things build within for days, after which I cannot process thoughts very well. Even a television commercial can tip me over. I am like a bloated, sleeping cow awaiting a push. The constant scanning and searching makes dealing with everyday issues arduous, I can barely concentrate and follow the most basic of conversations, and as soon as a woman is spied in the distance everything comes crashing. Legs, stomach, waist, breasts, height, arms, fingers... I cannot help it. I see what I can and then wallow within a pool of depression over losing the one soul who allowed me to fully be me. And then another comes by and I cycle through all of the bad again. Work? Nope. That is just a way to earn money. Home? Nope. The dreams take me without restriction, I begin to consume alcohol, don the headphones and wonder of my future. And I write. No shit. That has become the only fucking outlet in the world, yet rather than providing healing and release, the words flare and I drink more over Her loss as well as the void within which I drown. Every single encounter or vision on the street and elsewhere becomes a problem. Some are described here while others stay within my head. The fantasy comes to mind due to unending desire and then I crash. Home, alcohol, words, sleep, and then I awaken -- mentally exhausted -- and do it all over again. Why? Why is it so important? Falling away. No answers. Nothing. Just more pain over both issues. I am all over the fucking map again. Whatever. My words do not matter in the least. Where do I go? What do I do? Back to Nevada and all that destination encompasses. Good? No way. I will be in the fold of sexual imagery and beautifully dressed cocktail servers. I will be consuming alcohol, too. A depressant for my depression. Splendid. The only saving grace there is relaxation and calm. I cannot deny that being in the resort is quite comfortable. And the mobile interface allows me to code anywhere. Soon into the machine with my head already faltering. Hmmm. Perhaps the headphones need to accompany me. I don't know anymore. Nothing helps. The Raven and I discussed Her unique dimensions on more than one occasion. She indulged me often and tried to give support when She saw me dropping. And then whenever I seemed inconsolable, those lips were pressed to mine and the world went away. Her heart just knew. One of those occasions was the train station. That fateful day has already been laid out here, however the moment when we boarded and my desire was at an all-time high, the Raven sensed everything and held on to me while whispering soft words of love. Again... She knew. After I calmed She offered Herself to me completely. Upon our return to Her home, the intention was to please me in any manner I dreamed. Nope. It never took place both because the evening went aslant and I knew such physicality would cause larger issues than simply being self-destructive together. The point is Her offer. She felt my difficulty. She knew everything. All I wished in the beginning was to stare without restriction. Weeks later I needed to be inside Her heart. Falling. Where am I going with this? Who the fuck knows. I am experiencing so much fucking difficulty dealing with all of the desire on a daily basis that I have no idea how I rise from bed in the morning. I think of Mercedes and her Goddamned waist almost every single day and wonder why it struck me in such a manner. The Raven was basically that image but right in front of my eyes. Real, warm, smooth. I was sitting there fucking staring at Her inner thighs -- bare -- and at eye level. Staring. Inches away from Her sex. I could smell Her skin. That close. Now I am falling away from everything and everyone due to the memory and unavailability. My obsession simply will not stop. As I have stated many times in the past, the Raven represented every single aspect of my obsession and She is gone. Just fucking gone and nothing can help. And now I am sitting in Nevada after three days, head spinning, depressed, and close to needing the exit. I cannot help it due to the issues which arose last night. No detail. Only broad strokes. Visions. Problems maintaining control. Dreams unfulfilled. Nothing. No one. Fucked completely. Mere hours later I sit here staring out at the fresh snow on the trees and am reminded of the early days. Visiting this wonderland during the holiday season with family and friends was one of the most anticipated times of the year when I was young -- even more than Christmas, believe it or not. Every year we were here at least three or four times during the fall and Winter for enjoyment outdoors and in the clubs. Growing up in this atmosphere meant that I became accustomed to being around the adult playland, bombarded by sexual imagery and scantily-clad cocktail servers, and in the fold of all that money could provide. After decades? Second nature. I never gave any of it another thought. I just rolled or flew up to the stateline year after year and absorbed all of the fruits of the gaming culture. The time within glowing casinos and near the dripping sex of Nevada has produced an individual unable to collate and organize the desires which are born from such an upbringing. I sit here now feeling the effects of being decades older and mired in thoughts of that past combined with the present issues I have created out of unstable and ill-advised obsession. My control is waning. The sea is calling. I do not know what to do. We are leaving sometime later this morning. Before then I will sit here and wonder why last night became so mentally and emotionally crippling. I just do not understand. Each evening something took place which left me unable to function and forced me to the hotel room without delay. Each. Fucking. Night. Why? Are those females able to control my thoughts? No. Are they there only to cause me to fall? No. Were they strategically placed to slip up my common sense so I loosen the cash flow? Nope. They are guests. Just people on vacation doing what they may enjoy. None of those women have anything to fucking do with me. Just fucking people. I do not know them. And they have no conception of my difficulty nor should they. Not. Their. Fault. Mine. Fuck. It. Okay, one was a dealer. Fucking stunning, young, slender, and with fingers which kissed my brain like nothing else. I slipped up by sitting there but that was none of my weakness. I had walked by on the way to see my partner and spied the dealer's long hair and empty table. I smiled, she smiled. As I slowed my stroll, she asked nicely if I wished to play poker. I politely declined and smiled again. Onward a few tables down the walk. We spoke, left the Pai Gow, and headed back toward the stateline entrance. Along the way I saw that Goddamned goddess of a dealer and mentally faltered so badly that I barely noticed my partner asking if I wished to play the game. Why? I did not know of the rules or gameplay, plus the fucking girl looked like dessert clad in curls, so I declined. 'Come on. I'll help and so will the dealer.' Fuck me. Why? I did not need to be closer to those slender fingers with my head already in the middle of the fucking flames. I sat, played, stared, and barely heard one fucking word from anyone because I was mentally measuring her extremely long fingers and gazing at her brown hair all over the place. Most of the dealers are very polite, but not terribly attractive. After three days of wandering and leering, I noticed two who were over-the-top gorgeous but steered myself clear of both. Well, cut to later and I am perched not three feet from the better of the two. Fuck me running. I could not think beyond the simplest of instructions, continued staring as her hands operated the cards and chips, and fell into a routine of simply treading water with regard to the betting. I could not go further due to my brain being soaked through by the flowing fucking hair, breasts calling to my lips, and those fingers upon which I wished to dine. I needed to throw her over my shoulder and run like hell. I do not understand myself. Was it Mercedes? Before Mercedes? I wrote 'The Girl at the Car Wash' some time ago. That was the first descriptive piece I ever attempted and it was after Mercedes. Details? I do not remember the drive to write so much about one woman. I can recall very little about her appearance aside from the shoes and breasts staring at me as she sat. She did not look like Mercedes, I never wrote or went into great detail about Mercedes, nor have I sought more images in the last several years. I just did not see the point. I do know that in recent years (mostly since the Raven made all of Herself available to me) the need to see, feel, and understand has grown exponentially. The visions in the casino and restaurants are not like those of the past. They are much more difficult to bear, and that is putting it mildly. The dealer was yet another example of the simplicity and velocity of my fall. She was adorable and friendly. She was being professional. She was extremely well-aligned to my obsession, however that has nothing to do with her as a person. She was a dealer. Yes, a fucking gorgeous dealer, but just working nonetheless. She was a person. I know that. I knew that fact sitting and staring at her. I said nothing outside the foray of the club. Nothing. I played, drank a bit, dreamed deeply, and left the table with my head in that typical space. Burning desire to fucking know all of it. Nothing. Dinner... Night one. Across the street on the top floor, the lounge, comfortable, and everything seemingly in order for the evening. The offseason means the restaurant is half empty and carries less staff. Still, the place was busy enough to force us to a lounge table instead of waiting for the dining room. No matter, the food is still excellent as is the service. We sat, ordered wine, and discussed the day. In the distance I saw a gentleman enter wearing a plaid shirt and very casual shoes. We had spoken of the dress code issues in restaurants of the past, but honestly his outfit was appropriate and showed the establishment enough respect to avoid being handed a dinner jacket. He was a sizeable man, likely over six feet and built well. Unfortunately, after moments he moved a bit to speak to the hostess, and that is when things went awry. And I mean bad. I had looked at the guy scanning the rooms a bit -- likely knowing full well that the woman on his big arm was going to draw attention -- and figured he was doing that out of curiosity. Nope. When he moved forward, the masterpiece of a woman came within view and destroyed my sense of anything. Fucking tall, slender, boots to her thighs, hair beyond the bottom of her bottom, long, long arms and fingers, breasts defying the remaining slim appearance of her beautiful body. I fell, swilled the wine, pointed her out to my partner (like always, she understands), and felt as if I would not see anything of the like again. Wrong. Back to the fucking salad and wine with my mind spinning webs of thick despair. We sat and enjoyed dinner, some conversation about the location and all it encompassed, and eventually left the place for some casino relaxation. Throughout the remainder of that evening I could not get the fucking woman's shape out of my brain. That is not surprising considering the sheer number of female examples which have struck from on high and left me a pile of sordid thoughts. Some have been discussed here, others not. After exiting and returning to the north side of the street, the occasional view took place. I sat at a few different locations and thought about the beginning of everything and