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The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

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I look at this psychotherapy thing like a prostitution arrangement. I pay for the therapist to listen and in return I might get behavioral modification advice, and some empathy.

The therapist is the hooker and I am the trick.
 
I woke up one morning and all the leaves of my life had fallen on the ground. They were all different colors from all kinds of trees that I don’t have the names for.

I don’t rake the leaves and pile them into big memories, and I don’t stuff them into black heart yard bags. I walk on them every day, run them over with the car and make mulch for the soil of my soul.
 
Sucking cock is more thearapeutic than this hour session that concludes with:
"What do you think is the issue? What direction do you want to take with this?"

Bitch if I knew I wouldn't be paying you. WTF
 
I am a sick limp dick looking for a professional boner. She is a high price whore waiting for me to jerk myself off for the money I gave her.
 
I am making friends with a girl for the first time since that best friend from high school, the one that liked girls and brutally tried to make sex with me for years.

I trusted that aggressive sex seeker even though I never wanted to sex with her. She’d try to rape me, and I would beat her up. We’d spend our days writing songs and novels, and our nights drinking booze, crying, and trying to get rid of the roaches in the kitchen.

My new friend is a co-worker, and I guess the trust started there. I am in her rooms and she is in my rooms. She writes on my flow sheets when I am busy, and I don’t flip out about her sloppy handwriting. I let it go and say, thank you. She knows how crazy I get over a sloppy flow sheet. I was drowning in a critical care room and couldn’t get out.

And we talk without talking. She’s my kind of girl. When experiences come up she says: I know, me too. And that is the end of that.
 
Dear Bondage

And when you don't get what you want, for whatever reason:

You can always say: Up Yours!

My heart is in anarchy and my hoop is my bondage hole. It's up mine.
 
That Girl is No Good

He busted my lukewarm soft cherry on the hard cold concrete steps of the abandoned school building in broad daylight. I was the broad, and he was the light. I was wearing this half denim, half animal print skirt. I wasn’t wearing any underwear and I never had any shoes on in the summer.

I give him credit because it hurt, but I can’t be sure. Sex is a blur, but I let him think that he was the one. He worked at Pathmark for weeks and bought me a gold ring with my initial on it. Two weeks later I dumped him. My Grandma was pissed off: You just don’t do things like that. You can’t accept gold gifts and turn around and dump a boy. What is wrong with you?

I didn’t mean to ditch him, but it was all about the neighborhood, and I was moved. I still had his gold chain with the super big Saint medallion around my neck.

I never took it off but one night Angelina got us drunk with boys and I slept on her living room floor. I half woke to her stepfather feeling me up. I think Angelina was sleeping, but I couldn’t be sure if she was just happy it wasn’t her that night. I looked at her face. I didn’t move, and then I closed my eyes again.

The chain was gone from that night. I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what happened: I was molested, and someone stole his gold. I wanted to say: I think Angelina stole the gold off my neck, her stepfather jerked off on my leg and wiped his scum off with a wet paper towel.

I woke up and didn’t remember anything. I was sorry. I was so fucking sorry. He would forgive me, but his mother never would: that girl is no good.

I broke up with Angelina, not because of her family. I could take a nasty come touch for a friend. It was the missing gold and the loss of an honest boy with a bike that had handle bars made for my weekend back to the area badass.

And then we went to High School. I am still no good.
 
Awesome

sweepthefloor said:
He busted my lukewarm soft cherry on the hard cold concrete steps of the abandoned school building in broad daylight. I was the broad, and he was the light. I was wearing this half denim, half animal print skirt. I wasn’t wearing any underwear and I never had any shoes on in the summer.

I give him credit because it hurt, but I can’t be sure. Sex is a blur, but I let him think that he was the one. He worked at Pathmark for weeks and bought me a gold ring with my initial on it. Two weeks later I dumped him. My Grandma was pissed off: You just don’t do things like that. You can’t accept gold gifts and turn around and dump a boy. What is wrong with you?

I didn’t mean to ditch him, but it was all about the neighborhood, and I was moved. I still had his gold chain with the super big Saint medallion around my neck.

