The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

Intriguing thread. Your mind whispers some very interesting things. Can't wait to hear more.

jenniferbaby said:

Intriguing thread. Your mind whispers some very interesting things. Can't wait to hear more.

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Thank you Jenniferbaby, just don't let them take me away in the white jacket.

Some people are like jeans that always fit, they slip on easy and soft. Falling back with your eyes closed knowing they will catch you seems a natural but rare act.

He is a plumber and I am a nurse and when my shower leaks he fixes it. I letter his trucks and nurse his broke leg in the winter.

He lays on the couch like a cripple and because his girl left him again, I clean his house with seriousness and all he wants to know is: How the fuck did your flat board chest grow tits? That is what I wanna know girl. I put on a dramatic act, rub on my breasts and then beat him with a pillow. It is empathy clean and I feel good about it. It turns me on without ever wanting to fuck him.

I clean his house while he watches me and he chats about memories: He is in my bedroom closet with my only girl friend. They do this everyday. They are fighting in there and she is saying stop and he never does. She busts out of the closet and I am hanging out the window watching the cars go by, and she is crying while smiling: he is fucking trying to rape me again. He drags her back into the closet and she blows me a kiss. I am wearing three ring leather bondage bracelets for jewelry because I like the way they sound.

I am still wearing the bracelets and I am still watching the cars go by. He is still a best friend and always calls me by my first and middle name together.

Your inner dialogue is fascinating. I find myself looking forward to each of your posts here.

steelrfn said:

Your inner dialogue is fascinating. I find myself looking forward to each of your posts here.

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Thank you.

One more experiment trashed. I asked a question, did the background research, repeated the experiment many times, and formed a conclusion. Maybe I was the flaw in the trial. I kept repeating and coaching in an attempt to communicate. I wanted to give up control but the coaching kept me in control, and he didn’t do anything about it anyway.

Nope, I don’t have the manual.

The emotional assault: I am weird, and unnatural. I am arrogant and jaded. I think I know it all. All you nurses are like that. And I say calmly: You can do better than this with your anger and frustration. Then it turns into a pity party for him: I just don’t have the right stuff I guess.

I am getting off the guilt train. I don’t want to get back on. The track is repeating itself and no one is getting to his or her destination.

Now I go back to fork drop dating conversations. It seems men are just not interested in being served. They want to be bitch slapped. I just can’t do it anymore.

I am getting angry.

sweepthefloor said:

Some people are like jeans that always fit, they slip on easy and soft. Falling back with your eyes closed knowing they will catch you seems a natural but rare act.

He is a plumber and I am a nurse and when my shower leaks he fixes it. I letter his trucks and nurse his broke leg in the winter.

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This is beautiful. I'm not sure I have anyone in my life that fits like good jeans. I also don't have any jeans that fit like good jeans, for that matter.

I always read your posts more than once to make I understood what I read, just the way I do with poetry. And it always sounds better the second time around.

jenniferbaby said:

This is beautiful. I'm not sure I have anyone in my life that fits like good jeans. I also don't have any jeans that fit like good jeans, for that matter.

I always read your posts more than once to make I understood what I read, just the way I do with poetry. And it always sounds better the second time around.

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Thank you for the seconds!
Soft tight jeans feel good and buttery. It might be easier finding good jeans that fit. I buy my jeans used from the thrift store. I get touchy with them.

I will consider myself lucky, he is a good fit for our friendship. He is one of those around the way boys, some of his tools are in my shed. His girl loves him so much. I am non-threat, and I would not want to ruin it, fall back and not find him there.

I am back to fork drop dating. It is a toss up between the shorter than me phlebotomist, and the ICU nurse with the good time reputation.

Which one will slap me?
Which one will force his cock into my throat a little deeper?

The communication with the phlebotomist today made me giggle. His text from work reads: What are you doing? I respond: What are you doing? He text: Sending specimens to the lab. That put me into maniac laughter.

The nurse called me three times today. I listened to his story.
-
I feel reckless. It is a dangerous game I am playing at work. I am on the cusp.

sweepthefloor said:

Some people are like jeans that always fit, they slip on easy and soft. Falling back with your eyes closed knowing they will catch you seems a natural but rare act.

He is a plumber and I am a nurse and when my shower leaks he fixes it. I letter his trucks and nurse his broke leg in the winter.

He lays on the couch like a cripple and because his girl left him again, I clean his house with seriousness and all he wants to know is: How the fuck did your flat board chest grow tits? That is what I wanna know girl. I put on a dramatic act, rub on my breasts and then beat him with a pillow. It is empathy clean and I feel good about it. It turns me on without ever wanting to fuck him.

