The Girl at the Show Mature content No. 75 Published December 25th, 2018 6:55am pst read ( words) Past entries "A party at the bar. No shit. I do not know how many hundreds of occasions over these many years have found me attending social events in appropriate attire, but the number may be staggering. This latest show was no different. We arrived in decent style, found a comfortable table, and settled in nicely as there was a wait before the band took the big stage. Drinks in hand, platitudes and greetings, face painting, and the like. We entertained some conversation with others for a time and enjoyed the holiday decor. Candles, Christmas music, and booze. Very nice, right? If only. A little while into the evening and after many people rolled in with their themed outfits, a woman strolled from outside my vision and toward the upstairs bar. I heard heels on the wood and immediately turned to see. And that represents the beginning of my latest drop through the floor. I stood my ground and attempted to be polite and avoid leering. Fortunately, when she reseated herself across the room, the other people obstructed my view of the beauty. I had no choice but to continue with the evening sans vision. On the flip side of that was my burning, searing desire to gaze at her exaggerated form. Just a few seconds of a peek and I knew she was very rare. Immediately I became a useless, speechless, stupefied lump of shit unable to compose myself or carry even the simplest of conversations. I remained at the table facing opposite the loveliness and dying to see in greater detail. Nope. Hidden. Fucked. Unavailable. I leered at a teaser of a sight and the drug within, and quickly regressed into a fraction of a person in mere seconds. The longer I stood there, the more the desire torched my brain and left me feeling as if some demigod had dangled a goddess before my eyes and then snatched it away upon my realizing the gravity of what I was seeing. Fucking hell, anyway. Paralyzed. Did I improve as time passed? Fuck no. I faltered and dropped through the wood floor. My mind absolutely yearned to see her movements and gait but nothing. The need pressed me into a hole -- like on many other occasions -- from which I could not reach. Nothing. People entered and greeted me with holiday cheer but they may as well have been speaking to a pile of lumber. Nada. Over and over. Nada again. I just had to look. Everything else in the room was effectively erased by my deviant obsession. She became my entire world throughout several moments. As I swilled the alcohol like a champ, my eyes tried to find other targets upon which to focus in an attempt to unclamp that woman's grip on my mind. Up on the small stage were makeup artists performing face painting for the occasion. One of their customers pulled her shirt off to reveal a sports bra and midsection for decorating. Not even watching her peel off that top had enough draw to get me away from the dreamy goddess. Another few women went to have painting done. And then as I watched one of the artists and her oversized chest moving, I heard those heels again. Oh God no. But yes. She was heading for the stage with companions and stopped at the end of the line. Directly before me. Standing there with feet together and looking like Andrea. A gazelle. An anomaly. The heroin. Fuck. I was then looking upon black clothing, black hair, dark eyes, and a slender example of natural beauty the like of which I had not seen since Vegas nearly eight years earlier. The woman was very tall in her boots and showing off an expression of tentative discomfort. I tried to keep my eyes moving about the room but continued to feel that strongest of pulls toward her vast loveliness. She was very tall which is typically the first aspect to draw my gaze. And then shoes, hair, eyes. Damn it anyway, my concentration was stifled. Slender black jeans wrapped around thighs of my dreams, a short leather jacket, and thin blouse up top. She had very long arms and fingers, black hair to her sharp shoulders, and stood out due to her height even around males. From the side I could see nothing pushing forward beyond her chest. The jacket length allowed sight of the ratio between her hips and waist, further pushing me to stare without restriction. I instantly needed to wrap her in a seamstress tape and learn of why those curves dominated my life. Not going to happen. Numbers? Reasons? Fulfillment? None of them. Nothing. Just my eyes glued to her beautiful form. The jeans tapered down and ceased their line just above her little boots. Three-inch heels propped her long legs wonderfully, effectively sending away my ability to think with all force. Everything and everyone in the room disappeared. The woman stood there for close to half an hour as my fucked up psyche went around her shape over and