The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

"bicker babble" lol.

You have a way with lingo.

*swoons and leaves a plate full of dark chocolate truffles and caramels.*

Sir_Winston54 said:

I've missed Janey's posts. It's good to see her wander in here again.

Click to expand...

I wonder wander around and stumble into the arms of men. I fall into the strangest conversations, and I slip away quicker than the younger me skating on wet leaves. That’s autumn, it’s winter now.

“I want to see you again.” He wants the blowjob I never gave him, and I just don’t feel like it right now.

I went to the mall today. I didn’t buy anything, I didn’t want anything. I sat down with a lemonade and listened to a man talking on a cell phone about complicated financial matters.

He didn’t see me. I thought that was cool. When I realized he wasn't going to talk about some dirty secrets-- I left.

rosco rathbone said:

"bicker babble" lol.

You have a way with lingo.

Click to expand...

L is the best letter in the alphabet soup bowl that I have made special for you.

Curious_in_Cali said:

*swoons and leaves a plate full of dark chocolate truffles and caramels.*

Click to expand...

I survived the dentist chair again. I only moaned a few times. I didn't shed a tear, and I only brought my knees cross my midline once. I am a pathetic and ridiculous patient. It's a good thing my dentist has known me since I was six years.
---
I can't stand myself when my legs come up like that--- it's the brain doing that, localizing to the pain.

It doesn't even truly hurt that bad. It's sick! I don't have any cavities. This was a regular routine check up so I could tell myself that I am a good girl for going to the dentist like I am supposed to do. It is what everyone does.

It’s warmer in the kitchen now that there is a backdoor. I have chores to do. There is a key under the porch rug but we know the door will never be locked. There’s nothing to steal here, because we don’t care. We are not attached to the television.

I clean up clutter. It’s always the same out of pocket stuff—pliers, random nuts, and self-tapping screws. I am looking at a half empty bottle of rock, the rolling rock resting on the box burner. I should take a picture of it before I dump it down the drain, before I toss it into the recycling bucket for two points.

If you lived next door some years earlier—I would be your alarm clock. The daily wake up of the crashing bottle into bucket. You would think: it’s time to get up now! It’s a hollow wake you up sound.

Now, I don’t drink the stuff, but sometimes I sniff it as it circles the drain. hehehe

If I take my thoughts to the scrappers-yard, will they pay me?

I half shaved my legs in the shower before the hot water ran out. I am not concerned. He knows I don’t have enough hot water. He is prepared to bathe and shave me. That is what he wants to do.

I got out of the shower and sprayed my personal private love nest with pink glosser product, the stuff that girls with kinky hair put in their hair. It makes it soft and shiny. I said goodbye to myself with a reminder of the quick grow back time.

We fucked at night and in the morning when I opened my eyes, he opened his eyes and we were facing each other. His boner didn’t reach me, but it was there.

I whispered: Does this mean we are gonna do it again?

I smiled because I was in bed with a man. A normal man that doesn’t know anything about me, and we were going to fuck like people do.

It was quick and on the side, and I don’t remember looking at his face. It must have been tucked into my neck. And then we stayed there. He put his hand in my full winter bush and told me he was never with a girl that had so much hair. I didn’t have anything to say about that. I thought: what’s his name liked it like this, so I left it.

Someday what's his name will have nothing to do with my grooming habits.

I am not getting dressed up. He has clothes for me. I am wearing black knit tight pants, a black tee shirt, and a green soft sweater. My shoes are the usual ox-blood color, easy-off clogs.

The reality of this look is bland but I am wearing a pearl necklace. Everything is cheap except for the Chanel lips. My nails are clear and clean.

He’s a happy man. He likes telling me what to do. I don’t love him yet. I can’t be sure that I will love him. I am sure that I will take care of him. I think I will lick his asshole by accident tonight.

He can write the novel: I was dying, and before I got real sick—she licked my asshole, and sucked on my balls and my dick. I don’t know why she wanted to do that, but I liked it.

I absolutely love your "mind whispering" stories! Definitely subscribing to this thread!

Thank you a lot.

I was two miles away from my house on the road and the urge to release the safety seat belt was overwhelming. I kept whispering: almost there, almost there. Sometimes, I just unclick it.

I realized that I have only been restrained one time. Isn’t that amazing? I would have stayed with the man if he believed in something that I could swallow.

In my life submission to the divine has been the sincerest. Man is a poor but valuable substitute teacher.

And when I say: he likes me, I mean he wants to plunder the innocence in my face as he listens to stories, while we fold sheets and towels as the laundromat.

Some guys are easy to talk to, and I become the true self, a natural girl talent.

