diariesofaphonedomme

[diariesofaphonedomme]

Okay something that bothers me is the fact physics is seen as the more prestigious of the three main sciences, with biology at the bottom and chemistry in the middle. Like. I doubt most people could name a famous biologist, but they could name 5 famous physicists. Why are Albert Einstein and Stephen hawking household names but Norman Borlaug and Jonas Salk aren't?

Not to dismiss the accomplishments of Einstein or Hawking, or their genius, but their actual tangible contributions to society have been miniscule compared to that of Borlaug or Salk who have each saved LITERALLY hundreds of millions, if not billions, of lives each. Half the food on your plate was probably grown thanks to Borlaug and Salk is the reason half your siblings didn't die of polio as a kid.

Sure Einsteins theory of relatively is important for modern satellite communications but really though how can it compare?

This is coming from someone who studied physics. I love physics, and years ago when i was at uni I looked down at biology and so did everyone else studying physics. And I know others did too. Retroactively of course I know this was so very wrong.

If society as a whole started treating biology with more respect then maybe more students would go into that field. If we had rockstars of medicine and agricultural science that were household names rather than just physicists? think of how many more lives could be saved, how many more lives could be improved.

I'm not saying physics isn't important, and more scientists of any kind is always good, but proportionally I think societies priorities are a little skewd.

[diariesofaphonedomme]

“…Almost trust you. I almost trust you enough to lay the secrets of the ages into your wicked hold and let you wash over me. Silver strings of desire are rising up to bring me down, a liquid pull in my belly as you lure and tease with the crook of your finger. I swear, if I could, I would cut through gravity and tear in half to fall through sky and crash into you. I almost trust that you would be there to enfold me, to press kisses along my neck and whisper that I’m beautiful in the crooked curve of my collarbone. and if my dreams were to carve themselves out of starlight and into reality, I would sigh and dissolve until we were one and moondust washed up on sandy beaches at night. and I would breathe deep and liquefy until my mouth was on yours and our bodies were tangled cells with poetry banding us together. I would give, give, give myself to you so that you might explore the ridges and crests of shoulder and rib and hip. I would surrender the rights to the slopes and crooked angles of my body and fling my desire into the night sky so that all young lovers might follow our northwestern star to where we lay breathless and spent.”

— Megan Madgwick (via monjimonji)

[diariesofaphonedomme]

The Mechanic, part II.

I was desperate from a young age to leave my hometown. As such I lived transiently, avoiding commitments like full time work, university, anything that would tether me longer, bind me to a place I was so desperate to rid myself from. As was the case with my romantic life, never getting too close to someone, knowing I'd leave them eventually and tear them up from the inevitable.

That night, after mindlessly driving around for hours we'd parked up on a hill, overlooking the city. I asked him what he wanted to do with this life.

"My mate's dad runs a mechanic shop, which'll be fun. I like working on cars, working with my hands. So I think I'd do that."

There was a simplicity in that phrase I admired so deeply. Unlike myself, he didn't possess the restless desire to escape from his life. He was happy where he was, a straight-laced job, a comfortable, quiet existence. Oddly grounding, I basked in what happiness could've meant for him. He asked what I wanted to do,