over. I knew that taking in as much as possible was critical because after a while I would never see her again. Fuck. I kept looking against my better judgment in such a public place, however her dark eyes never wandered in my direction. More staring, more dreaming, more questions. I looked at her top and the division of material between her breasts. I tried to calculate what kind of bra she may have been wearing. Lined? Underwire? Unlined? Padded? What color? Maybe it matched everything else... black. Or perhaps it was like Andrea's little bra? Orange? Light blue? God damn it anyway. Suddenly I felt terrible -- like leering at the Russian woman in Tahoe -- like I was being invasive. Her bra? Really? What the fuck was wrong with me? I kept looking anyway. She was not gazing in my direction and others were preoccupied with their conversations, so the woman remained in my fucked up vision. Upon seeing her turn slightly, there appeared those two elusive, gorgeous converging and diverging gaps lining her inner thighs. At that point I had to get the hell out of there and cool off. Out the door in my long coat for a cigarette, out of the gaze of others, and out of my fucking mind. I had been staring excessively. The woman caused such a fall as I had not felt since those enamoring visions in Tahoe weeks earlier. Her form was just too much of a draw. Rare, unreal, dark, and in front of me far too long. I stayed in the cold a while and tried to wrench the idea of her lingerie color out of my spinning head. Nope. Still in there. After seeing Andrea's joy at my vast appreciation for her beauty I just could not help it. I dreamed over and over about colors, lace, softness and warmth. Her thighs became burned in me. Flames of dimensional passion seared my already broken ability to think. Hair, fingers, nails… all beautifully crafted for looking so nice at a party. No holiday garb whatsoever, just dark clothing and appearing so fucking gorgeous that I nearly fell on the pavement. All of it swirled and found me pacing outside like an idiot. I could not help it at all. Years of study and desire with damned few opportunities to exercise my needs. And the woman was stunning beyond words. Back inside to be as sociable as I was able. And there she stood, looking like a dream. Again I took the seat and gazed when possible. I noticed that her jeans were very low -- unlike the hideous high-waisted crap from the seventies which seem to be returning -- making the transition from her hips to her waist appearing divided by the line formed just above the zipper. There was no belt due to the jeans seemingly tailored to her unreal form. She continued to lightly socialize while standing leaving my head yearning to see her sit so I could see her thighs press and distort slightly. The image of Mercedes from so many years ago showed off the beauty in a seated position in which the form of her upper thighs was expanded outward and exaggerating the difference between the overall width of her legs and her tiny waist. The girl at the show was formed like Mercedes except quite a bit taller. Throughout the time I gazed at her while standing, the dream of seeing her pushed into beautiful positions was overwhelming. I could not think clearly from one moment to the next without picturing her body in such a pose. After dreaming about the girl's incredible shape for God-knows-how-long, others began to notice my absence from any conversation. I offered nothing due to aligning each little detail to those of Andrea. I studied her from every conceivable angle as often as possible and she let me do anything my heart desired. The addiction peaked so many times that I cannot remotely recall the occasions when my head swirled badly. Andrea was a fucking dream on more levels that I can understand. The girl at the show was of similar body type and conjured visions of Andrea throughout the evening. Did my head wander toward physicality? Yes, several times. The lion's share of thought, however, was the elusive group of numbers written all over her. I needed to know. I would not know. None of it. I looked upon her loveliness and faltered. A little while back I went into the image of Mercedes and how her shape contributed to the obsession over the mechanics of female physical attractiveness. Well, when the girl finally gazelled her way back across to the table and sat, I saw something very familiar before she crossed those long legs. That distortion of flesh and muscle which tore my head in two the first time I saw it before my eyes. Yep... The same. Gap, thighs, waist, all of it right there not twenty-five feet from my hungry and damaged mind. I watched her take the seat -- perched as if her posture was more important than comfort -- and analyzed for seconds before pulling my ass back out the fucking door to compose myself