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Delia Day
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I feel better after a full day of work clinging to my beloved obsessive routine. I wrote most of the day, articles and email, and cleaned house the rest, washing dishes and clothes. Everything feels better after that except my crotch. My pants are a little tight now. I'm packing more in them than I usually do, and so far not complaining, not out loud at least. It was two this afternoon when my owner came inside. He had been out in his office working while I was working. He briskly marched passed me, ducking into the bedroom, then came right back out. I thought he must have been going to get something, and I was right but never could have guessed what he was getting or why when he commanded in that voice that begs immediate compliance like a drill sergeant, "Stand up and drop your pants." I stood up then I saw the big brass padlock in his hand.

He unscrewed the top barbell through my labias and slipped the padlock through them, snapping it shut with a click. That was it. I pulled my pants back up and tried to sit down again, afraid of the pinch I knew was coming. The lock is big, it's two inches wide and three inches tall, weighing several ounces, which sounds light until it's hanging all day long from holes in your genitals. A few ounces start to get heavy very fast. I'm glad he just brought one lock out, which I presume he did because he means to leave it there a long time. He's got four locks just like that, one for every pair of holes through my labias. With them all in the weight pulls them down stretched two inches and the bulk of them makes walking normally all but impossible. I can't put pictures to illustrate here. They're a bit too risky for LiveJournal and pages linked from AOL. Those have to stay at My illustrated life as a sex slave behind the scary disclaimers.

One hasn't been so bad today. It's been a lot more comfortable than I suspected, but I'm still paranoid of that big pinch when I move just the wrong way that I'm certain is still coming. If not today, then tomorrow. Something tells me the lock isn't coming off for a long time, and I know he's getting a thrill from the inconvenience it's imposing on my movement, even if he hasn't uttered another word about it, yet.
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Well, not bright. It's as dark as a cave outside I'm up so early, but I'm raring to go again after a relaxed week of Thanksgiving holidays. I need a holiday from them being my usual obsessive self.

It's weird relaxing. It's hard for me to always reconcile 'productive' with what is productive when the things that make money, the measure of production, aren't the ones that are 'work' in my mind.



I was very productive this week in one sense. I engaged in much debauchery, made tons of raw material content for My illustrated life as a sex slave. That didn't feel a whole lot like work doing it, though. It didn't feel like work when I had to fill a five gallon bucket up the hard way expelling enemas into it. It didn't feel a bit more like work when I got drunk and fucked Ashley for the second time in a week. It didn't feel like work when I got taken shopping for new funky make up and dressed up slutty after.

It just felt like there was a lot of work I should have been doing that stressed me on an enforced holiday of fun, which was fun, but I'm glad it's over. I don't like my routine of slave labor interrupted too much. Holidays always throw me.
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Just decorate my head with whip cream and lick it clean. It was... embarrassingly silly. It was the start of a very long night, too. I've got a hangover, a workedover, and have had 'wild lesbian monkey sex' now for the second time in my life to quote someone. It was fun. I'd definitely do it again, but I'd like to wait until I recover a bit first. These long nights wear me out a bit.

There have been many group sex experiences infrequently over the years, but in the past, lack of forethought in some cases and individual shyness in others meant not a single time before had publishable photographs taken. This time was very different in that respect. All the graphic details will soon be on My illustrated live as a sex slave, which I now have a whole bunch of writing to go do for, hangover or no.

Some days I wish I got days off to recover... I could use one today.
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Some days just make you wonder. I think this has been one of them. I've thought about a lot, mostly around in circles, coming to no conclusions. It hasn't been a bad day or a sad day or a traumatic day. It was actually very happy, because I was much relieved the dog is seeming much better. Still a bit worried, but he's back to playing and acting his normal self.

Sometimes I am just a little ill at ease with hearing what some people think and being so exposed as to hear those things, even when those things are balanced by other things that other people say.

When in the same day you can be called a role model and thanked for the reality check and inspiration to pursue individual happiness and scary crazy with a guy that must be even scarier and crazier it is to say the least pause for thought.

I really don't know what to think of that. It's a little confusing. On one hand there are so many different people in the world with so many different thoughts and perceptions rooted in their own experiences, and what anyone says about the things I write or the life I live says a lot more about them than it does me. I am just me, the same person, when someone says good or someone says bad. What's said doesn't change me, doesn't make me any better or worse. I'm just me.