that fateful image of Mercedes. No matter the depth of mind nor the attempts to understand, I stayed in the dark. More strolled by. I fell further. On the outside? The picture of enjoyment. On the inside? Wrecked, as always. And now I am home with everything swirling through me just like after every single outing to Nevada and the inner needle approaching blood red. Fuck. What to do? Attempt some analysis? That is precisely what I am doing right now. Does it matter? Nope... There will be no understanding without help. What kind of help? I cannot say, but the very idea is so fucking far-fetched that I may as well wish to live upon Mars. Same Goddamned chances. So, lacking any other options, I am sitting here with coffee and keyboard yet again. This is all I have. Above I stated the same, however I do not believe the possibility exists for me to get the point across with enough power. The mood has changed since arriving home yesterday. Things look different; dire, worrisome, blurry, harsh. The world I now see is framed in sharp edges and compartmentalized like never before. Just one drive up and back. Writing all this shit and sitting here trying to rationalize what I have become is not working at all. I will continue to type regardless of whether it does me any good or otherwise. Damage? Who cares? I certainly do not give one fuck anymore. During the time that my partner was at the tables, I typically sat in one of very few areas to relax and play a machine or two. One of those locations is aside the large pathway from the tower elevators to the main casino. There are three Playboy slots (heh) and I always sit at the third machine. The column positioned to the right of the machine has a platform for holding drinks, ashtray, whatever, and is covered with a mosaic of small mirrors which allows me to see behind and off to one side of my position. Between the column and slot machine is a gap just wide enough for me to see the remainder of the pathway as it approaches the table games. From my seat I had a wondrous view of one of the busiest traffic areas in the club. And what does that mean? Yes, females of all walks of life strolling by from one moment to the next. And yours truly constantly paying notice to every single one of them. Ugh. Fortunately, there was a never-ending supply of alcohol to offset my fucked up head and keep me fairly calm. The slot machines are graced with lingerie-clad lovelies (of course) but they are never the focus of my attention. They are there simply to keep the player distracted by sexual imagery in order to unbend said player's wallet. That is a simple Nevada truth which I have known my entire life. The real examples of beauty are the problem. Sitting in front of the half-nude models did not hold a fucking candle to seeing bouncing hair and breasts being carried along by slender legs in leather boots. Over and over I had to catch my breath... Often seeing one woman pass several times while wandering the casino. Three different cocktail servers frequent that area and one in particular knew us from the previous couple of trips. The mid-height Polynesian beauty with her bra cups partially exposed and adorable accent always says hello and this trip was no different. She is very pleasant and accommodating. As a server? First class. As a woman? Even more. Yep, she is super cute, friendly and every single fucking occasion when she addresses me I want to grab hold. I cannot help it. That hair all over the place, slender legs and heels, and exotic eyes just asking me to drown within. By the time I sit in that chair and enjoy some back-and-forth with the cash, my head is no longer able to articulate a simple greeting. All of the sex around me and the thoughts inside drive me out with all haste. Beauty everywhere at times leaving me a nervous pile of worthless shit. The little server is so beautiful that whatever may be in my head when she approaches is immediately destroyed in favor of her lovely appearance and sweet, sweet smile. Yep, sweet. And me? I would still fuck her sideways if given the opportunity. The inside of her clothing, the heroin, the fucking soft skin... I don't give half a shit about the consequences. God damn is that woman beautiful, yet as unavailable as everything else in my life. Gone. Invisible. Fucked. But remember... That woman is a person, first. I could never do anything. Just stare. She is a person and I am a ruined individual. I am so fucked up. Unbelievable. Falling. Dinner... Night two. Mere seconds before I left the table and strolled slowly toward the salad bar, I spied a pair of brown leather boots with thin, black pants tucked within. Full flowing hair, slender legs, and a gait I simply had to view further before lunging for the window. I arose and headed in the direction of the buffet's beginning. As I did my best to avoid elbows and plates along the way, I was able to step myself back and forth enough to see her walking along the exit with significant other in hand. I could not help it. I had to see. There is no describing her look beyond simple platitudes which in the end are meaningless. Her form was that of others in the past -- Andrea, the Raven, Juliette -- along with long arms indicating her height. The jacket held her waistline in confidence, as did the collar and her neck. I could only see so much before the couple disappeared toward the elevator vestibule. Upon that gorgeous vision of my fucking dreams vanishing forever, my appetite subsided and I only opted for a bit of salad. And alcohol. And more alcohol. Dinner was ruined due to my weak need to see and explore the most demanding aspect of my personality. I sat there nearly silent and conjured only questions. As often as I seek some sort of distraction or interest which can pull me from the din of unavailability, another shining example of the obsession comes into view for whatever reason and destroys any possibility of my rising or changing. Fuck it all. Why? How could a woman do that to me when she was simply leaving a buffet? Am I that fucked up? Probably. God damn was she ever shapely and aligned to my desire and need like no one else to that point in the trip. That was just a few nights ago. Fuck. Dinner... Night three. We sat comfortably in a large booth on the top floor overlooking all of the city lights. The restaurant is very well run and lovely. Wine, conversation with the server (male, thank God), and speaking softly of the day. After a short time a family was seated directly below and in front of us. Russian, just like the beauty sitting next to me. A woman, her son, and a man who appeared to be his grandfather. But the woman... yep. She was incredible. Think of this fact: the lion's share of models gracing these pages since fifteen are Russian or some other nationality from one of the former block countries. The woman upon whom I focused my attention was unreal. Thick blonde hair, long legs with multiple gaps searing my hungry eyes, and the height of dreams. She only spoke English to the staff. My partner understood the language as she originally hailed from Moscow, but I was in the dark without translation. I tried to let them be without staring excessively. My head was all the way in, though. I could not help it. The beauty sat there for a few minutes and then arose to remove her long, warm coat. And then I saw more... breasts, arms, neck. God damn it all to hell, the shape of these images right in front of me. I fell. I spoke to my partner a bit about the feelings. I fell further. And then something happened which caught me blind: Guilt over staring at her. The family was there to enjoy a quiet meal just like everyone else, but my head was inside her clothing. It felt invasive, perverted, terrible. Further I fell as I could not keep from glancing toward all that blonde softness. I wanted to see her sans clothing -- immediately -- and part of me shut down over the thought that I was being completely unfair. She was facing away and I stared here and there, effectively leaving me feeling weaker than ever. The fact that I was behind her pressed me toward more guilt. Her space, not mine. Her dinner, not mine. A tiny slice of time in a person's life and I had reduced her to an object to further my obsession. Horrible. Still, days later, I feel the same. She did not know and is better for it. She did not see me, however my head saw everything and filed it away like a proper deviant. I still feel bad. The only positive is she could not see my eyes which likely projected thoughts and desires better kept in a fucking vault. Hmm. That word rhymes with fault. Very appropriate. We ate, spoke further, and eventually descended nineteen floors to the casino. All the while the woman was spinning me into a cyclone of desire which carries on at this moment. Thank fucking Christ she never saw the fire within my eyes which is melting my brain one cell at a time. Destroyed and falling. Sitting here now recalling all three dinners and everything in between is not good. I feel reckless, dangerous, and self-destructive just as during ten and eleven. I am where I placed myself. Considering all of the hurt, remorse, exploration at massive financial and emotional cost, and uncaring behavior, I am surprised to be sitting here at all. I should be elsewhere. I should be in the ground. Honestly. This shit is a mess, anyway. One thought leads to another, the result being a worthless waste of space... Just like so many others. Fell." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
Falling Away Mature content No. 73 Published November 23rd, 2018 5:44am pst read ( words) Past entries "And here I am. Years later. The same, yet more analytical and slightly insightful. Did I learn? Not really. The difficulties, pain and desire still rule the roost. There seems to be nothing available. Not long ago at a party I spied one of the most picturesque female forms I have laid eyes upon since Ellie. Tall, slender, long legs carrying all of the terms splayed here for years. Yes... Another. She was so dreamy and with every single radius on display. Breasts countering a tiny waist, thighs that seemed built by my endless need, and fingers which followed her height. Neck, shoulders... Everything. And she was wrapped in a leotard. Fuck me. Hours passed as I stared while other women seemed to be appraising me. Huh? Really? Yes, but it mattered little. My focus was already away from the remainder of the room as I attempted to understand just why that woman commanded my senses. There were no answers, just the thighs, waist... Other things. She was in charge of my brain. Attention paid to me by others? Nope, the body was all of it. Why? Fuck. Falling. Her legs are still in there, deep, along with such a little round ass just staring back at me while I admired the inner thighs of my desire. There is no way around the feelings due to years of yearning, wonder, and pain over having little chance for obsessing over such form. Now I am a broken, disjointed soul with few options and very little drive to give a shit about anything. And I mean any fucking thing. I am left thin, frail, and twisted of mind. Wrung the fuck out by visions unavailable. Andrea... Unavailable. Juliette, Ashley, Lanie, Ellie... The same. And Michelle? That one nearly took my very life right in the Goddamned parking lot outside her door. The tears could have carried me into the fucking bay. At least after watching Andrea the goddess gazelle her way out of the Venetian I had some fall back options to drown deeply. Now I have nothing. Nothing. Again. Fuck. I really have no idea of any positive direction. None. After dropping