slightly. Nothing really helped, honestly, but I had to stay away for at least part of the time. Everything faded slowly while I was outside and I knew full well that to stay and remain staring longer meant only more pain and difficulty. I looked through the big front window and saw her long legs still crossed, hands clasped on the tabletop, tentative expression across her pretty face... still. She did not look comfortable at all in the room. I was not, either. And the girl sitting there looking like ten million dollars was hardly at fault. That was all me. I made it happen by allowing my screwed-up self to leer as if there existed nothing else in the world. I knew it, too. Past encounters, both near and far, had twisted my sense of what was at issue enough to drive my thoughts into the ground at light speed. The girl is still in there, somewhat. I never push anyone out and try to hold the live images as long as possible for later exploration and exposition. Is that good? Hell no. It is simply the only drive I have anymore. Damaging, depressing, compelling, whatever. All I have. The end of the year is never good for me. As it approaches, I have been reflecting upon all of the sordid encounters throughout eighteen -- some covered here and others only slightly mentioned -- and have begun to realize that the damage inherent in this type of endeavor is not good. Nothing about it is good. I am treading the same ground over and over while dreaming of things impossible to achieve. Why continue? I wish I knew. There are damned few reasons for any effort right now. The obsession rears its head from time to time and causes me to fall through the floor. Then I sit at this editor and blah blah blah. I don't even know if I am capable of making any kind of change within. The pull is relentless and constant. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there nonetheless. I seek out more images that align with what I have seen and combine them with words which do not help. Others have stated that the outlet here is a help, however I do not believe such is true. I am sitting here in the same mental and emotional position as four years ago with very little positivity taking place. Yes, when the Raven left this world I dropped several notches and have not recovered. That was more than three years ago and I still see Her face before me, all huge eyes and loving expression. I cannot help it. She was the top of everything. Since then I have spread more anti-cheer about a multitude of subjects but for the most part the topic is the obsession with attractiveness. The last image on this page is a tall model looking much like the girl at the show, albeit with higher heels and longer hair. The arms and legs she carries match that girl to a tee. My eyes picked up everything just as they always do. All of that information combines inside me and pushes toward the physical, too. That is also very bad. My head blends them into a whipped pile of desire from which there is no escape. What to do? Change nothing? Who the fuck knows. The second of January is just days away, and despite today being a holiday upon which I used to focus and plan for enjoyment, these late days have me yearning for other things. The holiday is difficult in the extreme. I have not found joy for years on this day, although the free time surrounding both today and the first of the new year help me to organize myself and attempt to find meaning in whatever may lift. I sincerely hope that the girl at the show is having a peaceful holiday." 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The Girl at the Show Mature content No. 75 Published December 25th, 2018 6:55am pst read ( words) Past entries "A party at the bar. No shit. I do not know how many hundreds of occasions over these many years have found me attending social events in appropriate attire, but the number may be staggering. This latest show was no different. We arrived in decent style, found a comfortable table, and settled in nicely as there was a wait before the band took the big stage. Drinks in hand, platitudes and greetings, face painting, and the like. We entertained some conversation with others for a time and enjoyed the holiday decor. Candles, Christmas music, and booze. Very nice, right? If only. A little while into the evening and after many people rolled in with their themed outfits, a woman strolled from outside my vision and toward the upstairs bar. I heard heels on the wood and immediately turned to see. And that represents the beginning of my latest drop through the floor. I stood my ground and attempted to be polite and avoid leering. Fortunately, when she reseated herself across the room, the other people obstructed my view of the beauty. I had no choice but to continue with the evening sans vision. On the flip side of that was my