But it actually does change me, that's the catch. Every experience I have makes a permanent impression, however so small they are individually, cumulatively in the long run I do change what I feel, what I think, how I act, ultimately who I am, becoming a different person from them, because what things people say to me are my experiences, whatever is said.

That's the same for everyone, and more than anything I usually wonder what kind of experiences other people have had that are behind whatever they say. I don't know often and can not often put the pieces of that puzzle together.

It makes me wonder. It makes me wonder a lot pondering questions I can't answer hoping that when that inevitable change happens from all these experiences that it is a change for the better, not the worse.

I am acutely aware of just how profoundly I changed under the influence of one person. That was one person I knew well and had all the context required to be able to weigh his words for what they really meant about me. I don't know most of the people I hear words now from at all and lack that kind of context to be able to accurately see me from any of their eyes.

It makes me feel uncertain, because I'm not entirely certain the words of some random stranger in the end will have any less impact than the words of someone well known, well loved, and well respected for his insights and caring.

It makes me feel conflicted, too. Should I say this? Should I say that? I have no answer. I'd like to say a lot of things. I'd like to say I'm docile and I'm easy and I'm desperate to please and desperate to suck your cock sometimes and not feel awkward and uneasy that no matter what expression I make how there is no way everyone will approve of it. I'd even like to pander on occasion to the mysoginist fantasy and revel in momentary self-loathing. I'd like to be hear an excited person call me a vile, shit eating pig piece of fuck meat any day over someone questioning my romantic expressions or lack thereof.

I'd like to hear someone say they wanted to beat my ass and feel like I could safely acknowledge it as the compliment it was, without worrying if some well intended but misguided person would feel the need to rescue me from myself or from my owner and utterly ruin my life. Please, beat my ass. Hit me, hurt me, use me, abuse me, call me Edna, even. I won't take it personally, will likely enjoy it. That's me. Disapproval on the other hand has always been really hard for me to take. It fucks with my mind.

I think I'm going to proceed to be a gutter slut for a while. It's been a while since that's side's really come out in words, and it is so me. It's a lot more comfortable than prim and proper ever was.

You have no idea how much I want to taste you in my mouth now and completely loose myself to the abandon of being nothing but a dirty hole for a room full of strangers. That's me at my best and always has been and frankly it's because there really just isn't a whole lot of performance pressure involved in that.
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PRIVACY JURISPRUDENCE AND THE APARTHEID OF THE CLOSET, 1946-1961

Something I stumbled on while browsing aimlessly tonight. It'll make you think.
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Yesterday I got shooting lessons all morning long. There's been a bit too much excitement around our house lately. Someone is being stalked, and it's not me. Saturday before last my owner intervened in a 'bit of a domestic spat', which our neighbors from two houses down the road were having in our front yard. She was naked, save for a black pair of panties, and screaming her head off as the fellow knocked her down and started dragging her kicking and screaming back to his house. This did not go over well with my owner, and he bolted out the door barefoot with a pistol bellowing "Put her down now!"

She got put down, but only after he fired a warning shot. It was a nervous and tense stand off that followed for thirty-eight minutes until police arrived. I had to call them three times because it was taking so long I was not sure they were bothering to come. I watched and tried to listen from the front door, but I couldn't see much because there were bushes in the way and I could hear, but I couldn't quite understand what was being said from the distance. My hearing is really going down hill fast, I think.

What I didn't hear were in order "I'm going to kill you if you come any closer." Said as my owner came closer. "I'm going to kill you if you call the cops." Said right before my owner yelled back at the top of his lungs "Delia, call the police now!" Then just "I'm going to fucking kill you," as the fellow dove into the bushes by the road and ran like Hell finally as the police car came into sight.

The fellow is a new neighbor. His mother has lived down the road ever since we have lived here. He has lived mostly in prison, on the other hand, and has just rejoined polite society after his second term for felony burglary.

The fellow's girl friend lives next door to him. I think she's still in high school. I don't know her name. She didn't press charges against him, and the police didn't arrest the fellow, or even look hard enough to find him, given that she didn't want to press charges.

He remains at large.

The day it happened, not an hour after it happened, our neighbor Will called me to say that the guy had just called his grandson, who's the same age as the guy and school buddies with him, to ask if his grandson had found any bullets for a gun the guy had. First, the guy is a convicted felon, which means shouldn't be in possession of a firearm. Second, he didn't even know what kind of gun that he had the week before as he tried to 'borrow' some bullets for it from Will, so I am pretty sure that adds up to he just stole it from someone.