and publishing the scathing 'Eden and the Edge', I just do not see it. Even sitting here at this early hour after sleeping well does not allow forward thinking. Everything still swirls through my head. All of them, Vegas, the fucking Raven and Her unspoken understanding conveyed through huge eyes, Andrea's loving compassion, and the never-ending visions which stab at me constantly. The leotard legs were simply the latest. She did not know. She was attending a party and showing off the form. If I were female and shared such a shape? I would have done the same. Why the fuck not? I enjoy almost nothing anymore. Temporary distraction, alcohol (and that ends up causing the burning desire to advance), and the occasional venture to the mountains which is approaching now. Up there the work and home life get shelved in favor of that atmosphere and physical comfort I need so much. The resort also drips with sex due to the fact that much of Nevada's gaming industry was built upon the same -- along with loads of money. Yep, a sex- and money-driven location which should cause me to dive into the ground but generally ends up becoming relaxed. I know not why. Perhaps the fact that none of it is available to me is cemented enough to keep hope away. Maybe? Nah. There are desires and visions aplenty in that place -- often serving cocktails in the casino. That can be tough considering the gorgeous outfits and scented hair. I've made it through four days there in the past without getting drunk and letting the tongue push forth reckless words, however that is not easy. Close? Yes, on a few occasions (I am there at least twice a year) with servers or dealers, and once with the hostess on the top floor. I wanted to be on top of HER, for Christ's sake. That is the extent of my fucked up psyche. No outlet, no opportunity, and the need focusing my paths into one very narrow tunnel which leads nowhere good. I will be mired in the fold of alcohol and foggy dreams very soon. That means I will have to fucking deal with it. Again. Issues pile up and weigh me down yet will be carried along as we venture into Nevada. The simplicity of a trip to the deli is an example. We strolled over there one day to see what was available in the hot case, but I became immediately distraught due to a pair of jeans wrapping a new employee who was stocking the dairy. Tall, slender, and looking wonderful with long hair and legs aplenty. The woman did not veer from her duties at all, and as I circled the lunch items I lost my train of thought upon noticing such an example of physical attractiveness. I ceased functioning, forgot about lunch, and only returned to the bar to compose myself. She was displaying all of it, along with big eyes, leaving me a mixture of torment and need. The next day -- as usual -- she was still floating in my head. Why? Because the obsession and addiction continue to rule me. Moments without visions are there but also being reduced by the sheer number of falls through the floor after seeing a woman so aligned to my thoughts and needs. I just do not understand why any of it has become so overwhelmingly difficult. Her legs, the way in which the jeans showed off her angelic form without appearing stiff, smooth lines and defined radii all over; they add up to that familiar map of my drenched brain. Day in and day out I feel drained by the need. My strength is waning, patience is thinning, and the drive to move forward and seek those things I still enjoy is fading. The woman in the deli? Not her fault. All me. There have been plenty of others, and I know full well that the Nevada trip will hold more. I see it every time. Above I mentioned that I always make it out of there without significant trouble, but this occasion may be different. After five months of sporadic analysis of myself -- not much here due to the ongoing story from the past, though -- I believe the resort will look different. Of course women will come and go because they always do, however my failure to realize any dream since the Raven has become second nature. I am more accustomed to the feelings which push my mind each time and that familiarity may help me to steel myself in preparation of a vision. It MAY help. I do not know at this point. The hour is late, leaving my mind exhausted. The energy to carry forward with any semblance of normalcy and push myself up no longer exists. All I have are the little distractions that I still enjoy. Even they are being truncated. I do not know in which direction to turn other than wallowing with the alcohol. At least I can stay clear of the city and its slew of picturesque females. Better than nothing. Recently I had a conversation with an acquaintance of mine from the bar. The woman is very tall and her hands equally lengthy. I asked of measuring and photographing her beautiful fingers after stating that my interest is purely mathematical. She reluctantly agreed, however after just two days of messages the contact fell off. I may try again soon, but I am confident the idea sunk into her and she subsequently shied away. No blame there, of course, and I did my best to avoid coming across like a freak. Her hands reminded me of the Raven, albeit with lighter skin and more years. That thought enabled my need to reach. We had spoken in the past as I complimented her beauty on more than a few occasions. She told me there were no worries or thoughts of me being strange, just different. I have no idea of why the communication ceased, but after weeks I have lost faith in that endeavor bearing fruit. The entire affair is extremely disappointing because rarely has any woman entertained anything beyond simple words. My requests likely seem deviant or odd, and such thoughts cause discomfort enough to force a person to protect herself. Yes, Andrea and Ellie allowed me to do anything I wished (like the Raven), but the situation at home is different. We are merely acquaintances and nothing more. The two women in Vegas were romances, for lack of a better term. I had been very close to both and intimate of mind and body. Here? Nothing so grandiose. Just hands. Her fingers are gorgeous, slender, and wondrous. I am dying to see them again and study, but alas they may have gone away for good without me knowing why. Hands. Fucking hands! Not her breasts, legs, rear end, none of it. The fucking hands were enough to force my asking of her. Maybe I alienated that beauty for all time. No surprise there. Fuck me. Why is this so important? Could the idea be enticing due to the odds being so slim? Hmm... My needs are elusive, odd, and very uncommon I would suspect. But impossible? No way. There are far too many people in the world for the chance to be nil. What about another? Yep, days earlier just outside the salon around the corner from where I now type these irritating words. Black hair, tall, and wrapped in some of the most form-fitting pants I have seen since the Raven, along with legs to match. Fucking shit anyway. I stared and fell, went back to the bar and fell further before finally composing myself enough to operate my brain around others. The image remains, of course, and still holds a bit of detail after the passage of time. I cannot help it. Just look at the fucking images on this site. Obsessed. Broken. Losing faith and waning hope. All of the things that once defined me are falling away. I am at fault anyway, so the analysis is for naught. Why am I still writing? No fucking idea. The words come together within my head and I have to place them here because the operation of this is pretty much all I have left. The desire burns, the visions hurt, the memories hurt more, and the future is shaky at best. But I need to hold it together for the trip to Nevada. The comfort, atmosphere, dreams of sex and beauty, all of it. I need it like the breath of life. I just fucking need to be within that machine for a little while before looking deeper into where all this shit began. The show car photo of Mercedes Terrell from a decade ago was a part of it, but the why remains elusive. I stared at that photo for days, weeks; no clear thinking grew from my effort. Her waist and tummy, prominent upper thigh gap, and bare midsection seemed to combine unlike any model I had seen before. Years later Mercedes and that bikini are still deep inside as one of the first representations of the mechanics I seek at every moment. I look upon her shape now and still do not understand. That is one of the earliest images placed here at the very beginning of the Raven period. The early part of that year was one of the most endearing and difficult times of my life. By attempting to analyze myself and spend time with the Raven was at times bliss. The image of Mercedes was a natural kickoff to the direction which has dominated these pages since the transition. The Raven resembled Mercedes' form in said image, making my head a blender of sorts. Her midsection was basically nonexistent and upon being allowed to see without restriction, my head spun. Right in front of my eyes, the Raven revealed Her skin and that was that. Between the void below Her prominent breasts and the narrow waist contrasting Her slender thighs being pressed by the seated position, I saw a dream for the first time after more than a decade of yearning and study. She smiled at me and asked of my thoughts, so I spilled everything toward those huge, welcoming eyes. That was the beginning of a period I will not forget. I gushed about form, the image of Mercedes which drew me in like nothing else, and my never-ending need to see and understand. The Raven took my face in Her slender fingers and expressed to me that I was allowed carte blanche -- anywhere, anytime. Holy fuck did that ever send Mercedes out of my head. I sat there floored of mind and inquired as to why. She simply stated that I was beautiful. This has been gleaned in the past, yet I felt the need to mention that moment due to how it relates to the present. Nearly four years later I sit here with none of it available. She was the peak of each desire and the top of my world. Now? Nothing. The obsession flares with no outlet. The Raven was everything. Fucking everything. All of it, inside and out. Her loss wrecked me in fifteen and I am still there. Our time in each other's eyes was short. It flew away like frightened birds. Falling further. All of the years and excruciating analysis have left me tired of mind. The Raven has become a point of reference within my ongoing exploration. She showed me that the possibility was out there in the world -- somewhere -- and tried to convince my damaged self to keep trying. Being so discouraged and tired out from the effort as well as the idea that such a person is no longer there presses me down almost constantly. Naturally I search with vision, however I have no faith in the idea of finding a woman with such a beautifully open mind. She is gone. Above? Yep, I am still shoveling out details of Her appearance. That soul was unmatched, and though I rarely speak of our deep connection and understanding, I do not worry about trying to convey beauty. She would not mind because knowing how my mind operated was something She felt was beautiful. God love that woman. Back to Mercedes. The image which graced the index years ago took my thoughts of the female midsection and shredded them into fine pieces. Yes, she shows off some skin (the woman is a model, for fuck's sake), and the lines are clear. As seated, the upper gap is visible -- which is generally unusual -- and the lower absent. Due to her extreme thinness around the stomach, the small garment appears absolutely flat as it hugs her