burning, searing desire to gaze at her exaggerated form. Just a few seconds of a peek and I knew she was very rare. Immediately I became a useless, speechless, stupefied lump of shit unable to compose myself or carry even the simplest of conversations. I remained at the table facing opposite the loveliness and dying to see in greater detail. Nope. Hidden. Fucked. Unavailable. I leered at a teaser of a sight and the drug within, and quickly regressed into a fraction of a person in mere seconds. The longer I stood there, the more the desire torched my brain and left me feeling as if some demigod had dangled a goddess before my eyes and then snatched it away upon my realizing the gravity of what I was seeing. Fucking hell, anyway. Paralyzed. Did I improve as time passed? Fuck no. I faltered and dropped through the wood floor. My mind absolutely yearned to see her movements and gait but nothing. The need pressed me into a hole -- like on many other occasions -- from which I could not reach. Nothing. People entered and greeted me with holiday cheer but they may as well have been speaking to a pile of lumber. Nada. Over and over. Nada again. I just had to look. Everything else in the room was effectively erased by my deviant obsession. She became my entire world throughout several moments. As I swilled the alcohol like a champ, my eyes tried to find other targets upon which to focus in an attempt to unclamp that woman's grip on my mind. Up on the small stage were makeup artists performing face painting for the occasion. One of their customers pulled her shirt off to reveal a sports bra and midsection for decorating. Not even watching her peel off that top had enough draw to get me away from the dreamy goddess. Another few women went to have painting done. And then as I watched one of the artists and her oversized chest moving, I heard those heels again. Oh God no. But yes. She was heading for the stage with companions and stopped at the end of the line. Directly before me. Standing there with feet together and looking like Andrea. A gazelle. An anomaly. The heroin. Fuck. I was then looking upon black clothing, black hair, dark eyes, and a slender example of natural beauty the like of which I had not seen since Vegas nearly eight years earlier. The woman was very tall in her boots and showing off an expression of tentative discomfort. I tried to keep my eyes moving about the room but continued to feel that strongest of pulls toward her vast loveliness. She was very tall which is typically the first aspect to draw my gaze. And then shoes, hair, eyes. Damn it anyway, my concentration was stifled. Slender black jeans wrapped around thighs of my dreams, a short leather jacket, and thin blouse up top. She had very long arms and fingers, black hair to her sharp shoulders, and stood out due to her height even around males. From the side I could see nothing pushing forward beyond her chest. The jacket length allowed sight of the ratio between her hips and waist, further pushing me to stare without restriction. I instantly needed to wrap her in a seamstress tape and learn of why those curves dominated my life. Not going to happen. Numbers? Reasons? Fulfillment? None of them. Nothing. Just my eyes glued to her beautiful form. The jeans tapered down and ceased their line just above her little boots. Three-inch heels propped her long legs wonderfully, effectively sending away my ability to think with all force. Everything and everyone in the room disappeared. The woman stood there for close to half an hour as my fucked up psyche went around her shape over and over. I knew that taking in as much as possible was critical because after a while I would never see her again. Fuck. I kept looking against my better judgment in such a public place, however her dark eyes never wandered in my direction. More staring, more dreaming, more questions. I looked at her top and the division of material between her breasts. I tried to calculate what kind of bra she may have been wearing. Lined? Underwire? Unlined? Padded? What color? Maybe it matched everything else... black. Or perhaps it was like Andrea's little bra? Orange? Light blue? God damn it anyway. Suddenly I felt terrible -- like leering at the Russian woman in Tahoe -- like I was being invasive. Her bra? Really? What the fuck was wrong with me? I kept looking anyway. She was not gazing in my direction and others were preoccupied with their conversations, so the woman remained in my fucked up vision. Upon seeing her turn slightly, there appeared those two elusive, gorgeous converging and diverging gaps lining her inner thighs. At that point I had to get the hell out of there and cool off. Out the door in my long coat for a cigarette, out of the gaze of others, and out of my fucking mind. I had been staring excessively. The woman caused such a