And then there was him, what’s his name, I never said a word. The blank look on my face said it all: I got no story for you. And I loved him, but my paint can personality, the doornail trait left him empty. He slopped me around with the wet stipple brush, and nailed me with his hammer, but that didn’t make anything beautiful, so it ended.

It's tickle torture day where I pay good money to let someone touch my feet.
--

It's not as bad as the dentist, or the GYN, but it's still painful to me somewhere deep inside. It's the rare feeling of not knowing if it feels good or bad. I'm confused!

I picked bubble gum pretty pink.

I hope she works fast, and doesn't make me talk. I can't stand sitting still this long. That's the problem here. Somebody give me a skateboard!

Missed Chance: I was the cute girl at the 8.98 Sushi place eating rice with a fork. You were the big man with rough looking hands eating rice and rolls with sticks. I wasn’t wearing any socks and my fingernails were fresh paint pink. My eyes were wet cause I always forget, that wasabi is not guacamole. Message me so we can fool around, because I like sticks, beating sticks.

He’s got nine and three quarter fingers, a limp leg, and a three legged dog with one eye. The house smelled like the cheap food that he cooked me for dinner, without any salad.

He didn’t feed me cause I told him that girls don’t fuck after food because food is a primary need motivator. If you feed me I will have nothing to fuck for.

I was hungry so we went into the bedroom. The candles flickered and I laughed about the elevator porn music. I put on the night dress that he paid ten dollars for and broke the strap by accident. He fixed it.

He laid on the bed. He assumed his position. You know the I am going to lay back while you suck my dick spot, and so that is what I did. It was all very romantic with that music, and the shadows on the walls so while I licked his balls I held his hands in my hands. I am sweet like that.

The intermittent phone service caused much tension in my household.

“Now, I don’t now why this phone keeps ringing but it doesn’t stop: You are either selling drugs, or you are a slut. Which one is it?”

Me: I need money.
He: Why?
Me: I have a poison ivy rash, from the woods.
He: You probably have AIDS.

Everybody says mean things, that they don’t mean sometimes, but saying nice things that you don’t mean is much worse.

And that is my love affair with honesty.

Going to the car wash always makes me feel like a human being. We all have to do jobs we don't want sometimes, like that job I had in high school at the greasy fast food place. The one where the manager took me to his house, got me drunk, and put his finger inside my private place.

I'm washing the whites go round and round. My delusional old lover keeps sending me pictures of his stick body. I told him whatever. He told me he's gonna smack me. I told him that he wishes.

Three waxy challenged males struggled with the machinery at the laundromat. The domineering female attendant insisted on assisting. He overloaded his dryer, shoving the garments into the dryer in a near rage. She tried to explain to him that ‘he was doing it wrong.’ He kept shoving more clothes into the dryer while cursing under his breath.

I am folding whites. I wonder what I will do when he beats the laundry attendant to death with the metal cart. I keep folding whites. I have no weapons. I have stockings and whites.

Wax man sat down on the floor. He looked at me. He asked me: What is she talking about? His voice was not the angry voice. He thinks I am one of his own breed.

I told him to put half in the top dryer, and half in the bottom dryer. I spoke in a calm voice, removing all lilt and emotion. I did not smile. I did not look mad. I went back to folding whites. There will be no more contact. The trick to communicating with psychopaths is the removal of all emotion.

He sends disgusting pecker porn pictures of his body because he thinks that I think like him, like a man. It is all terribly funny. His mind is deluded.

And then I become cruel, a mean thing: and he replies like a spoiled child: “You did this to me, now how will I ever find a girl like you.” “I was normal, and now I want to do things to girls that repulse them.” “I can’t find anyone that will let me.”

He: Come over and take a nap with me.
Me: No. That is a revolting idea.
He: You’re mean!

We seem to have this conversation about every other month, even though we have not been intimate for over one year, or more. I can’t remember. It’s like an alarm goes off in his head after a certain period of time that reminds him that I exist.

And it always starts with the prick pecker porn. I am half tempted to publish his photos on the internet: the dim light, his couch, the dirty bathrobe that must stink like cigarillo, the limp dick shot.

He would be happy to lounge around his house all day wearing nothing but creepy Japanese style house shoes. He loves to be naked. It freaks me out.

Me: Ant, what are you eating?
He: It’s a meat stick.
Me: Ew
He: Is that why we ain’t married?
Me: How could you eat that?
He: I like meat sticks.

I watched him happily eating the large pepperoni wrapped in wax paper. Next he will ask for a glass of milk— I thought.

I read his name script embroidered on his shirt: Tony. I half listened to his stories. I have them all memorized, they never change: The Turning Wrench Diary.

His heart is golden, and we are friends. I don’t talk much, but I listen to him talk. And sometimes he takes out my garbage.