Happy Saturday–

I have decided not to bring over everything from Library Vivien 1.o to the new and improved 2.0, but will selectively bring some things. I am going to be pretty random as far as what I pick. Today I am re-posting a work called Bad is Good from March 18, 2009, the reason is–I had a fun phone sex experience yesterday that reminded me of my phone sex past, I hope to tell you all about it very soon–until then here is a bit of insight into the mind of my pussy. Much love and finger fucking for your Saturday.

Also don’t forget to check out the TUMBLR today, Saturday is officially ass appreciation day. Get out there and appreciate some ass.

Bad is Good

This week my mind keeps returning to guilt. Sex guilt. Why has it taken all these years to start the re-programming of my sexuality? Why does it take women in particular so long to have an openness about sexuality, that allows us to finally start having great sex when we want it, how we want it and with whom we want it? Why do I, sometimes, still feel dirty, sluty, naughty and wrong? Is it because feeling this way (dirty and naughty) is what excites me? The repercussions that I am going to feel some guilt or shame after I let a random stranger I meet online come to my house and fuck me, maybe even fuck me in the ass? Is it the guilt, the naughty, the dirty, that I am getting off on?

Or has guilt just paved the road to my lifelong fascination with all that is bad? Bad is good. I recall in fifth grade on my Pee Chee folder I, artistically and like the bad ass I was, scrawled SEX, DRUGS and ROCK-N-ROLL on the front cover, proudly for all to see. I was hastily sent to the school principal then counselor, who subsequently called my mother. I was grilled and roasted. “Do you even know what this means?” my mom said in that shrill shocked and horrified voice of hers. Well I did not know then, but it did not take me long to figure out the astounding virtues of said sex, drugs and rock-n-roll. From that moment on–I was hooked. Bad is good.

When I was in seventh grade, back when you still had to take typing class, a concept so far removed and bizarre that I am completely aging myself in this divulgence, I used to leave dirty notes in the typewriter for whomever was sitting at my machine in the following class. In fact now that I recall, this is all I used to type during class, vulgar sex notes, vulgar for a seventh grader. I had only kissed one boy by this time and there I was leaving little pieces of my sex behind for random strangers to find. Hmmm, sound familiar, not much has changed, except now I can almost write a complete sentence. Like a typing practice, over and over I would type; I want to fuck you so hard, I want your big dick shoved down my throat, I want to fuck your brains out, I want your dick, I want your dick, I want your dick. Then I would slyly tuck the note inside the casing of the typewriter so you could not see the paper sticking out, so when the next person who came in to load their paper would have to extract my dirty note. Bad is good.

It was in the third grade that I first got a glimpse of pornography. Roberta Gonzalez stole a magazine from her brother and at recess the two of us would hover over the magazine, dazed, not giggly, not amused, not in any way little-girlish– just straight up dazed with enthrallment at these giant looking women, with extreme tan lines, hairy wet pussies, with their fingers and hands all over themselves. We never spoke when we looked at the magazine, and barely said anything about it to each other, but everyday we looked though that same rag. We kept it hidden behind the fence in the furthest portion of the playground and every recess for a long time the two of us just remained captivated over these women, and then one day the magazine was gone.

That is when I discovered my step-father’s  stash. Looking back on it, it was fucking a great collection. Vintage’ 70s stuff, playing cards, pens, posters, coasters, and a monolithic stack of magazines. Spending many hours after school in the garage trying to locate all his secret hiding places, I became a master of knowing his secrets. Often I would be overcome with guilt and disgust for myself and my step-father, and I would pile all the stuff back away, but with a certain amount of revulsion, sloppy slamming, not in order, not like one should handle a prime vintage porn collection. He knew I was out there, looking at his private tits and bush; the stash spot was ever changing along with my levels of eroticism and revulsion.

Along came masturbation, one of the bigger guilty pleasures I still grapple with. Ridiculous. I began feeling myself at a very young age, probably around 8 and it has never stopped or really ceased to amaze and delight me on a daily basis, yet I still get that occasional pang of guilt. Say when I have locked myself in my apartment all day and just sat around in my jammies watching porn, with various fingers, toys, vibes, dildos, magic bullets, lubes, lube containers, shoving in and around at my excessively self fucked pussy. Not sure what this stems from, but I know ever since I was a young girl masturbation has been a part of me.

At around ten I was obsessed with making myself cum; I could do it anywhere and I did and I still do. Bad is good. Sitting around a table full of people, family dinners, family game night, in the back seat of the car, on the airplane, at the grocery store, at restaurants, in front of the T.V., anywhere I could frantically rub my prepubescent pussy I would. The first inanimate object I used, as a replacement to my fingers or to the all the imaginary cock I had seen in the glossy pages under those fluorescent flickering garage lights, was the remote control. I am a true T.V. baby. I love you T.V., and now I understand why. I rubbed it into my cotton flowered panties, feeling the nubs of the buttons clash against my cunt, the whole thing rubbing into my mound, making my clit pop out. I would do this so often I noticed a rubbed away spot in all my panties, the cotton wearing thin forming a circle pattern, which was obviously from my obsessive finger rubbing. I then really began to bang myself, under the panties. Life changed, I changed.

It was about this time that I was allowed to stay home alone after school. Coincidentally it was also about the same time we started getting obscene phone calls. My mom answered the first few and always hung up instantly. I tried to get her to tell me what they said, but she never would, just gave some lame ass answer. One magical day after school, I got the phone call. The boy-man on the other side asked me what color my panties were. I told him. I could instantly hear his breath change when I whispered–blue. He hung up. The next day the phone rang and he was there, I told him again what color. He asked me if I liked to touch myself, I mumbled “uh huh, yeah.” “Will you do it now?” “Ummm,  yes I am.” We never really spoke–he just listened to me making myself cum, over and over. Every once in awhile he would call and my mom would answer; she would fume and hang up the phone. I would get mad or hurt or something at how mad she got, because I guess she would be mad at me, too. For the entire school year I listened to the caller on the other end, ask me about my panties, then ask me to touch myself, as he listened to me moan and grunt in my young-girl way. I could hear him too his breath, his rumble, his loss of control. The way he came, the way we often came together.

One night the phone rang and my mom answered. When she hung up, she told us it was the police. Saying they had arrested a guy who had our phone number listed amongst a list of numbers he was making obscene phone calls to. I was scared; scared I was going to be in trouble. I felt guilty, dirty, and I felt loss, because I liked cuming with this guy, in this fucked up way. I loved it and I think it has had a lifelong affect on my sexuality. I wondered if other girls/women came with him on the phone, succumbed to his phone sex exploits like I did. Then I felt a wave of jealousy. Like he belonged to me, but there was a list of numbers according to the police. My mom asked if I ever answered the phone when he called, I told her yes, but that I always just hung up on him. Claiming he was gross, which meant I was too. Good turns to bad, to guilt, to uncontrollable deviant sex behavior, but why does it feel so good? Bad is good.