fall as I had not felt since those enamoring visions in Tahoe weeks earlier. Her form was just too much of a draw. Rare, unreal, dark, and in front of me far too long. I stayed in the cold a while and tried to wrench the idea of her lingerie color out of my spinning head. Nope. Still in there. After seeing Andrea's joy at my vast appreciation for her beauty I just could not help it. I dreamed over and over about colors, lace, softness and warmth. Her thighs became burned in me. Flames of dimensional passion seared my already broken ability to think. Hair, fingers, nails… all beautifully crafted for looking so nice at a party. No holiday garb whatsoever, just dark clothing and appearing so fucking gorgeous that I nearly fell on the pavement. All of it swirled and found me pacing outside like an idiot. I could not help it at all. Years of study and desire with damned few opportunities to exercise my needs. And the woman was stunning beyond words. Back inside to be as sociable as I was able. And there she stood, looking like a dream. Again I took the seat and gazed when possible. I noticed that her jeans were very low -- unlike the hideous high-waisted crap from the seventies which seem to be returning -- making the transition from her hips to her waist appearing divided by the line formed just above the zipper. There was no belt due to the jeans seemingly tailored to her unreal form. She continued to lightly socialize while standing leaving my head yearning to see her sit so I could see her thighs press and distort slightly. The image of Mercedes from so many years ago showed off the beauty in a seated position in which the form of her upper thighs was expanded outward and exaggerating the difference between the overall width of her legs and her tiny waist. The girl at the show was formed like Mercedes except quite a bit taller. Throughout the time I gazed at her while standing, the dream of seeing her pushed into beautiful positions was overwhelming. I could not think clearly from one moment to the next without picturing her body in such a pose. After dreaming about the girl's incredible shape for God-knows-how-long, others began to notice my absence from any conversation. I offered nothing due to aligning each little detail to those of Andrea. I studied her from every conceivable angle as often as possible and she let me do anything my heart desired. The addiction peaked so many times that I cannot remotely recall the occasions when my head swirled badly. Andrea was a fucking dream on more levels that I can understand. The girl at the show was of similar body type and conjured visions of Andrea throughout the evening. Did my head wander toward physicality? Yes, several times. The lion's share of thought, however, was the elusive group of numbers written all over her. I needed to know. I would not know. None of it. I looked upon her loveliness and faltered. A little while back I went into the image of Mercedes and how her shape contributed to the obsession over the mechanics of female physical attractiveness. Well, when the girl finally gazelled her way back across to the table and sat, I saw something very familiar before she crossed those long legs. That distortion of flesh and muscle which tore my head in two the first time I saw it before my eyes. Yep... The same. Gap, thighs, waist, all of it right there not twenty-five feet from my hungry and damaged mind. I watched her take the seat -- perched as if her posture was more important than comfort -- and analyzed for seconds before pulling my ass back out the fucking door to compose myself slightly. Nothing really helped, honestly, but I had to stay away for at least part of the time. Everything faded slowly while I was outside and I knew full well that to stay and remain staring longer meant only more pain and difficulty. I looked through the big front window and saw her long legs still crossed, hands clasped on the tabletop, tentative expression across her pretty face... still. She did not look comfortable at all in the room. I was not, either. And the girl sitting there looking like ten million dollars was hardly at fault. That was all me. I made it happen by allowing my screwed-up self to leer as if there existed nothing else in the world. I knew it, too. Past encounters, both near and far, had twisted my sense of what was at issue enough to drive my thoughts into the ground at light speed. The girl is still in there, somewhat. I never push anyone out and try to hold the live images as long as possible for later exploration and exposition. Is that good? Hell no. It is simply the only drive I have anymore. Damaging, depressing, compelling, whatever. All I have. The end of the year is never good for me. As it approaches, I have been reflecting upon all of the sordid encounters throughout eighteen -- some covered here and others only slightly mentioned -- and have begun to realize that the damage inherent in this type of endeavor is not good. Nothing about it is good. I am treading the same ground over and over while dreaming of things impossible to achieve. Why continue? I wish I knew. There are damned few reasons for any effort right now. The obsession rears its head from time to time and causes me to fall through the floor. Then I sit at this editor and blah blah blah. I don't even know if I am capable of making any kind of change within. The pull is relentless and constant. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there nonetheless. I seek out more images that align with what I have seen and combine them with words which do not help. Others have stated that the outlet here is a help, however I do not believe such is true. I am sitting here in the same mental and emotional position as four years ago with very little positivity taking place. Yes, when the Raven left this world I dropped several notches and have not recovered. That was more than three years ago and I still see Her face before me, all huge eyes and loving expression. I cannot help it. She was the top of everything. Since then I have spread more anti-cheer about a multitude of subjects but for the most part the topic is the obsession with attractiveness. The last image on this page is a tall model looking much like the girl at the show, albeit with higher heels and longer hair. The arms and legs she carries match that girl to a tee. My eyes picked up everything just as they always do. All of that information combines inside me and pushes toward the physical, too. That is also very bad. My head blends them into a whipped pile of desire from which there is no escape. What to do? Change nothing? Who the fuck knows. The second of January is just days away, and despite today being a holiday upon which I used to focus and plan for enjoyment, these late days have me yearning for other things. The holiday is difficult in the extreme. I have not found joy for years on this day, although the free time surrounding both today and the first of the new year help me to organize myself and attempt to find meaning in whatever may lift. I sincerely hope that the girl at the show is having a peaceful holiday."
The Girl at the Show
Mature content No. 75 Published December 25th, 2018 6:55am pst read ( words) Past entries
"A party at the bar. No shit. I do not know how many hundreds of occasions over these many years have found me attending social events in appropriate attire, but the number may be staggering. This latest show was no different. We arrived in decent style, found a comfortable table, and settled in nicely as there was a wait before the band took the big stage. Drinks in hand, platitudes and greetings, face painting, and the like. We entertained some conversation with others for a time and enjoyed the holiday decor. Candles, Christmas music, and booze. Very nice, right? If only. A little while into the evening and after many people rolled in with their themed outfits, a woman strolled from outside my vision and toward the upstairs bar. I heard heels on the wood and immediately turned to see. And that represents the beginning of my latest drop through the floor. I stood my ground and attempted to be polite and avoid leering. Fortunately, when she reseated herself across the room, the other people obstructed my view of the beauty. I had no choice but to continue with the evening sans vision. On the flip side of that was my burning, searing desire to gaze at her exaggerated form. Just a few seconds of a peek and I knew she was very rare. Immediately I became a useless, speechless, stupefied lump of shit unable to compose myself or carry even the simplest of conversations. I remained at the table facing opposite the loveliness and dying to see in greater detail. Nope. Hidden. Fucked. Unavailable. I leered at a teaser of a sight and the drug within, and quickly regressed into a fraction of a person in mere seconds. The longer I stood there, the more the desire torched my brain and left me feeling as if some demigod had dangled a goddess before my eyes and then snatched it away upon my realizing the gravity of what I was seeing. Fucking hell, anyway. Paralyzed. Did I improve as time passed? Fuck no. I faltered and dropped through the wood floor. My mind absolutely yearned to see her movements and gait but nothing. The need pressed me into a hole -- like on many other occasions -- from which I could not reach. Nothing. People entered and greeted me with holiday cheer but they may as well have been speaking to a pile of lumber. Nada. Over and over. Nada again. I just had to look. Everything else in the room was effectively erased by my deviant obsession. She became my entire world throughout several moments.