I clean his house while he watches me and he chats about memories: He is in my bedroom closet with my only girl friend. They do this everyday. They are fighting in there and she is saying stop and he never does. She busts out of the closet and I am hanging out the window watching the cars go by, and she is crying while smiling: he is fucking trying to rape me again. He drags her back into the closet and she blows me a kiss. I am wearing three ring leather bondage bracelets for jewelry because I like the way they sound.

I am still wearing the bracelets and I am still watching the cars go by. He is still a best friend and always calls me by my first and middle name together.

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neci_please_me said:

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Let's go play in the shed, with the tools. I once took my Dad's belt sander to my calf. I was dumb.

sweepthefloor said:

I feel reckless. It is a dangerous game I am playing at work. I am on the cusp.

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the cusp is a scary place to be, if you are afraid of heights.

sweepthefloor said:

Let's go play in the shed, with the tools. I once took my Dad's belt sander to my calf. I was dumb.

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i have tools!

lots of tools!

i found the chain to an engine lift yesterday. it made a beautiful waist adornment. the excess links traveled down the crack in my ass.

neci_please_me said:

the cusp is a scary place to be, if you are afraid of heights.

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I am not afraid of heights and even if I am- I am going up anyway.
I once climbed to the top of a water tower. Going up is easy, getting down is the hard part.

neci_please_me said:

i have tools!

lots of tools!

i found the chain to an engine lift yesterday. it made a beautiful waist adornment. the excess links traveled down the crack in my ass.

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Yaay tool jewel.

sweepthefloor said:

I am not afraid of heights and even if I am- I am going up anyway.
I once climbed to the top of a water tower. Going up is easy, getting down is the hard part.

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I climbed to the almost-top of a cliff on the coast of Spain once. Alone. And got stuck there. Couldn't get further up; definitely couldn't get down. A local man found me and helped me to the top. He spoke only a little English and I a bare minimum of Spanish. He "made" me pay him for the good deed with a kiss. I was 19 and would not have been ready for that to have gone any differently at the time...for it to turn into what I now fantasize about it turning into...but it could have.

subish2009 said:

I climbed to the almost-top of a cliff on the coast of Spain once. Alone. And got stuck there. Couldn't get further up; definitely couldn't get down. A local man found me and helped me to the top. He spoke only a little English and I a bare minimum of Spanish. He "made" me pay him for the good deed with a kiss. I was 19 and would not have been ready for that to have gone any differently at the time...for it to turn into what I now fantasize about it turning into...but it could have.

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That is great, I am not sure what turns me on more..that he made you kiss him or the language barrier.

I can imagine myself in a relationship where words have no meaning, where he totally communicates by either being tender to me with touch, or punishing me severely. I guess it wouldn't take long to figure out what is pleasing.

We can't go back to the could haves, but it is a dream to keep. I understand the feeling as I think lonely, maybe he was the right hand for me, then I stuff it and keep going.

Wish me luck. I might whisper what Neci whispers.

We made out like teenagers and I left him with a boner.
I said: How do I get home from here?
He said: Make a left at the red house then call me for the rest of the directions.
I called after the left at the red house.
He said: I can't believe you left me like this.

I couldn't believe it either. I didn't want to leave it like that. I am sure a fast handy would have worked, but we work at the same institution, I just couldn't.
--
We made out like teenagers. He put his hand on my chest. He said: Is it mine? Is it?

And I was confused and dumb and said: I don't know.

We made out like teenagers. He said: You like me. Do you like me?

And I wasn't confused and dumb. I was his sex worker and I whispered in his ear: I like you baby, I like you.

We made out like teenagers on his couch. How did I get there? My hand written directions flew out the window of my car driving eighty on the highway.

We ate take out spaghetti. It is not easy to eat spaghetti and look good doing it. That is why I eat it. I ate it and I wanted more.

He said: You are hungry.
I said: Can you spoon feed me to gain thirty pounds so my booty gets big.
He said: Why do you want a bigger booty.
I said: So I can shake it better.

He is in the kitchen, you want cool whip, ice cream, peanut butter?

We made out like teenagers.
He said: Your fucking energy. What is it?
I said: It is the ding ding ding.
He said: Give me your hands. Look at your small veins.
I said: Look at your big veins.

It is the ding ding ding.
---
I am not sure he will call me again after this make out mess. I am an idiot!