tummy. The disparity between her upper thighs and hips is exaggerated somewhat, and combined with such a small waist the ratio of God is prominent. Yes, THAT ratio. Golden. Fibonacci. Less than seventy percent? I do not know, and that is part of the difficulty. I have to know, I need to actually measure it for reference and to attempt an understanding of how far the numbers can be pushed before she would become unattractive. God damn it, I know none of it. Had I been able to slather the Raven with measuring equipment perhaps a bit of insight could have birthed. Nope. Nothing. As a result, Mercedes became an obsession of sorts, forcing me into scouring the earth for more images that might follow suit. After months of exhaustive reverse image searching and endless scrutinizing of her features, I began to use the tools at my disposal along with the center-to-center distance between her pupils to derive a reference with which to measure said images. Over a period of time I had amassed thousands of photos from many shoots for magazines, car shows and the Internet. I tried over and over to find numbers, took pages of notes, and eventually went back to the original. I broke down badly in the realization that studying her form by way of software was not going to work. I needed a woman directly before me, and that had to be one of uncompromising shape. A body which aligned with my needs. Hmm... Difficult? Holy fuck, yes. I did not try because telling a person that I wish to wrap her body in a seamstress tape in hundreds of positions is just not going to get me anywhere. One recent search yielded a higher resolution shot which brought additional detail to her shape along with increasing depression within me. I stared and fell, followed by more searching. Did anything help? Fuck no. There is no easy path considering the level of my need. Will I find someone as open as the Raven? Not likely. The connection there was as deep as the ocean. Falling still. Away from everyone. Getting away from the subject of Mercedes and that fucking image which chokes me, the issue remains of the failing fantasy and how it relates to my obsession. Unavailability is the key. Things build within for days, after which I cannot process thoughts very well. Even a television commercial can tip me over. I am like a bloated, sleeping cow awaiting a push. The constant scanning and searching makes dealing with everyday issues arduous, I can barely concentrate and follow the most basic of conversations, and as soon as a woman is spied in the distance everything comes crashing. Legs, stomach, waist, breasts, height, arms, fingers... I cannot help it. I see what I can and then wallow within a pool of depression over losing the one soul who allowed me to fully be me. And then another comes by and I cycle through all of the bad again. Work? Nope. That is just a way to earn money. Home? Nope. The dreams take me without restriction, I begin to consume alcohol, don the headphones and wonder of my future. And I write. No shit. That has become the only fucking outlet in the world, yet rather than providing healing and release, the words flare and I drink more over Her loss as well as the void within which I drown. Every single encounter or vision on the street and elsewhere becomes a problem. Some are described here while others stay within my head. The fantasy comes to mind due to unending desire and then I crash. Home, alcohol, words, sleep, and then I awaken -- mentally exhausted -- and do it all over again. Why? Why is it so important? Falling away. No answers. Nothing. Just more pain over both issues. I am all over the fucking map again. Whatever. My words do not matter in the least. Where do I go? What do I do? Back to Nevada and all that destination encompasses. Good? No way. I will be in the fold of sexual imagery and beautifully dressed cocktail servers. I will be consuming alcohol, too. A depressant for my depression. Splendid. The only saving grace there is relaxation and calm. I cannot deny that being in the resort is quite comfortable. And the mobile interface allows me to code anywhere. Soon into the machine with my head already faltering. Hmmm. Perhaps the headphones need to accompany me. I don't know anymore. Nothing helps. The Raven and I discussed Her unique dimensions on more than one occasion. She indulged me often and tried to give support when She saw me dropping. And then whenever I seemed inconsolable, those lips were pressed to mine and the world went away. Her heart just knew. One of those occasions was the train station. That fateful day has already been laid out here, however the moment when we boarded and my desire was at an all-time high, the Raven sensed everything and held on to me while whispering soft words of love. Again... She knew. After I calmed She offered Herself to me completely. Upon our return to Her home, the intention was to please me in any manner I dreamed. Nope. It never took place both because the evening went aslant and I knew such physicality would cause larger issues than simply being self-destructive together. The point is Her offer. She felt my difficulty. She knew everything. All I wished in the beginning was to stare without restriction. Weeks later I needed to be inside Her heart. Falling. Where am I going with this? Who the fuck knows. I am experiencing so much fucking difficulty dealing with all of the desire on a daily basis that I have no idea how I rise from bed in the morning. I think of Mercedes and her Goddamned waist almost every single day and wonder why it struck me in such a manner. The Raven was basically that image but right in front of my eyes. Real, warm, smooth. I was sitting there fucking staring at Her inner thighs -- bare -- and at eye level. Staring. Inches away from Her sex. I could smell Her skin. That close. Now I am falling away from everything and everyone due to the memory and unavailability. My obsession simply will not stop. As I have stated many times in the past, the Raven represented every single aspect of my obsession and She is gone. Just fucking gone and nothing can help. And now I am sitting in Nevada after three days, head spinning, depressed, and close to needing the exit. I cannot help it due to the issues which arose last night. No detail. Only broad strokes. Visions. Problems maintaining control. Dreams unfulfilled. Nothing. No one. Fucked completely. Mere hours later I sit here staring out at the fresh snow on the trees and am reminded of the early days. Visiting this wonderland during the holiday season with family and friends was one of the most anticipated times of the year when I was young -- even more than Christmas, believe it or not. Every year we were here at least three or four times during the fall and Winter for enjoyment outdoors and in the clubs. Growing up in this atmosphere meant that I became accustomed to being around the adult playland, bombarded by sexual imagery and scantily-clad cocktail servers, and in the fold of all that money could provide. After decades? Second nature. I never gave any of it another thought. I just rolled or flew up to the stateline year after year and absorbed all of the fruits of the gaming culture. The time within glowing casinos and near the dripping sex of Nevada has produced an individual unable to collate and organize the desires which are born from such an upbringing. I sit here now feeling the effects of being decades older and mired in thoughts of that past combined with the present issues I have created out of unstable and ill-advised obsession. My control is waning. The sea is calling. I do not know what to do. We are leaving sometime later this morning. Before then I will sit here and wonder why last night became so mentally and emotionally crippling. I just do not understand. Each evening something took place which left me unable to function and forced me to the hotel room without delay. Each. Fucking. Night. Why? Are those females able to control my thoughts? No. Are they there only to cause me to fall? No. Were they strategically placed to slip up my common sense so I loosen the cash flow? Nope. They are guests. Just people on vacation doing what they may enjoy. None of those women have anything to fucking do with me. Just fucking people. I do not know them. And they have no conception of my difficulty nor should they. Not. Their. Fault. Mine. Fuck. It. Okay, one was a dealer. Fucking stunning, young, slender, and with fingers which kissed my brain like nothing else. I slipped up by sitting there but that was none of my weakness. I had walked by on the way to see my partner and spied the dealer's long hair and empty table. I smiled, she smiled. As I slowed my stroll, she asked nicely if I wished to play poker. I politely declined and smiled again. Onward a few tables down the walk. We spoke, left the Pai Gow, and headed back toward the stateline entrance. Along the way I saw that Goddamned goddess of a dealer and mentally faltered so badly that I barely noticed my partner asking if I wished to play the game. Why? I did not know of the rules or gameplay, plus the fucking girl looked like dessert clad in curls, so I declined. 'Come on. I'll help and so will the dealer.' Fuck me. Why? I did not need to be closer to those slender fingers with my head already in the middle of the fucking flames. I sat, played, stared, and barely heard one fucking word from anyone because I was mentally measuring her extremely long fingers and gazing at her brown hair all over the place. Most of the dealers are very polite, but not terribly attractive. After three days of wandering and leering, I noticed two who were over-the-top gorgeous but steered myself clear of both. Well, cut to later and I am perched not three feet from the better of the two. Fuck me running. I could not think beyond the simplest of instructions, continued staring as her hands operated the cards and chips, and fell into a routine of simply treading water with regard to the betting. I could not go further due to my brain being soaked through by the flowing fucking hair, breasts calling to my lips, and those fingers upon which I wished to dine. I needed to throw her over my shoulder and run like hell. I do not understand myself. Was it Mercedes? Before Mercedes? I wrote 'The Girl at the Car Wash' some time ago. That was the first descriptive piece I ever attempted and it was after Mercedes. Details? I do not remember the drive to write so much about one woman. I can recall very little about her appearance aside from the shoes and breasts staring at me as she sat. She did not look like Mercedes, I never wrote or went into great detail about Mercedes, nor have I sought more images in the last several years. I just did not see the point. I do know that in recent years (mostly since the Raven made all of Herself available to me) the need to see, feel, and understand has grown exponentially. The visions in the casino and restaurants are not like those of the past. They are much more difficult to bear, and that is putting it mildly. The dealer was yet another example of the simplicity and velocity of my fall. She was adorable and friendly. She was being professional. She was extremely well-aligned to my obsession, however that has nothing to do with her as a person. She was a dealer. Yes, a fucking gorgeous dealer, but just working nonetheless. She was a person. I know that. I knew that fact sitting and staring at her. I said nothing outside the foray of the club. Nothing. I played, drank a bit, dreamed deeply, and left the table with my head in that typical space. Burning desire to fucking know all of it. Nothing. Dinner... Night