Will's grandson was not inclined to help with that plan, and called Will to let us know what the guy said. It apparently took the guy a week to finally get the bullets for that gun. Last Saturday he was target practicing from his yard, and shooting at a target across the road. That in itself is illegal. You're are not supposed to fire a gun across a roadway or from one. It's unsafe.

The next night, Sunday night, but past midnight so it was really Monday morning, the fellow with two other unknown people, one of which was female and probably his girlfriend, roared into our driveway in an old light blue car with one door that was a much darker blue color. It looked like some 70's model Buick and had no muffler from the sound of it. It had been so loud in fact that my owner had already gone outside to see what the noise was long before it ever came around the curve in the road and into our driveway.

They didn't see him to realize he was already outside and patiently waiting for them to do something really, really stupid before he did anything himself. They proceeded to make so much noise it woke the whole neighborhood up trying to get him to come out of the house. The revved the engine. They cut a half donut in the driveway pulling back out onto the road. They drove up and down the stretch of road in front of our house squealing their tires, screaming, and honking their horn. They stooped the car just out of sight around the curve and then there was loud shouting between the fellow and the girl like they were having a fight. I could hear the yelling, but couldn't understand what was being yelled. I could also hear someone else was still in the car, revving the engine, while they were outside the car yelling, which is how I know there were at least three people involved.

It went on for about a half an hour. It was scary. It was, legally, disturbing the peace, and pointless to call the police. They would have driven off. They never got into plain sight to say positively who was in the car, though there was only one possibility for who was in the car and behind it. They didn't put the first toe in our yard, though they did put tires in our drive way briefly.

The whole thing just reeked of set up. I imagine if he had come out the front door then and towards them, there would have been an attempt to make good the previous threats made.

I got a two hour nap finally that morning, but my owner didn't sleep, staying up to make sure they didn't come back. After the sun came up, he finally took a short nap on the couch, and I woke him up when his mother arrived like he asked me to. Then Matt got there, and while his mom stayed with me, he and Matt went shopping. They didn't get back until after ten o'clock at night, having had to go all over the place to find what they were looking for, a practical shotgun suitable for home defence.

My owner has been an avid shooter all his life, but never been one for hunting much. The only shotgun he had was an over and under for skeet shooting. It nor anything else in his collection was really suitable as a defensive weapon, not after dark, at least.

I know he went thinking about a Benelli Black Eagle, which he's wanted for some time because it's the only left-handed semi-automatic shotgun made. My owner is a left-handed shooter, though he's not left handed. It's an eye thing. He drove to his favorite gun shop to find out they couldn't order a Benelli for him, not being a Benelli dealer, then drove on to the closest Benelli dealer knowing who it was after that. He decided not to get the Benelli, though, saying "I'd feel really bad if I had to club anyone with a $1200 gun." Meaning there are guns to use, and then there are guns to coddle and clean after you use them.

He picked a cheap, well used 12ga Mossberg 590DA pump, which is standard police issue practicality. The previous owner had added sling mounts and a spare shell holder on the side, too. It holds nine shells with six spares on the side. It looks like it would make a great club, too.

The next morning was when I got the shooting lessons. I grew up in town and was never taught as a matter of course how to shoot anything. I've fired his rifles a time or two before when he took me with him to target practice, but never had serious lessons or fired a big, intimidating shotgun before.

He started with lessons on how to load it, which was the easy part. That wasn't hard at all, much to my relief, because when he tried to show me how to use one of his pistols, a semi-automatic with clips, he gave up and said he'd trade one of his guns he didn't like much for a revolver for me. I couldn't pull back the slide on his pistol to chamber a round after first struggling to load the clip. The shotgun was a breeze to load, and I liked the cha-chunk of the pump action.