"I want to get out of this town," I say "And write." * * * I asked if he wanted to grab drinks with me one night, and he picked me up in that same tiny car. We went into town, walking with the tops of our hands brushing past each other, too timid to interlock fingers. String lights made the pavement glow, people passed us and their voices amalgamated to an organic hum that wafted through the air around us. We passed a busker and Liam asked how he was doing, "Not bad mate," he goes, "any requests?" "Know any Johnny Cash?" "Sure do!" He threw a five dollar note into the velvet lined guitar case, and the busker began strumming the opening chords for 'walk the line'. The mild gesture made me smile, being with someone who didn't feel above it all. We found a bar a couple doors down and squeezed ourselves into the packed outdoor area. Our pints cool against our fingers, we were forcibly pressed right to each other's chests. I realised how tall he'd gotten, having to look up to speak to him. He looks around, then back at me, "Bunch of pretentious fucks in here," he says "Not your usual scene?" I jest. "Nah, usually just swing past a mate's house, carton of VB's and I'm right. Don't really get out much in general." "Why?" "Dunno really. Live too far out, already have friends. People in the city are hard to talk to, they're all fucking boring. Can't take a joke, can't say shit." "Surprised you're hanging out with a city girl then," my tone was cheeky. "Yeah, but you're different. Plus I've known you for how long now? 8 years?" "Just about that. It's insane how much you've grown. You look like a man now." "You look grown too, feels like yesterday I was fingering you in a playground." I laugh hard at this crass comment, and we fall silent for a moment. I catch him staring at my lips before looking away. I could feel my hunger for him grow, almost as if my stomach ached for his intimacy. We sink our pints, and I tell him we should find somewhere else less crowded. It was after a mindless wander, lost in chatting that we found ourselves outside a sports pub that rung loud with Latin music. Curious, we wander in, passing an unassuming front bar and heading through the back area to a large dancefloor. Quickly, we realised the novelty of being the only Australians there, grabbing a couple of drinks before heading onto the floor. I didn't think he'd be much of a dancer, but he moved succinctly in rhythm with myself, holding my hips while we swayed. I closed my eyes and allowed myself just to feel his touch, the music pulse through me. I could feel his breath on my neck, and wanted to kiss him in that moment yet too terrified to make the first move. Beads of sweat ran down my cheek, and I put my lips to his ear, "Let's go have a smoke." It was there in the smoking area that I felt my hunger reach its boiling point. "You want one?" I ask. "Nah, don't smoke." I raised a brow, "you don't?" "Nah, I've tried, honestly. Thought it was hell cool. Just don't like the taste." This makes me laugh hard, and he leans in there and then, and I feel his soft, lush lips once again. My breath hard and heavy, I push my kiss right back to him. I was sat on a bar seat as he stood, and I could feel his hardening cock press against my thigh. I pull away for a breath, "can we get out of here?" "Yeah, we can."

We walked back to his car and immediately pulled ourselves into the back seat. I move on top of him and stared right into his eyes. He had some of the kindest eyes I'd ever seen. Large, soft lids, his inner corners pointed, his iris a melancholy blue. I'd never slept with him until this point, we'd never gone past second base. But it took mere minutes until he was inside of me and I rode him, our clothes falling off us, messy and drunk and our tongues tasting one another.

We fucked until we were too tired, and he dropped me off at five in the morning.

This routine of going out for drinks and fucking in his car carried on for the next few weeks. Like clockwork, each weekend, he would pick me up from home and we'd chat, drink, laugh. He was stupidly funny, and endlessly endearing. I could tell he liked making me laugh, cracking the biggest smile as he did so. I even invited him out to spend time with my friends, and he integrated well enough.

He asked me if I wanted to do the same with his friends, that it was a house party, it would be chill. I was nervous but I agreed, eager to learn more about him.

He picked me up as per usual, and I brought two bottles of red wine with me. I drank straight from the first one as we drove the forty minutes to his friend's in the hills.

"When did you lose your virginity?" I asked, taking another swig of wine. He seemed hesitant to answer. "When I was eight." "Eight? Shit. How?" Another pause, he kept his eyes on the road ahead of him. "Yeah, an older girl in the neighbourhood r@ped me." I clutch to my bottle and put it to my mouth. I take another sip, this one heavier, feeling it sting as it washed down my throat. "Shit." "Yeah, but it's cool, I don't even know where she is now."

His nonchalance was alarming, but I attempted to match his energy and brushed it off along with him. I could sense Liam had unhealthy views of sexuality. He told me once that he had choked his ex with a belt while she sucked his cock until her face turned blue and she passed out. Hearing that had made his sweetness seem all the more sour, born from a place of necessity for survival over a natural instinct, I knew the feeling.

I recounted to him what had happened to me at 17, that my ex had done the same thing. The moment of sincerity between the general nihilistic tone of our usual conversation felt like I'd peered deeper into him, into a dark hole I wasn't aware existed.

"Liam! Is this the girl you've been telling us all about?" His friend welcomes him with open arms at the door. I'm already light-headed from finishing half the first bottle on the ride there. I gave a shy smile and followed him in, entering a beige kitchen with a large wooden table in the middle, his friends gathered around it. Cards splayed over the surface, cups both plastic and glass littered the circle.

"We were just playing King's cup mate, want to join?"

"Sure" we glee in unison. I look over to him and smile, silently reassuring I'd felt welcomed. I took a seat across from him, the only two left, so I was right in his line of vision. One by one, we'd take cards from the circle, and I couldn't help catching his gaze.

He pulls an 8.

"Great. No one can look at me or they have to drink." We all laugh, and I'm particularly worried. It was hard to look away from him. I loved the way his nose sloped, the way it rounded on the tip. His shaved head, his prominent eyebrows. He spent the next half hour trying to meet my eyes and each time I fell for it, hopelessly. I couldn't help myself, I knew in that moment how much I wanted him. Thankfully someone else managed to pull an eight from the pile, and I was safe to stare at him once again.