one. Across the street on the top floor, the lounge, comfortable, and everything seemingly in order for the evening. The offseason means the restaurant is half empty and carries less staff. Still, the place was busy enough to force us to a lounge table instead of waiting for the dining room. No matter, the food is still excellent as is the service. We sat, ordered wine, and discussed the day. In the distance I saw a gentleman enter wearing a plaid shirt and very casual shoes. We had spoken of the dress code issues in restaurants of the past, but honestly his outfit was appropriate and showed the establishment enough respect to avoid being handed a dinner jacket. He was a sizeable man, likely over six feet and built well. Unfortunately, after moments he moved a bit to speak to the hostess, and that is when things went awry. And I mean bad. I had looked at the guy scanning the rooms a bit -- likely knowing full well that the woman on his big arm was going to draw attention -- and figured he was doing that out of curiosity. Nope. When he moved forward, the masterpiece of a woman came within view and destroyed my sense of anything. Fucking tall, slender, boots to her thighs, hair beyond the bottom of her bottom, long, long arms and fingers, breasts defying the remaining slim appearance of her beautiful body. I fell, swilled the wine, pointed her out to my partner (like always, she understands), and felt as if I would not see anything of the like again. Wrong. Back to the fucking salad and wine with my mind spinning webs of thick despair. We sat and enjoyed dinner, some conversation about the location and all it encompassed, and eventually left the place for some casino relaxation. Throughout the remainder of that evening I could not get the fucking woman's shape out of my brain. That is not surprising considering the sheer number of female examples which have struck from on high and left me a pile of sordid thoughts. Some have been discussed here, others not. After exiting and returning to the north side of the street, the occasional view took place. I sat at a few different locations and thought about the beginning of everything and that fateful image of Mercedes. No matter the depth of mind nor the attempts to understand, I stayed in the dark. More strolled by. I fell further. On the outside? The picture of enjoyment. On the inside? Wrecked, as always. And now I am home with everything swirling through me just like after every single outing to Nevada and the inner needle approaching blood red. Fuck. What to do? Attempt some analysis? That is precisely what I am doing right now. Does it matter? Nope... There will be no understanding without help. What kind of help? I cannot say, but the very idea is so fucking far-fetched that I may as well wish to live upon Mars. Same Goddamned chances. So, lacking any other options, I am sitting here with coffee and keyboard yet again. This is all I have. Above I stated the same, however I do not believe the possibility exists for me to get the point across with enough power. The mood has changed since arriving home yesterday. Things look different; dire, worrisome, blurry, harsh. The world I now see is framed in sharp edges and compartmentalized like never before. Just one drive up and back. Writing all this shit and sitting here trying to rationalize what I have become is not working at all. I will continue to type regardless of whether it does me any good or otherwise. Damage? Who cares? I certainly do not give one fuck anymore. During the time that my partner was at the tables, I typically sat in one of very few areas to relax and play a machine or two. One of those locations is aside the large pathway from the tower elevators to the main casino. There are three Playboy slots (heh) and I always sit at the third machine. The column positioned to the right of the machine has a platform for holding drinks, ashtray, whatever, and is covered with a mosaic of small mirrors which allows me to see behind and off to one side of my position. Between the column and slot machine is a gap just wide enough for me to see the remainder of the pathway as it approaches the table games. From my seat I had a wondrous view of one of the busiest traffic areas in the club. And what does that mean? Yes, females of all walks of life strolling by from one moment to the next. And yours truly constantly paying notice to every single one of them. Ugh. Fortunately, there was a never-ending supply of alcohol to offset my fucked up head and keep me fairly calm. The slot machines are graced with lingerie-clad lovelies (of course) but they are never the focus of my attention. They are there simply to keep the player distracted by sexual imagery in order to unbend said player's wallet. That is a simple Nevada truth which I have known my entire life. The real examples of beauty are the problem. Sitting in front of the half-nude models did not hold a fucking candle to seeing bouncing hair and breasts being carried along by slender legs in leather boots. Over and over I had to catch my breath... Often seeing one woman pass several times while wandering the casino. Three different cocktail servers frequent that area and one in particular knew us from the previous couple of trips. The mid-height Polynesian beauty with her bra cups partially exposed and adorable accent always says hello and this trip was no different. She is very pleasant and accommodating. As a server? First class. As a woman? Even more. Yep, she is super cute, friendly and every single fucking occasion when she addresses me I want to grab hold. I cannot help it. That hair all over the place, slender legs and heels, and exotic eyes just asking me to drown within. By the time I sit in that chair and enjoy some back-and-forth with the cash, my head is no longer able to articulate a simple greeting. All of the sex around me and the thoughts inside drive me out with all haste. Beauty everywhere at times leaving me a nervous pile of worthless shit. The little server is so beautiful that whatever may be in my head when she approaches is immediately destroyed in favor of her lovely appearance and sweet, sweet smile. Yep, sweet. And me? I would still fuck her sideways if given the opportunity. The inside of her clothing, the heroin, the fucking soft skin... I don't give half a shit about the consequences. God damn is that woman beautiful, yet as unavailable as everything else in my life. Gone. Invisible. Fucked. But remember... That woman is a person, first. I could never do anything. Just stare. She is a person and I am a ruined individual. I am so fucked up. Unbelievable. Falling. Dinner... Night two. Mere seconds before I left the table and strolled slowly toward the salad bar, I spied a pair of brown leather boots with thin, black pants tucked within. Full flowing hair, slender legs, and a gait I simply had to view further before lunging for the window. I arose and headed in the direction of the buffet's beginning. As I did my best to avoid elbows and plates along the way, I was able to step myself back and forth enough to see her walking along the exit with significant other in hand. I could not help it. I had to see. There is no describing her look beyond simple platitudes which in the end are meaningless. Her form was that of others in the past -- Andrea, the Raven, Juliette -- along with long arms indicating her height. The jacket held her waistline in confidence, as did the collar and her neck. I could only see so much before the couple disappeared toward the elevator vestibule. Upon that gorgeous vision of my fucking dreams vanishing forever, my appetite subsided and I only opted for a bit of salad. And alcohol. And more alcohol. Dinner was ruined due to my weak need to see and explore the most demanding aspect of my personality. I sat there nearly silent and conjured only questions. As often as I seek some sort of distraction or interest which can pull me from the din of unavailability, another shining example of the obsession comes into view for whatever reason and destroys any possibility of my rising or changing. Fuck it all. Why? How could a woman do that to me when she was simply leaving a buffet? Am I that fucked up? Probably. God damn was she ever shapely and aligned to my desire and need like no one else to that point in the trip. That was just a few nights ago. Fuck. Dinner... Night three. We sat comfortably in a large booth on the top floor overlooking all of the city lights. The restaurant is very well run and lovely. Wine, conversation with the server (male, thank God), and speaking softly of the day. After a short time a family was seated directly below and in front of us. Russian, just like the beauty sitting next to me. A woman, her son, and a man who appeared to be his grandfather. But the woman... yep. She was incredible. Think of this fact: the lion's share of models gracing these pages since fifteen are Russian or some other nationality from one of the former block countries. The woman upon whom I focused my attention was unreal. Thick blonde hair, long legs with multiple gaps searing my hungry eyes, and the height of dreams. She only spoke English to the staff. My partner understood the language as she originally hailed from Moscow, but I was in the dark without translation. I tried to let them be without staring excessively. My head was all the way in, though. I could not help it. The beauty sat there for a few minutes and then arose to remove her long, warm coat. And then I saw more... breasts, arms, neck. God damn it all to hell, the shape of these images right in front of me. I fell. I spoke to my partner a bit about the feelings. I fell further. And then something happened which caught me blind: Guilt over staring at her. The family was there to enjoy a quiet meal just like everyone else, but my head was inside her clothing. It felt invasive, perverted, terrible. Further I fell as I could not keep from glancing toward all that blonde softness. I wanted to see her sans clothing -- immediately -- and part of me shut down over the thought that I was being completely unfair. She was facing away and I stared here and there, effectively leaving me feeling weaker than ever. The fact that I was behind her pressed me toward more guilt. Her space, not mine. Her dinner, not mine. A tiny slice of time in a person's life and I had reduced her to an object to further my obsession. Horrible. Still, days later, I feel the same. She did not know and is better for it. She did not see me, however my head saw everything and filed it away like a proper deviant. I still feel bad. The only positive is she could not see my eyes which likely projected thoughts and desires better kept in a fucking vault. Hmm. That word rhymes with fault. Very appropriate. We ate, spoke further, and eventually descended nineteen floors to the casino. All the while the woman was spinning me into a cyclone of desire which carries on at this moment. Thank fucking Christ she never saw the fire within my eyes which is melting my brain one cell at a time. Destroyed and falling. Sitting here now recalling all three dinners and everything in between is not good. I feel reckless, dangerous, and self-destructive just as during ten and eleven. I am where I placed myself. Considering all of the hurt, remorse, exploration at massive financial and emotional cost, and uncaring behavior, I am surprised to be sitting here at all. I should be elsewhere. I should be in the ground. Honestly. This shit is a mess, anyway. One thought leads to another, the result being a worthless waste of space... Just like so many others. Fell."