I never took it off but one night Angelina got us drunk with boys and I slept on her living room floor. I half woke to her stepfather feeling me up. I think Angelina was sleeping, but I couldn’t be sure if she was just happy it wasn’t her that night. I looked at her face. I didn’t move, and then I closed my eyes again.

The chain was gone from that night. I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what happened: I was molested, and someone stole his gold. I wanted to say: I think Angelina stole the gold off my neck, her stepfather jerked off on my leg and wiped his scum off with a wet paper towel.

I woke up and didn’t remember anything. I was sorry. I was so fucking sorry. He would forgive me, but his mother never would: that girl is no good.

I broke up with Angelina, not because of her family. I could take a nasty come touch for a friend. It was the missing gold and the loss of an honest boy with a bike that had handle bars made for my weekend back to the area badass.

And then we went to High School. I am still no good.
Click to expand...
 
The leaves change the color of life, and fall so fast with the November soul wind. It’s the sign of our not love as we batten down the coming winter hatch of our house and heart.

We snuggle alone on couches in front of a television that isn’t watched.

Fleece and wool are better than kerosene stink. The chimney needs cleaning; there is wood to chop, and fires to start in a metal box. I am the bitch sleeping in front of the contained fire like a dog.

There are so many holes to spray foam into that keeps the chill out like the holes that blow from my mid-northern heart. There is no insulation man around my body. The draft and I stand-alone till Jack Frost breezes through my orifices and freezes the pipes in my arteries till my pump bursts. He wants to fuck me, but all he does is crack me.
 
sweepthefloor said:
There are so many holes to spray foam into
Click to expand...

One of the most masculine feelings is the sensation of warm viscous semen travelling down my urethra until it gushes out of my penis with ballistic force. Ejaculation, as distinct from orgasm, is a wonderful thing about being a man.

tumblr_mlrbyqU8pP1qdz7nho1_400.gif


Mesmerising. I bet it would've felt amazing to spurt like that.
 
Last edited:
Sir_Spongiosum said:
One of the most masculine feelings is the sensation of warm viscous semen travelling down my urethra until it gushes out of my penis with ballistic force. Ejaculation, as distinct from orgasm, is a wonderful thing about being a man.

Mesmerising. I bet it would've felt amazing to spurt like that.
Click to expand...
You are a man, and you feel it. It is a wonderful thing, that I imagined in the day of youth while flipping through the dirty magazines, hidden and curled up so small on the bottom shelf of the house booze bank.

What's This?

And where is my penis? Where did it go?
 
I am straddling myself on the scales of Lady Justice. She wears a blindfold, she can't see me, but she hears a whispered story. I have one foot in the bucket of myself, and the other foot in the bucket of what could be.

I am splitting my legs on the scales of Lady Justice. I kiss her stone cold lips, but I don't cry out for mercy. I haven't done anything terribly wrong. I have one foot in the bucket of tragedy, and the other foot in the pail pale face of something sadly beautiful.

My wrists are bound and this is all balanced exhausting leg work.
 
LoudFastHarley said:
How about some holiday hula hooping?
:)
Click to expand...
I have some ideas! I sold most of the good hoops. I have to make more loops, and get onto the happy holiday hooping express train.

It's the end of the year nightmare before check-ups. The dentist is waiting, and there is that western blot for lyme result pending. Those fucking ticks.
 
It's a blowback. There's black stuff up our noses, upper lips, and on those spider webs that you never knew existed till now. The white curtains are as gray as the winter slush. There's no sense painting the black corners of rooms when the whole wall needs a fresh topcoat.

Turn off the furnace and open every window! Go back to sleep under the electric blanket till morning, there is a chimney to shovel out. How do you know it's fixed? He opens the flue, takes a puff of the cigarette and exhales. If it gets sucked into the chimney you know it's all clear. This is the never ending learning process-- which way the wind blows, which way the smoke puffs.

The stuff we never knew about.
 
I am still who I am but whoever I am, I can't be sure. I am high on a life with a kite and key brain waiting in the rain for the lightening strike.

I am a lightbulb with filaments black burning a powder coating. It is the mania in the night. It's the dead day bulb of depression. Shake up my tungsten and let me burn bright.

I am the copper penny in the fuse box. These powerful head appliances burned my brain down. It's the rush of the power surge risk that is hard to resist.
 
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