As I swilled the alcohol like a champ, my eyes tried to find other targets upon which to focus in an attempt to unclamp that woman's grip on my mind. Up on the small stage were makeup artists performing face painting for the occasion. One of their customers pulled her shirt off to reveal a sports bra and midsection for decorating. Not even watching her peel off that top had enough draw to get me away from the dreamy goddess. Another few women went to have painting done. And then as I watched one of the artists and her oversized chest moving, I heard those heels again. Oh God no. But yes. She was heading for the stage with companions and stopped at the end of the line. Directly before me. Standing there with feet together and looking like Andrea. A gazelle. An anomaly. The heroin. Fuck. I was then looking upon black clothing, black hair, dark eyes, and a slender example of natural beauty the like of which I had not seen since Vegas nearly eight years earlier. The woman was very tall in her boots and showing off an expression of tentative discomfort. I tried to keep my eyes moving about the room but continued to feel that strongest of pulls toward her vast loveliness. She was very tall which is typically the first aspect to draw my gaze. And then shoes, hair, eyes. Damn it anyway, my concentration was stifled. Slender black jeans wrapped around thighs of my dreams, a short leather jacket, and thin blouse up top. She had very long arms and fingers, black hair to her sharp shoulders, and stood out due to her height even around males. From the side I could see nothing pushing forward beyond her chest. The jacket length allowed sight of the ratio between her hips and waist, further pushing me to stare without restriction. I instantly needed to wrap her in a seamstress tape and learn of why those curves dominated my life. Not going to happen. Numbers? Reasons? Fulfillment? None of them. Nothing. Just my eyes glued to her beautiful form. The jeans tapered down and ceased their line just above her little boots. Three-inch heels propped her long legs wonderfully, effectively sending away my ability to think with all force. Everything and everyone in the room disappeared. The woman stood there for close to half an hour as my fucked up psyche went around her shape over and over. I knew that taking in as much as possible was critical because after a while I would never see her again. Fuck. I kept looking against my better judgment in such a public place, however her dark eyes never wandered in my direction. More staring, more dreaming, more questions. I looked at her top and the division of material between her breasts. I tried to calculate what kind of bra she may have been wearing. Lined? Underwire? Unlined? Padded? What color? Maybe it matched everything else... black. Or perhaps it was like Andrea's little bra? Orange? Light blue? God damn it anyway. Suddenly I felt terrible -- like leering at the Russian woman in Tahoe -- like I was being invasive. Her bra? Really? What the fuck was wrong with me? I kept looking anyway. She was not gazing in my direction and others were preoccupied with their conversations, so the woman remained in my fucked up vision.
Upon seeing her turn slightly, there appeared those two elusive, gorgeous converging and diverging gaps lining her inner thighs. At that point I had to get the hell out of there and cool off. Out the door in my long coat for a cigarette, out of the gaze of others, and out of my fucking mind. I had been staring excessively. The woman caused such a fall as I had not felt since those enamoring visions in Tahoe weeks earlier. Her form was just too much of a draw. Rare, unreal, dark, and in front of me far too long. I stayed in the cold a while and tried to wrench the idea of her lingerie color out of my spinning head. Nope. Still in there. After seeing Andrea's joy at my vast appreciation for her beauty I just could not help it. I dreamed over and over about colors, lace, softness and warmth. Her thighs became burned in me. Flames of dimensional passion seared my already broken ability to think. Hair, fingers, nails… all beautifully crafted for looking so nice at a party. No holiday garb whatsoever, just dark clothing and appearing so fucking gorgeous that I nearly fell on the pavement. All of it swirled and found me pacing outside like an idiot. I could not help it at all. Years of study and desire with damned few opportunities to exercise my needs. And the woman was stunning beyond words. Back inside to be as sociable as I was able. And there she stood, looking like a dream. Again I took the seat and gazed when possible. I noticed that her jeans were very low -- unlike the hideous high-waisted crap from the seventies which seem to be returning -- making the transition from her hips to her waist appearing divided by the line formed just above the zipper. There was no belt due to the jeans seemingly tailored to her unreal form. She continued to lightly socialize while standing leaving my head yearning to see her sit so I could see her thighs press and distort slightly. The image of Mercedes from so many years ago showed off the beauty in a seated position in which the form of her upper thighs was expanded outward and exaggerating the difference between the overall width of her legs and her tiny waist. The girl at the show was formed like Mercedes except quite a bit taller. Throughout the time I gazed at her while standing, the dream of seeing her pushed into beautiful positions was overwhelming. I could not think clearly from one moment to the next without picturing her body in such a pose.