We met in the hallway to the bathroom, and I kissed him softly, my hand pressed against his chest.

"I think I need to go soon." I say. "I have work in the morning." "I'm too drunk to drive you, but I can wait outside till you get a cab." I nodded, kissing his cheek. Thanking his friends for having me, we stepped out to the front, sitting on a pile of bricks as the cool air brushed against us. He meets my eyes and I felt so joyous in the time we just spent together.

"I want you to be my girlfriend," he tells me. "Liam-" I pull my hands from his lap. "You know I just got out of a relationship, I don't know if I'm ready for that." He stares right through me for a moment, then takes my chin and kisses me deeply. "Then I can't do this anymore." he says.

My smile fades. We both look away from each other. I don't want to argue that point, he seemed so sure of his decision. I felt my stomach twist in knots as we waited together for the taxi to arrive. The world felt dark, and silent, though faint music played from the house party still going on inside. We were far enough out of the city that the sky was speckled with stars, and I looked up at them as reality began to set in.

The car pulls up to the driveway, and he doesn't say goodbye as I step in. That was the last time we spoke.

[diariesofaphonedomme]

The mechanic, part I.

I undoubtedly believe that I've already met the love of my life. There have been too many moments, people, and experiences I've shared that lead me to this conclusion.

I don't think eternal sanctimony is a fate I've been given, and I also know that a person can have many loves in their life, though there's still a distinct apathetic feeling that permeates and plagues what is my modern dating life. A lack of interest I've come to assume stems from already feeling what I've felt, and knowing that there's many people I've missed opportunities with due to a variety of circumstances.

And look, yes, I'll get to the phone sex aspect of my life. But not in this post. I've been thinking about an old flame recently, and the way our lives intertwined was both sad and fleeting, yet left a profound impact on me. This is a love letter in a sense, to which I already have a couple more of those planned. For now, this is about Liam. * * * We met through friends and the first thing he asked me was if I had a cigarette. We were both 14, and it was a year before I'd take my first drag. I laughed and told him I didn't. He was cheeky, playful, coming up behind me and making silly faces. I was dating his friend at the time, a relationship that lasted a mere week. As our group wandered round that day I found myself drawn to him, and he seemed to enjoy making me laugh. He lived further than an hour's drive from me but we continued to speak online. We'd video call often, where we'd talk for hours, he'd play his guitar. My father would hear the strumming and come in with his guitar and they'd duet. My mother helped him with his homework, a teacher herself. His parents never came to join, never checked on him. Sometimes I'd hear yelling, or his mother would try to come in and he'd yell at her to leave him alone. We only met a couple of times in this period, once on the weekend at a playground near my house. We kissed and did things kids shouldn't be doing. Though English, his lips were lush and full. Kissing him was always soft and deep, it juxtaposed with his rough demeanour. He touched me with care and delicacy I didn't know he'd possessed. I won't be revealing anything explicit, given our ages at the time, but we didn't have sex. Though I treasured that moment with him, and had opened myself up to be vulnerable. It was only a few weeks later that we stopped speaking. Things dwindled, and eventually ground to an excruciating halt. Understandably, I was upset. Though at the time, the girls I knew made fun of me for seeing him. "He looks dirty" "He's so ugly" 'Poor' was the word they never uttered. And while class consciousness had not reached me by the tender age of 15, there was a part of me that knew we wouldn't work. We came from different lives, so far apart from each other. I'd still heard about him, how he was expelled from school (unleashing a spark bomb, no one was injured), how he went through trades jobs. At one point, he'd send me messages I ignored, still bruised by his disappearance. The thing about having various traumas that spanned ten years of my life is that my memory is often so clear in some aspects and feels like a thick, syrupy fog in others. I remember at some point we had spoken online again, and he admitted he went to England for six months around the time we'd stopped speaking. The conversation didn't lead into us becoming close again. I had dated, fucked, and been hurt by many a man by this point, and it felt as if he was someone who faded back into the fog. I also remember an innocent catch up we had as teens, and I mention this briefly here as I don't remember much about it, other than when we were at my house, I'd changed shirts and he left the room while I did so. Without my asking, and in my provocative mind I'd wanted him to stay and watch. But he possessed courtesy that was unfounded in the other men I'd interacted with, and that gave me a certain respect for him. * * * I was 19, working at a café. It smelt like steak pie and warehouse pastries, the summer air thickening its waft as we had no windows, just long doors we folded inward every morning and unfurled every night. I often wore no makeup due to the heat, my hair wet and piled into a white cap. Unglamorous, yet I loved its quaintness. It was built into an old mall and workers from the supermarket would come in on their breaks and order their usual pies and coffees, enough I had many memorised. I had just ended a year long relationship with one of them, a man I considered my first real love and someone I cherished but was too damaged for.