Then it was time to shoot it. It was still big and scary looking, though. I was afraid it was going to hit me in the head from the recoil when I shot it, and I fired the first shot with much trepidation and my eyes closed. I didn't get any where near the coffee can fifteen feet away with that one, but wasn't scared of the recoil after that. It wasn't very bad, much less than his skeet shotgun. We didn't have enough 12ga shells to spare the amount of practice aiming I needed, so he got out his good shotgun for that, since he's got cases of shells for it. That one hurt to shoot, even though it didn't look nearly as intimidating. It's only a 20ga, too, with much smaller shells. It just weights much less, only 6.3 pounds fully loaded with all two shells compared to over ten pounds loaded with the Mossberg. Bigger is better not to have a sore shoulder, I learned, and made no more complaints about how heavy the thing was after firing the Citori. I had to ask could we please switch back to the big one.

About twenty more shots later I finally hit the can and finally got a rudimentary understanding of aiming, very rudimentary. I grinned and giddily said, "I bet I can do it again," then proceeded to miss it entirely. It took another whole box of shells before I was hitting it consistently at only fifteen feet away. There is a lot more skill involved in aiming than I had ever thought.

I'll be practicing more. I had a ball shooting all morning. My arm feels like I was lifting weights now, though. It's a little sore and stiff this morning. I'm competent to shoot at this point, just not really to aim, but that doesn't make me feel much better about the guy stalking about with harm on his mind now.

It's far, far too much excitement for me. I really don't lead an exciting life from my point of view, and I really like to keep it that way without having to worry about stuff like that. Stuff like that is very distracting.

Current Mood: a bit on the nervous side

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"Yo' man crazy as shit, too, you better watch out for his crazy ass!" The email I just got, Jerry Springerized, because that statement, in its original, seemed to belong more on the Jerry Springer show than in my mail box.

It takes a lot of righteous presumption to proclaim what someone you don't know may or may not feel emotionally. It takes a lot of denial to think a twelve year track record of happy, as reported by me and him - the only people who's opinion counts on that assessment, relationship amounts to "dangerous" and "crazy" and to "he does not love you in any way shape or form."

Now we're talking about the guy that is tickled more when I don't orgasm than when I do, which was a matter related to that less than supportive comment, and the guy that makes no bones about reveling extreme sadomasochistic sexual practices, which I don't either. I like that stuff. I don't think he's cruel and uncaring to do those things for me (Note, I did not say "to me.") I would think he was cruel and uncaring to not do them, telling me they weren't right in judgmental dismissal of my own feelings about them. We're also talking about the guy that's done more for me than any other person in my life. The guy that's always there for me. They guy that cuddles with me watching movies, brings me coffee in the morning, tells me funny stories to make me laugh, and has not in twelve years ever been judgmental of me or let me down the first time.

It's an impressive track record, to say the least, and frankly, it kinda pisses me off when someone proceeds to preach to me about what his feelings may or may not be because they can't quite comprehend that whole extreme sex thing and the things I say about it don't fit neatly into any mold of romantic stereotype.

I do not wonder why I feel much safer in his company than in the company of the moral majority and s collective social conscious at work. I do not question what emotions he feels either, they've really been pretty obvious to me all along. I do live with the fellow. I do know the fellow. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and even the ugly, inside and out.

It would actually be hard for me to imagine anyone with more self-awareness and self-comfort than him. He exudes calm tranquility and stability. He is the most well rounded, emotionally well adjusted, and nice person I've ever known, which is the antithesis of "dangerous" and "crazy".

There are a lot of stories that attest to his character I've told, but oddly to me, sometimes people think my facial expression in sex says more about him than those stories, or that my thinking out loud about my own feelings somehow does.

The reference of why the commentator said what she said about him was just that, my own thinking out loud on the subject or orgasms, and reaching some clarity of thought. Good clarity. Clarity to just stop worrying about them. There's not all that important to me or my sexual gratification anymore, which has been a change that's slowly happened over the years propelled by a combination of factors from his influence to my own growing level of self-awareness and comfort.

I don't give a rats ass whether I have an orgasm ever again. I frankly get a lot more satisfaction from not having them than I ever did from having them. This is perhaps difficult for the orgasm-centric typical person to understand, though. I am quite happy with it as the atypical individual myself, however.

The only word I can use to describe the change there is liberating. It was. I am appreciative for the pushing towards it, which was deeply linked to a previously repressed out of fear of unacceptance aspect of myself. It got me out of the old closet, and comfortable admitting to the world I'm a queer queer.

Can you imagine telling the person you love, your mate for many years, who knows you as one sex, that deep down inside, you don't feel like that at all?