Falling Away
Mature content No. 73 Published November 23rd, 2018 5:44am pst read ( words) Past entries
"And here I am. Years later. The same, yet more analytical and slightly insightful. Did I learn? Not really. The difficulties, pain and desire still rule the roost. There seems to be nothing available. Not long ago at a party I spied one of the most picturesque female forms I have laid eyes upon since Ellie. Tall, slender, long legs carrying all of the terms splayed here for years. Yes... Another. She was so dreamy and with every single radius on display. Breasts countering a tiny waist, thighs that seemed built by my endless need, and fingers which followed her height. Neck, shoulders... Everything. And she was wrapped in a leotard. Fuck me. Hours passed as I stared while other women seemed to be appraising me. Huh? Really? Yes, but it mattered little. My focus was already away from the remainder of the room as I attempted to understand just why that woman commanded my senses. There were no answers, just the thighs, waist... Other things. She was in charge of my brain. Attention paid to me by others? Nope, the body was all of it. Why? Fuck. Falling. Her legs are still in there, deep, along with such a little round ass just staring back at me while I admired the inner thighs of my desire. There is no way around the feelings due to years of yearning, wonder, and pain over having little chance for obsessing over such form. Now I am a broken, disjointed soul with few options and very little drive to give a shit about anything. And I mean any fucking thing. I am left thin, frail, and twisted of mind. Wrung the fuck out by visions unavailable. Andrea... Unavailable. Juliette, Ashley, Lanie, Ellie... The same. And Michelle? That one nearly took my very life right in the Goddamned parking lot outside her door. The tears could have carried me into the fucking bay. At least after watching Andrea the goddess gazelle her way out of the Venetian I had some fall back options to drown deeply. Now I have nothing. Nothing. Again. Fuck. I really have no idea of any positive direction. None. After dropping and publishing the scathing 'Eden and the Edge', I just do not see it. Even sitting here at this early hour after sleeping well does not allow forward thinking. Everything still swirls through my head. All of them, Vegas, the fucking Raven and Her unspoken understanding conveyed through huge eyes, Andrea's loving compassion, and the never-ending visions which stab at me constantly. The leotard legs were simply the latest. She did not know. She was attending a party and showing off the form. If I were female and shared such a shape? I would have done the same. Why the fuck not? I enjoy almost nothing anymore. Temporary distraction, alcohol (and that ends up causing the burning desire to advance), and the occasional venture to the mountains which is approaching now. Up there the work and home life get shelved in favor of that atmosphere and physical comfort I need so much. The resort also drips with sex due to the fact that much of Nevada's gaming industry was built upon the same -- along with loads of money. Yep, a sex- and money-driven location which should cause me to dive into the ground but generally ends up becoming relaxed. I know not why. Perhaps the fact that none of it is available to me is cemented enough to keep hope away. Maybe? Nah. There are desires and visions aplenty in that place -- often serving cocktails in the casino. That can be tough considering the gorgeous outfits and scented hair. I've made it through four days there in the past without getting drunk and letting the tongue push forth reckless words, however that is not easy. Close? Yes, on a few occasions (I am there at least twice a year) with servers or dealers, and once with the hostess on the top floor. I wanted to be on top of HER, for Christ's sake. That is the extent of my fucked up psyche. No outlet, no opportunity, and the need focusing my paths into one very narrow tunnel which leads nowhere good. I will be mired in the fold of alcohol and foggy dreams very soon. That means I will have to fucking deal with it. Again. Issues pile up and weigh me down yet will be carried along as we venture into Nevada.
The simplicity of a trip to the deli is an example. We strolled over there one day to see what was available in the hot case, but I became immediately distraught due to a pair of jeans wrapping a new employee who was stocking the dairy. Tall, slender, and looking wonderful with long hair and legs aplenty. The woman did not veer from her duties at all, and as I circled the lunch items I lost my train of thought upon noticing such an example of physical attractiveness. I ceased functioning, forgot about lunch, and only returned to the bar to compose myself. She was displaying all of it, along with big eyes, leaving me a mixture of torment and need. The next day -- as usual -- she was still floating in my head. Why? Because the obsession and addiction continue to rule me. Moments without visions are there but also being reduced by the sheer number of falls through the floor after seeing a woman so aligned to my thoughts and needs. I just do not understand why any of it has become so overwhelmingly difficult. Her legs, the way in which the jeans showed off her angelic form without appearing stiff, smooth lines and defined radii all over; they add up to that familiar map of my drenched brain. Day in and day out I feel drained by the need. My strength is waning, patience is thinning, and the drive to move forward and seek those things I still enjoy is fading. The woman in the deli? Not her fault. All me. There have been plenty of others, and I know full well that the Nevada trip will hold more. I see it every time. Above I mentioned that I always make it out of there without significant trouble, but this occasion may be different. After five months of sporadic analysis of myself -- not much here due to the ongoing story from the past, though -- I believe the resort will look different. Of course women will come and go because they always do, however my failure to realize any dream since the Raven has become second nature. I am more accustomed to the feelings which push my mind each time and that familiarity may help me to steel myself in preparation of a vision. It MAY help. I do not know at this point. The hour is late, leaving my mind exhausted. The energy to carry forward with any semblance of normalcy and push myself up no longer exists. All I have are the little distractions that I still enjoy. Even they are being truncated. I do not know in which direction to turn other than wallowing with the alcohol. At least I can stay clear of the city and its slew of picturesque females. Better than nothing. Recently I had a conversation with an acquaintance of mine from the bar. The woman is very tall and her hands equally lengthy. I asked of measuring and photographing her beautiful fingers after stating that my interest is purely mathematical. She reluctantly agreed, however after just two days of messages the contact fell off. I may try again soon, but I am confident the idea sunk into her and she subsequently shied away. No blame there, of course, and I did my best to avoid coming across like a freak. Her hands reminded me of the Raven, albeit with lighter skin and more years. That thought enabled my need to reach. We had spoken in the past as I complimented her beauty on more than a few occasions. She told me there were no worries or thoughts of me being strange, just different. I have no idea of why the communication ceased, but after weeks I have lost faith in that endeavor bearing fruit. The entire affair is extremely disappointing because rarely has any woman entertained anything beyond simple words. My requests likely seem deviant or odd, and such thoughts cause discomfort enough to force a person to protect herself. Yes, Andrea and Ellie allowed me to do anything I wished (like the Raven), but the situation at home is different. We are merely acquaintances and nothing more. The two women in Vegas were romances, for lack of a better term. I had been very close to both and intimate of mind and body. Here? Nothing so grandiose. Just hands. Her fingers are gorgeous, slender, and wondrous. I am dying to see them again and study, but alas they may have gone away for good without me knowing why. Hands. Fucking hands! Not her breasts, legs, rear end, none of it. The fucking hands were enough to force my asking of her. Maybe I alienated that beauty for all time. No surprise there. Fuck me.
Why is this so important? Could the idea be enticing due to the odds being so slim? Hmm... My needs are elusive, odd, and very uncommon I would suspect. But impossible? No way. There are far too many people in the world for the chance to be nil. What about another? Yep, days earlier just outside the salon around the corner from where I now type these irritating words. Black hair, tall, and wrapped in some of the most form-fitting pants I have seen since the Raven, along with legs to match. Fucking shit anyway. I stared and fell, went back to the bar and fell further before finally composing myself enough to operate my brain around others. The image remains, of course, and still holds a bit of detail after the passage of time. I cannot help it. Just look at the fucking images on this site. Obsessed. Broken. Losing faith and waning hope. All of the things that once defined me are falling away. I am at fault anyway, so the analysis is for naught. Why am I still writing? No fucking idea. The words come together within my head and I have to place them here because the operation of this is pretty much all I have left. The desire burns, the visions hurt, the memories hurt more, and the future is shaky at best. But I need to hold it together for the trip to Nevada. The comfort, atmosphere, dreams of sex and beauty, all of it. I need it like the breath of life. I just fucking need to be within that machine for a little while before looking deeper into where all this shit began. The show car photo of Mercedes Terrell from a decade ago was a part of it, but the why remains elusive. I stared at that photo for days, weeks; no clear thinking grew from my effort. Her waist and tummy, prominent upper thigh gap, and bare midsection seemed to combine unlike any model I had seen before. Years later Mercedes and that bikini are still deep inside as one of the first representations of the mechanics I seek at every moment. I look upon her shape now and still do not understand. That is one of the earliest images placed here at the very beginning of the Raven period. The early part of that year was one of the most endearing and difficult times of my life. By attempting to analyze myself and spend time with the Raven was at times bliss. The image of Mercedes was a natural kickoff to the direction which has dominated these pages since the transition. The Raven resembled Mercedes' form in said image, making my head a blender of sorts.