It was particularly balmy, I could feel my polyester work shirt sticking to my skin. 80s pop ballads hummed on the old radio as I rearranged pies to the front of the hot box. That's when Liam walked in with two others; in matching polos, work boots, cargo shorts. Another thing about the trauma-riddled mind is that often you don't remember moments as much as you do the feelings they evoked. In this occasion it was joy, but a subtle and soft one. The innate warmth of seeing an old friend, a quiet nostalgia. I imagine my smile was wide, as his was too. He hadn't changed much, his hair had grown (it was shaved before), and I noticed a tattoo on his calf. "Hi, it's been a while" my tongue ran smooth, voice mellifluous. "It has, how've you been?" "Good, what are you doing all the way over here?" I do remember getting to the point. He said he was nearby for a repair job, explaining to me what had to be done. I broke his train of thought by asking what he'd like to order. "Oh! A spinach roll, please." the cadence and charm of that one line made me grin as I shuffled the roll into a paper bag.

"We should hang out soon." I mentioned, folding the bag and hearing the pastry crumble within it. I didn't want him to leave. Looking him up and down, I realised he looked more like a man than I'd last saw him. His large lips and eyes had grown into his face, his cheeks formed and sharp, arms stronger. The softness and the rough, intermingled in his features, he was wonderful to bask in. "Sounds good, I'll text you? Same number yeah?" I tried desperately to wipe the smile off my face. "Yeah, same number." A week had passed and he agreed to pick me up outside a restaurant I'd dropped my resume off to. He'd never driven me anywhere, so when he pulled up with a small, boxy, 90s hatch back I couldn't help but laugh. I'd imagined him in a pickup truck, or a 4 wheel drive, not a vehicle nearly this cumbersome. I could barely get my umbrella above my head stepping out of the restaurant as harsh rain and wind billowed. I remember wearing heels, if only for how impractical a choice that was. I remember driving through a tunnel, the lights waxing and waning on his face as he looked ahead. How the orange lights softened him, and made it look as if I were seeing him from every angle, every way perceptible. "Do you like this car?" I asked "Kinda," he begins, "it's small, it's shit, it's dirty, but it suits me." I let out a laugh, something I would do so frequently throughout that night that my mouth ached by the end of it. I had felt so tired just from talking to him, but in a way that I'd exhausted every bit of closeness I'd kept locked away. I was beginning to discover the man he was becoming, our conversations a rebirth of old feelings, unravelling like an old, worn sweater. I remember the shared awkwardness, the stillness when he parked the car. I remember feeling the most tired I'd felt in months. I remember we didn't even kiss that night, but enjoyed each other's company, driving around our town, before he dropped me home and I collapsed into my bed, exhausted from conversation, bubbling with joy. Continued in Part II

[diariesofaphonedomme]

The Builder.

I'm beginning this blog directly in the middle. There's little point in an introduction when my latest date makes for the perfect example of what modern dating leaves me with. This pathetic, miserable feeling which leaves me laughing to myself, eating cold pasta and downing one final glass of wine at 2 in the morning.

I'd find it less ironic if my job weren't to put myself on such a platform, for men to gawk at and worship. They hear me berate them on the phone for being miserable and lowly, for having small cocks or no luck with women. For being a bad father, a limp-dicked husband, for never being able to touch a woman like me. They call me (specifically) to validate themselves, their lack of ability and competence to court women like me, to pleasure women like me. If I saw them walking down the street I would not look twice. Though, I never see their faces. Phone work sells a fantasy, to the degree that I am often curled up on the couch wearing several layers of clothing and weaving a tale of a latex-clad, ball busting heroine. A pegger, a sadist (that one is true), an intelligent and torturous deviant (that one is partially true).

Though, when it comes to dating, I'm completely at a loss. You would think as a young, slim, white woman with doe eyes and a good sense of humour, the average man would be reeling, yet I can't seem to get past a first date.

So, while I mostly opt out and choose to accept that most men are lazy, boring, and lack basic communication skills, ever-encroaching loneliness rears its ugly head, and I yearn to be touched by someone who respects me.