And I lost my earrings.

that sounds like a wonderful date!
well, minus the no cock in mouth thing. i guess sometimes you have to be a bit of a lady. do you think men can tell if you are checking out their package? i go through a drive through liquor store on occasion. the man at the register slides open the door, and i tell him my needs. i nervously dig through my purse to find the cash. he is standing at my window. in jeans. t-shirt tucked in. belt. he must be in his 50's. the other guys are moving around inside, but i see their eyes travel to check the drive through. my shirt drapes down, and i know that as i am digging through my purse, my cleavage is exposed. i feel vulnerable. his groin is four feet from my face. divided by a closed car door with the window down. i can't make eye contact. he hands me my goods. i smile and say thank you. i trip over my words, and fumble around as i drive away. the wallet back into the purse. back on the floorboard. everyone buckled up? let's go. he knows i will be back.

neci_please_me said:

that sounds like a wonderful date!
well, minus the no cock in mouth thing. i guess sometimes you have to be a bit of a lady. do you think men can tell if you are checking out their package? i go through a drive through liquor store on occasion. the man at the register slides open the door, and i tell him my needs. i nervously dig through my purse to find the cash. he is standing at my window. in jeans. t-shirt tucked in. belt. he must be in his 50's. the other guys are moving around inside, but i see their eyes travel to check the drive through. my shirt drapes down, and i know that as i am digging through my purse, my cleavage is exposed. i feel vulnerable. his groin is four feet from my face. divided by a closed car door with the window down. i can't make eye contact. he hands me my goods. i smile and say thank you. i trip over my words, and fumble around as i drive away. the wallet back into the purse. back on the floorboard. everyone buckled up? let's go. he knows i will be back.

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Men must know for sure, I mean can't they sense it? I can picture the scene clearly! Imagine a slow night with no cars behind you, and ya say all nervously: Can I see your cock real fast? He would probably say no, but I would say it just to say it. I would say it for the humor of it.

As for being lady-like. I suppose I have this set up theory that if I really like the man, I have to wait. I don't even fool around that much and I think that is part of my over-sexed glow I have spread on my face. It kills me.

Saturday I wasn't lady-like at all. I got all tipsy and we acted like fools. He hasn't called me all day, of course he hasn't. I was a very easy conquest for him. Another number in his phone, another co-worker he got into, another story for him: Chicks they just love me, and I am not the settling down type. I listened to his stories all night.

And the killer in me wants to defeat him. I am debating on forgetting completely or charming him with my mouth, and my ass, and the flowers I sent to his house.

I am just a Hadley without an Ernest, so call me Hash.

We were drinking and dancing around his apartment. He kept saying things like: Can I be your boyfriend? Will you be my girlfriend? I kept answering: You like fine girls; I am not fine, so twirl me around again please. And we danced all night.

The truth is he likes fake nails and he shaves his face. I will never be the kind of girl he chases, and I am no trophy at all. His eyes are black and his hands are cold, and I sucked his cock goodbye when I left.

I am circling the sick hole for pain, and rejection is not healthy. I do it anyway, and send flowers as a thank you for not calling me today.

Hash loved Ernest, so she said: I’d love to look at you. I’d love to be you. I am reading The Paris Wife.

Awesome

sweepthefloor said:

I am just a Hadley without an Ernest, so call me Hash.

We were drinking and dancing around his apartment. He kept saying things like: Can I be your boyfriend? Will you be my girlfriend? I kept answering: You like fine girls; I am not fine, so twirl me around again please. And we danced all night.

The truth is he likes fake nails and he shaves his face. I will never be the kind of girl he chases, and I am no trophy at all. His eyes are black and his hands are cold, and I sucked his cock goodbye when I left.

I am circling the sick hole for pain, and rejection is not healthy. I do it anyway, and send flowers as a thank you for not calling me today.

Hash loved Ernest, so she said: I’d love to look at you. I’d love to be you. I am reading The Paris Wife.

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The answers are written on kitchen matchsticks that I take down to the woods. I burn each one to the tip of my fingers before throwing it into the lake. I never get burned and I never know the answer. I throw it out at the right moment.

It doesn’t take long to figure out the perfect time to throw it all away. After doing it for so long, I can do it with my eyes closed. The reason for this never seems to matter much to me. I have been running around pages like a cheap romance novel without the romance, shredding myself and burning my own book. I just want to be the matchstick, but I don't know how.

JamieJ424 said:

Awesome

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Thank you Jamie. The story of Hadley + Ernest actually wrecked me. He left her for Pauline. I thought I would never read another story again. I was determined to wake up in the morning and burn every book in the house. I worked my mind into hysterics. Then I put myself to bed.

sweepthefloor said:

Thank you Jamie. The story of Hadley + Ernest actually wrecked me. He left her for Pauline. I thought I would never read another story again. I was determined to wake up in the morning and burn every book in the house. I worked my mind into hysterics. Then I put myself to bed.

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He did, and he hated himself for it. In later writings he always blamed himself, always expressed deep feelings for her. In "A Moveable Feast" he puts her on quite a pedastal. They're both tragic figures in their way.