After dreaming about the girl's incredible shape for God-knows-how-long, others began to notice my absence from any conversation. I offered nothing due to aligning each little detail to those of Andrea. I studied her from every conceivable angle as often as possible and she let me do anything my heart desired. The addiction peaked so many times that I cannot remotely recall the occasions when my head swirled badly. Andrea was a fucking dream on more levels that I can understand. The girl at the show was of similar body type and conjured visions of Andrea throughout the evening. Did my head wander toward physicality? Yes, several times. The lion's share of thought, however, was the elusive group of numbers written all over her. I needed to know. I would not know. None of it. I looked upon her loveliness and faltered. A little while back I went into the image of Mercedes and how her shape contributed to the obsession over the mechanics of female physical attractiveness. Well, when the girl finally gazelled her way back across to the table and sat, I saw something very familiar before she crossed those long legs. That distortion of flesh and muscle which tore my head in two the first time I saw it before my eyes. Yep... The same. Gap, thighs, waist, all of it right there not twenty-five feet from my hungry and damaged mind. I watched her take the seat -- perched as if her posture was more important than comfort -- and analyzed for seconds before pulling my ass back out the fucking door to compose myself slightly. Nothing really helped, honestly, but I had to stay away for at least part of the time. Everything faded slowly while I was outside and I knew full well that to stay and remain staring longer meant only more pain and difficulty. I looked through the big front window and saw her long legs still crossed, hands clasped on the tabletop, tentative expression across her pretty face... still. She did not look comfortable at all in the room. I was not, either. And the girl sitting there looking like ten million dollars was hardly at fault. That was all me. I made it happen by allowing my screwed-up self to leer as if there existed nothing else in the world. I knew it, too. Past encounters, both near and far, had twisted my sense of what was at issue enough to drive my thoughts into the ground at light speed. The girl is still in there, somewhat. I never push anyone out and try to hold the live images as long as possible for later exploration and exposition. Is that good? Hell no. It is simply the only drive I have anymore. Damaging, depressing, compelling, whatever. All I have.
The end of the year is never good for me. As it approaches, I have been reflecting upon all of the sordid encounters throughout eighteen -- some covered here and others only slightly mentioned -- and have begun to realize that the damage inherent in this type of endeavor is not good. Nothing about it is good. I am treading the same ground over and over while dreaming of things impossible to achieve. Why continue? I wish I knew. There are damned few reasons for any effort right now. The obsession rears its head from time to time and causes me to fall through the floor. Then I sit at this editor and blah blah blah. I don't even know if I am capable of making any kind of change within. The pull is relentless and constant. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there nonetheless. I seek out more images that align with what I have seen and combine them with words which do not help. Others have stated that the outlet here is a help, however I do not believe such is true. I am sitting here in the same mental and emotional position as four years ago with very little positivity taking place. Yes, when the Raven left this world I dropped several notches and have not recovered. That was more than three years ago and I still see Her face before me, all huge eyes and loving expression. I cannot help it. She was the top of everything. Since then I have spread more anti-cheer about a multitude of subjects but for the most part the topic is the obsession with attractiveness. The last image on this page is a tall model looking much like the girl at the show, albeit with higher heels and longer hair. The arms and legs she carries match that girl to a tee. My eyes picked up everything just as they always do. All of that information combines inside me and pushes toward the physical, too. That is also very bad. My head blends them into a whipped pile of desire from which there is no escape. What to do? Change nothing? Who the fuck knows. The second of January is just days away, and despite today being a holiday upon which I used to focus and plan for enjoyment, these late days have me yearning for other things. The holiday is difficult in the extreme. I have not found joy for years on this day, although the free time surrounding both today and the first of the new year help me to organize myself and attempt to find meaning in whatever may lift. I sincerely hope that the girl at the show is having a peaceful holiday."
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