Her midsection was basically nonexistent and upon being allowed to see without restriction, my head spun. Right in front of my eyes, the Raven revealed Her skin and that was that. Between the void below Her prominent breasts and the narrow waist contrasting Her slender thighs being pressed by the seated position, I saw a dream for the first time after more than a decade of yearning and study. She smiled at me and asked of my thoughts, so I spilled everything toward those huge, welcoming eyes. That was the beginning of a period I will not forget. I gushed about form, the image of Mercedes which drew me in like nothing else, and my never-ending need to see and understand. The Raven took my face in Her slender fingers and expressed to me that I was allowed carte blanche -- anywhere, anytime. Holy fuck did that ever send Mercedes out of my head. I sat there floored of mind and inquired as to why. She simply stated that I was beautiful. This has been gleaned in the past, yet I felt the need to mention that moment due to how it relates to the present. Nearly four years later I sit here with none of it available. She was the peak of each desire and the top of my world. Now? Nothing. The obsession flares with no outlet. The Raven was everything. Fucking everything. All of it, inside and out. Her loss wrecked me in fifteen and I am still there. Our time in each other's eyes was short. It flew away like frightened birds. Falling further. All of the years and excruciating analysis have left me tired of mind. The Raven has become a point of reference within my ongoing exploration. She showed me that the possibility was out there in the world -- somewhere -- and tried to convince my damaged self to keep trying. Being so discouraged and tired out from the effort as well as the idea that such a person is no longer there presses me down almost constantly. Naturally I search with vision, however I have no faith in the idea of finding a woman with such a beautifully open mind. She is gone. Above? Yep, I am still shoveling out details of Her appearance. That soul was unmatched, and though I rarely speak of our deep connection and understanding, I do not worry about trying to convey beauty. She would not mind because knowing how my mind operated was something She felt was beautiful. God love that woman. Back to Mercedes. The image which graced the index years ago took my thoughts of the female midsection and shredded them into fine pieces. Yes, she shows off some skin (the woman is a model, for fuck's sake), and the lines are clear. As seated, the upper gap is visible -- which is generally unusual -- and the lower absent. Due to her extreme thinness around the stomach, the small garment appears absolutely flat as it hugs her tummy. The disparity between her upper thighs and hips is exaggerated somewhat, and combined with such a small waist the ratio of God is prominent. Yes, THAT ratio. Golden. Fibonacci. Less than seventy percent? I do not know, and that is part of the difficulty. I have to know, I need to actually measure it for reference and to attempt an understanding of how far the numbers can be pushed before she would become unattractive. God damn it, I know none of it. Had I been able to slather the Raven with measuring equipment perhaps a bit of insight could have birthed. Nope. Nothing. As a result, Mercedes became an obsession of sorts, forcing me into scouring the earth for more images that might follow suit. After months of exhaustive reverse image searching and endless scrutinizing of her features, I began to use the tools at my disposal along with the center-to-center distance between her pupils to derive a reference with which to measure said images. Over a period of time I had amassed thousands of photos from many shoots for magazines, car shows and the Internet. I tried over and over to find numbers, took pages of notes, and eventually went back to the original. I broke down badly in the realization that studying her form by way of software was not going to work. I needed a woman directly before me, and that had to be one of uncompromising shape. A body which aligned with my needs. Hmm... Difficult? Holy fuck, yes. I did not try because telling a person that I wish to wrap her body in a seamstress tape in hundreds of positions is just not going to get me anywhere. One recent search yielded a higher resolution shot which brought additional detail to her shape along with increasing depression within me. I stared and fell, followed by more searching. Did anything help? Fuck no. There is no easy path considering the level of my need. Will I find someone as open as the Raven? Not likely. The connection there was as deep as the ocean. Falling still. Away from everyone.
Getting away from the subject of Mercedes and that fucking image which chokes me, the issue remains of the failing fantasy and how it relates to my obsession. Unavailability is the key. Things build within for days, after which I cannot process thoughts very well. Even a television commercial can tip me over. I am like a bloated, sleeping cow awaiting a push. The constant scanning and searching makes dealing with everyday issues arduous, I can barely concentrate and follow the most basic of conversations, and as soon as a woman is spied in the distance everything comes crashing. Legs, stomach, waist, breasts, height, arms, fingers... I cannot help it. I see what I can and then wallow within a pool of depression over losing the one soul who allowed me to fully be me. And then another comes by and I cycle through all of the bad again. Work? Nope. That is just a way to earn money. Home? Nope. The dreams take me without restriction, I begin to consume alcohol, don the headphones and wonder of my future. And I write. No shit. That has become the only fucking outlet in the world, yet rather than providing healing and release, the words flare and I drink more over Her loss as well as the void within which I drown. Every single encounter or vision on the street and elsewhere becomes a problem. Some are described here while others stay within my head. The fantasy comes to mind due to unending desire and then I crash. Home, alcohol, words, sleep, and then I awaken -- mentally exhausted -- and do it all over again. Why? Why is it so important? Falling away. No answers. Nothing. Just more pain over both issues. I am all over the fucking map again. Whatever. My words do not matter in the least. Where do I go? What do I do? Back to Nevada and all that destination encompasses. Good? No way. I will be in the fold of sexual imagery and beautifully dressed cocktail servers. I will be consuming alcohol, too. A depressant for my depression. Splendid. The only saving grace there is relaxation and calm. I cannot deny that being in the resort is quite comfortable. And the mobile interface allows me to code anywhere. Soon into the machine with my head already faltering. Hmmm. Perhaps the headphones need to accompany me. I don't know anymore. Nothing helps. The Raven and I discussed Her unique dimensions on more than one occasion. She indulged me often and tried to give support when She saw me dropping. And then whenever I seemed inconsolable, those lips were pressed to mine and the world went away. Her heart just knew. One of those occasions was the train station. That fateful day has already been laid out here, however the moment when we boarded and my desire was at an all-time high, the Raven sensed everything and held on to me while whispering soft words of love. Again... She knew. After I calmed She offered Herself to me completely. Upon our return to Her home, the intention was to please me in any manner I dreamed. Nope. It never took place both because the evening went aslant and I knew such physicality would cause larger issues than simply being self-destructive together. The point is Her offer. She felt my difficulty. She knew everything. All I wished in the beginning was to stare without restriction. Weeks later I needed to be inside Her heart. Falling.
Where am I going with this? Who the fuck knows. I am experiencing so much fucking difficulty dealing with all of the desire on a daily basis that I have no idea how I rise from bed in the morning. I think of Mercedes and her Goddamned waist almost every single day and wonder why it struck me in such a manner. The Raven was basically that image but right in front of my eyes. Real, warm, smooth. I was sitting there fucking staring at Her inner thighs -- bare -- and at eye level. Staring. Inches away from Her sex. I could smell Her skin. That close. Now I am falling away from everything and everyone due to the memory and unavailability. My obsession simply will not stop. As I have stated many times in the past, the Raven represented every single aspect of my obsession and She is gone. Just fucking gone and nothing can help. And now I am sitting in Nevada after three days, head spinning, depressed, and close to needing the exit. I cannot help it due to the issues which arose last night. No detail. Only broad strokes. Visions. Problems maintaining control. Dreams unfulfilled. Nothing. No one. Fucked completely. Mere hours later I sit here staring out at the fresh snow on the trees and am reminded of the early days. Visiting this wonderland during the holiday season with family and friends was one of the most anticipated times of the year when I was young -- even more than Christmas, believe it or not. Every year we were here at least three or four times during the fall and Winter for enjoyment outdoors and in the clubs. Growing up in this atmosphere meant that I became accustomed to being around the adult playland, bombarded by sexual imagery and scantily-clad cocktail servers, and in the fold of all that money could provide. After decades? Second nature. I never gave any of it another thought. I just rolled or flew up to the stateline year after year and absorbed all of the fruits of the gaming culture. The time within glowing casinos and near the dripping sex of Nevada has produced an individual unable to collate and organize the desires which are born from such an upbringing. I sit here now feeling the effects of being decades older and mired in thoughts of that past combined with the present issues I have created out of unstable and ill-advised obsession. My control is waning. The sea is calling. I do not know what to do. We are leaving sometime later this morning. Before then I will sit here and wonder why last night became so mentally and emotionally crippling. I just do not understand. Each evening something took place which left me unable to function and forced me to the hotel room without delay. Each. Fucking. Night. Why? Are those females able to control my thoughts? No. Are they there only to cause me to fall? No. Were they strategically placed to slip up my common sense so I loosen the cash flow? Nope. They are guests. Just people on vacation doing what they may enjoy. None of those women have anything to fucking do with me. Just fucking people. I do not know them. And they have no conception of my difficulty nor should they. Not. Their. Fault. Mine. Fuck. It. Okay, one was a dealer. Fucking stunning, young, slender, and with fingers which kissed my brain like nothing else. I slipped up by sitting there but that was none of my weakness. I had walked by on the way to see my partner and spied the dealer's long hair and empty table. I smiled, she smiled. As I slowed my stroll, she asked nicely if I wished to play poker. I politely declined and smiled again. Onward a few tables down the walk. We spoke, left the Pai Gow, and headed back toward the stateline entrance. Along the way I saw that Goddamned goddess of a dealer and mentally faltered so badly that I barely noticed my partner asking if I wished to play the game. Why? I did not know of the rules or gameplay, plus the fucking girl looked like dessert clad in curls, so I declined. 'Come on. I'll help and so will the dealer.' Fuck me. Why? I did not need to be closer to those slender fingers with my head already in the middle of the fucking flames. I sat, played, stared, and barely heard one fucking word from anyone because I was mentally measuring her extremely long fingers and gazing at her brown hair all over the place. Most of the dealers are very polite, but not terribly attractive. After three days of wandering and leering, I noticed two who were over-the-top gorgeous but steered myself clear of both. Well, cut to later and I am perched not three feet from the better of the two. Fuck me running. I could not think beyond the simplest of instructions, continued staring as her hands operated the cards and chips, and fell into a routine of simply treading water with regard to the betting. I could not go further due to my brain being soaked through by the flowing fucking hair, breasts calling to my lips, and those fingers upon which I wished to dine. I needed to throw her over my shoulder and run like hell.