Thus, last night I dragged my body to a local pub to meet a man I'd begun talking to through a dating app, something I rarely push myself to do (for good reason) and decide I go in with an open mind. He approached me looking slightly less than what his pictures showed, which I'd learnt to expect at this point. Mid 30's, well dressed. Our initial hug was awkward and fast, and made me wonder why we hug when we first meet someone. I figured hugging was reserved for close friends, a show of deep affection. The alternative would be a hand shake, however, which is clearly too formal.

We played pool, spoke about our interests. I prodded for his politics which seemed to align similarly with mine. I refuse to give a conservative man the satisfaction of sleeping with me, so most first dates act as an assessment tool. Bringing up small seeds to plant and watch how they nurture them through conversation. I watched his crooked teeth when he spoke, trying to decide whether I found him sexy or simply endearing. And endearing he was, to the point of goofiness. +10 points to the score board I kept in my head.

There's something about the way they go about the world, their general awkward cadence, allowing me to lead a conversation and finding the things that I, as hot young pussy, find fascinating. Though, this isn't all men in their mid 30s, just the mid, dorky ones. And that so happens to exclusively be my type.

I looked at his hands, the hands of a builder. If there's one thing I love, it's beautiful strong hands. They were aged from the sun, well worked, without calluses. Large, but veiny hands of a man who works with them. I wondered how they'd feel inside of me. He told me about the house he built for himself, empty and desolate with 4 bedrooms and only two rooms he regularly uses. I spoke about my job (another seed, which he nurtured respectfully), and it was near 11 when he asked if I needed a lift home.

We pulled up out the front of my house and both reached over the vast dashboard of his truck. His lips felt warm to kiss, his light moans felt premature. He asked if he should park up, to which I agreed. He turned the car off and we began the dance of clumsily grabbing at each other over the front seats. His car alarm sounds at our fondling, which he promptly switches off and we agree to move into the back seat. The alarm sounded twice more before I suggest coming inside so as not to receive complaints from the neighbours.

My jeans were unbuckled and unzipped, making it to the front door with him close behind. By this point, it had been 2 months since I'd had sex, and my body was eager. I could feel myself wet, aching to be touched by his strong hands, kissed all over by his crooked teeth. He wasn't a man I was terribly attracted to, but by this point he was good enough.

Hastily, we untie our shoes, he pulls down his jeans while I scramble to turn the lamp on for a semblance of mood lighting. I come back to him and lift up his shirt to peak at what's underneath, which I was satisfied by.

We make out, and it's rough and he certainly took more control than I was used to. Our bodies felt slightly out of sync and his kiss became faster and more frenzied. I straddle him over top and kiss down his body and take his nipples in my mouth. He moans out and tells me not to bite so much. His cock isn't hard yet and so I move my lips down to his tip to warm him up. It's a mere 30 seconds of this before he utters the dreaded words:

"Stop, i'm going to cum"

I freeze, lifting my mouth off like I'm holding a prized, delicate artefact. Semen dribbles with regret onto his stomach. I keep my composure, asking if that was a full orgasm, and he quickly assures me it wasn't.

"Can I jerk off in front of you?"

How polite of him to ask. I ask him to grab the vibrator out of my drawer, and he begins to stroke his cock while watching me pleasure myself. I couldn't really lock eyes with him for too long as he made the strangest face while touching himself. It's moments like these I consider getting paid to do this, as I'd probably get more out of it. I ordered him to put his fingers inside of me and as expected, they felt good.

It was a further couple of minutes when he believed he was hard enough to attempt penetration. He peels the condom over his (mostly) flaccid cock and hoists my leg over his shoulder.

Only two thrusts occur before he pulls out and I watch (with baited breath) as the rest of his cum reserves leak into the tip of the condom. Great. I hide the immense disappointment on my face with a light laugh, assuring his manhood hasn't been completely stripped from him with this terrible performance.

"You're just really hot, and great at sucking cock" he tells me. The validation was a poor attempt at humouring me, but I took it. This man then jumps up at lightning speed, asking for the time, telling me he has to be up at 6am the next morning. He tells me, while tying his shoes, that we should do this again sometime. I slip on my robe and agree, though my tone didn't seem convincing.

I walk him out the door, one last kiss, and shutting it with the vague confidence that it's probably the last time I'd see him. I laughed to myself, as this was just the latest of the string of fumbling, lacklustre sexual experiences that I've been subject to in the last few years. Finding a man with a working cock who's personality I didn't find repulsive felt ever impossible the more I try, and at this point I'm trying very little. Thus, I took the cold pasta from the fridge, poured myself a glass of wine, and sat at this laptop still wet between the legs and feeling significantly more frustrated than I was earlier in the day.