I do not understand myself. Was it Mercedes? Before Mercedes? I wrote 'The Girl at the Car Wash' some time ago. That was the first descriptive piece I ever attempted and it was after Mercedes. Details? I do not remember the drive to write so much about one woman. I can recall very little about her appearance aside from the shoes and breasts staring at me as she sat. She did not look like Mercedes, I never wrote or went into great detail about Mercedes, nor have I sought more images in the last several years. I just did not see the point. I do know that in recent years (mostly since the Raven made all of Herself available to me) the need to see, feel, and understand has grown exponentially. The visions in the casino and restaurants are not like those of the past. They are much more difficult to bear, and that is putting it mildly. The dealer was yet another example of the simplicity and velocity of my fall. She was adorable and friendly. She was being professional. She was extremely well-aligned to my obsession, however that has nothing to do with her as a person. She was a dealer. Yes, a fucking gorgeous dealer, but just working nonetheless. She was a person. I know that. I knew that fact sitting and staring at her. I said nothing outside the foray of the club. Nothing. I played, drank a bit, dreamed deeply, and left the table with my head in that typical space. Burning desire to fucking know all of it. Nothing. Dinner... Night one. Across the street on the top floor, the lounge, comfortable, and everything seemingly in order for the evening. The offseason means the restaurant is half empty and carries less staff. Still, the place was busy enough to force us to a lounge table instead of waiting for the dining room. No matter, the food is still excellent as is the service. We sat, ordered wine, and discussed the day. In the distance I saw a gentleman enter wearing a plaid shirt and very casual shoes. We had spoken of the dress code issues in restaurants of the past, but honestly his outfit was appropriate and showed the establishment enough respect to avoid being handed a dinner jacket. He was a sizeable man, likely over six feet and built well. Unfortunately, after moments he moved a bit to speak to the hostess, and that is when things went awry. And I mean bad. I had looked at the guy scanning the rooms a bit -- likely knowing full well that the woman on his big arm was going to draw attention -- and figured he was doing that out of curiosity. Nope. When he moved forward, the masterpiece of a woman came within view and destroyed my sense of anything. Fucking tall, slender, boots to her thighs, hair beyond the bottom of her bottom, long, long arms and fingers, breasts defying the remaining slim appearance of her beautiful body. I fell, swilled the wine, pointed her out to my partner (like always, she understands), and felt as if I would not see anything of the like again. Wrong. Back to the fucking salad and wine with my mind spinning webs of thick despair. We sat and enjoyed dinner, some conversation about the location and all it encompassed, and eventually left the place for some casino relaxation. Throughout the remainder of that evening I could not get the fucking woman's shape out of my brain. That is not surprising considering the sheer number of female examples which have struck from on high and left me a pile of sordid thoughts. Some have been discussed here, others not. After exiting and returning to the north side of the street, the occasional view took place. I sat at a few different locations and thought about the beginning of everything and that fateful image of Mercedes. No matter the depth of mind nor the attempts to understand, I stayed in the dark. More strolled by. I fell further. On the outside? The picture of enjoyment. On the inside? Wrecked, as always. And now I am home with everything swirling through me just like after every single outing to Nevada and the inner needle approaching blood red. Fuck. What to do? Attempt some analysis? That is precisely what I am doing right now. Does it matter? Nope... There will be no understanding without help. What kind of help? I cannot say, but the very idea is so fucking far-fetched that I may as well wish to live upon Mars. Same Goddamned chances. So, lacking any other options, I am sitting here with coffee and keyboard yet again. This is all I have. Above I stated the same, however I do not believe the possibility exists for me to get the point across with enough power. The mood has changed since arriving home yesterday. Things look different; dire, worrisome, blurry, harsh. The world I now see is framed in sharp edges and compartmentalized like never before. Just one drive up and back. Writing all this shit and sitting here trying to rationalize what I have become is not working at all. I will continue to type regardless of whether it does me any good or otherwise. Damage? Who cares? I certainly do not give one fuck anymore.
During the time that my partner was at the tables, I typically sat in one of very few areas to relax and play a machine or two. One of those locations is aside the large pathway from the tower elevators to the main casino. There are three Playboy slots (heh) and I always sit at the third machine. The column positioned to the right of the machine has a platform for holding drinks, ashtray, whatever, and is covered with a mosaic of small mirrors which allows me to see behind and off to one side of my position. Between the column and slot machine is a gap just wide enough for me to see the remainder of the pathway as it approaches the table games. From my seat I had a wondrous view of one of the busiest traffic areas in the club. And what does that mean? Yes, females of all walks of life strolling by from one moment to the next. And yours truly constantly paying notice to every single one of them. Ugh. Fortunately, there was a never-ending supply of alcohol to offset my fucked up head and keep me fairly calm. The slot machines are graced with lingerie-clad lovelies (of course) but they are never the focus of my attention. They are there simply to keep the player distracted by sexual imagery in order to unbend said player's wallet. That is a simple Nevada truth which I have known my entire life. The real examples of beauty are the problem. Sitting in front of the half-nude models did not hold a fucking candle to seeing bouncing hair and breasts being carried along by slender legs in leather boots. Over and over I had to catch my breath... Often seeing one woman pass several times while wandering the casino. Three different cocktail servers frequent that area and one in particular knew us from the previous couple of trips. The mid-height Polynesian beauty with her bra cups partially exposed and adorable accent always says hello and this trip was no different. She is very pleasant and accommodating. As a server? First class. As a woman? Even more. Yep, she is super cute, friendly and every single fucking occasion when she addresses me I want to grab hold. I cannot help it. That hair all over the place, slender legs and heels, and exotic eyes just asking me to drown within. By the time I sit in that chair and enjoy some back-and-forth with the cash, my head is no longer able to articulate a simple greeting. All of the sex around me and the thoughts inside drive me out with all haste. Beauty everywhere at times leaving me a nervous pile of worthless shit. The little server is so beautiful that whatever may be in my head when she approaches is immediately destroyed in favor of her lovely appearance and sweet, sweet smile. Yep, sweet. And me? I would still fuck her sideways if given the opportunity. The inside of her clothing, the heroin, the fucking soft skin... I don't give half a shit about the consequences. God damn is that woman beautiful, yet as unavailable as everything else in my life. Gone. Invisible. Fucked. But remember... That woman is a person, first. I could never do anything. Just stare. She is a person and I am a ruined individual. I am so fucked up. Unbelievable. Falling. Dinner... Night two. Mere seconds before I left the table and strolled slowly toward the salad bar, I spied a pair of brown leather boots with thin, black pants tucked within. Full flowing hair, slender legs, and a gait I simply had to view further before lunging for the window. I arose and headed in the direction of the buffet's beginning. As I did my best to avoid elbows and plates along the way, I was able to step myself back and forth enough to see her walking along the exit with significant other in hand. I could not help it. I had to see. There is no describing her look beyond simple platitudes which in the end are meaningless. Her form was that of others in the past -- Andrea, the Raven, Juliette -- along with long arms indicating her height. The jacket held her waistline in confidence, as did the collar and her neck. I could only see so much before the couple disappeared toward the elevator vestibule. Upon that gorgeous vision of my fucking dreams vanishing forever, my appetite subsided and I only opted for a bit of salad. And alcohol. And more alcohol. Dinner was ruined due to my weak need to see and explore the most demanding aspect of my personality. I sat there nearly silent and conjured only questions. As often as I seek some sort of distraction or interest which can pull me from the din of unavailability, another shining example of the obsession comes into view for whatever reason and destroys any possibility of my rising or changing. Fuck it all. Why? How could a woman do that to me when she was simply leaving a buffet? Am I that fucked up? Probably. God damn was she ever shapely and aligned to my desire and need like no one else to that point in the trip. That was just a few nights ago. Fuck.
Dinner... Night three. We sat comfortably in a large booth on the top floor overlooking all of the city lights. The restaurant is very well run and lovely. Wine, conversation with the server (male, thank God), and speaking softly of the day. After a short time a family was seated directly below and in front of us. Russian, just like the beauty sitting next to me. A woman, her son, and a man who appeared to be his grandfather. But the woman... yep. She was incredible. Think of this fact: the lion's share of models gracing these pages since fifteen are Russian or some other nationality from one of the former block countries. The woman upon whom I focused my attention was unreal. Thick blonde hair, long legs with multiple gaps searing my hungry eyes, and the height of dreams. She only spoke English to the staff. My partner understood the language as she originally hailed from Moscow, but I was in the dark without translation. I tried to let them be without staring excessively. My head was all the way in, though. I could not help it. The beauty sat there for a few minutes and then arose to remove her long, warm coat. And then I saw more... breasts, arms, neck. God damn it all to hell, the shape of these images right in front of me. I fell. I spoke to my partner a bit about the feelings. I fell further. And then something happened which caught me blind: Guilt over staring at her. The family was there to enjoy a quiet meal just like everyone else, but my head was inside her clothing. It felt invasive, perverted, terrible. Further I fell as I could not keep from glancing toward all that blonde softness. I wanted to see her sans clothing -- immediately -- and part of me shut down over the thought that I was being completely unfair. She was facing away and I stared here and there, effectively leaving me feeling weaker than ever. The fact that I was behind her pressed me toward more guilt. Her space, not mine. Her dinner, not mine. A tiny slice of time in a person's life and I had reduced her to an object to further my obsession. Horrible. Still, days later, I feel the same. She did not know and is better for it. She did not see me, however my head saw everything and filed it away like a proper deviant. I still feel bad. The only positive is she could not see my eyes which likely projected thoughts and desires better kept in a fucking vault. Hmm. That word rhymes with fault. Very appropriate. We ate, spoke further, and eventually descended nineteen floors to the casino. All the while the woman was spinning me into a cyclone of desire which carries on at this moment. Thank fucking Christ she never saw the fire within my eyes which is melting my brain one cell at a time. Destroyed and falling. Sitting here now recalling all three dinners and everything in between is not good. I feel reckless, dangerous, and self-destructive just as during ten and eleven. I am where I placed myself. Considering all of the hurt, remorse, exploration at massive financial and emotional cost, and uncaring behavior, I am surprised to be sitting here at all. I should be elsewhere. I should be in the ground. Honestly. This shit is a mess, anyway. One thought leads to another, the result being a worthless waste of space... Just like so many others. Fell."
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