"Honey, I want a sex change operation." Followed by a stunned, blank look, and a divorce. That isn't something most would not just accept, but embrace, going out of their way to be supportive of you and modifying their comfortable routines of sexual practice to accommodate you better.

There are several pieces to the puzzle of orgasms.

There is him, and he is surely humored and pleased that my greatest pleasure is from pleasing him. Sex focuses on him. I focus on him. He focuses me on him. He always encouraged that, a little more and a little more until it was as natural as breathing for me. Sex is all about his physical pleasure. Gasp on that, that seems to be the statement a lot of people gasp about.

Sex is all about my psychological pleasure, and well, that is a much bigger and better pleasure, if you ask me. It's not about the sensations for me, it is the feelings, which I get in spades of gratification and satisfaction from it. Deep feelings, not shallow, fleeting ones that fade with the sexual flush. Contented feelings of meaning, purpose, and giving.

Sex is all about penises and vaginas and gender roles, as well, and when you've got to answer the question, "Gender, male or female?" with "none of the above," sex gets complicated and conflicting. There was always a conflict inside, and I always had a love hate relationship with my cunt. It was a fight that was never settled, until someone stepped in to help make peace, realizing the turmoil was not all together healthy, and also realizing an opportunity to push things more in a direction that amused him at the same time.

Looking back, I wouldn't have held in my feelings there for so many years had I known they would be so welcomed and fit so well within our relationship, but it finally did come out, and what he said was not what I had feared. It was "Well, that explains a lot. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I don't much get fucked like a girl anymore. I don't much get reminded I have a vagina anymore. I don't much feel conflicted with myself anymore, though. I get called a faggot a lot, which really turns me on to hear unlike those other more traditional pet names of slut and cunt and whore, and humored greatly. I get to feel comfortable being me, and I get to have even more satisfaction from sex. I don't find it in conflict with other parts of me anymore.

Just let me suck your dick and fuck my ass and leave my pussy out it as much as possible, please. That makes me a happy boy, and I do feel quite loved for that and uncountable more reasons.

The puzzle of why someone would tell someone else that someone didn't love them remains unsolved, though. On the Jerry Springer show those are the sort of mean and ugly statements made to undermine the emotional security of rivals for that man that don't love you because he love me instead biiatch.

It's a reprehensible, but more obvious behavior in that context than here. Here I'm really not sure what the fuck the point was. I don't think there was one.
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This is my Halloween look today.
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Lapit77: Your quote has described the Great Mick
Lapit77: I am a public speaker and travel the country. What do you write about?
Lapit77: Can you play the harp?
Lapit77: Do you know how to type?
MarkedGirl: Depends
Lapit77: I see you want control right away
Lapit77: Control is an illusion
Lapit77: people should really try to give it up
MarkedGirl: Let me know how that goes for you.
Lapit77: meaning?
Lapit77: please be direct when you talk to me
Lapit77: i can out think you, out talk you and out wit you on my worst day
Lapit77: I have done more in one year of my life, then you have done in your entire lifetime
MarkedGirl: Oh, this is going in the journal...
Lapit77: and if you were smart, you would become teachable, instead of challenge me
Lapit77: where are you?
Lapit77: i have to go, I have dealt with your kind before. You need to get out of yourself and realize you're nothing but a piece of sand down here like everyone else. Become teachable and you'll be fine. bye
MarkedGirl: Right here, about to introduce you to my audience.
MarkedGirl: I feel so very out witted now. You really put me in my place.

You know, the kind that doesn't think you're nearly as great as you think you are... I suppose that would be my kind according to him. He is Thomas aka. "The Great Mick", so his AOL profile says, aged 45 from New Jersey and divorced (shocker there). He might be smart, but it would have been a lot easier to think that if he wasn't acting like such an arrogant fool.
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In 1984, while working at Walt Disney Animation, Tim Burton made a 27 minute long live action film named Frankenweenie that was almost never released. Disney deemed it unsuitable for children, finally changing their mind at some point, because I've got a copy of it now. It's a spoof of the classic Frankenstein plot, except Victor Frankenstien in it is the average American kid who brings his dog back to life after it's been hit by a car. If you've seen the movie, you'll see the resemblance here...

I wish it was just special effects for Halloween, but instead it's a $747 dollar vet bill after small five pound dog was in territorial dispute with large 220 pound dog over the food bowl. Zoe, aka. Frankenweenie, spent three days in the hospital and had major surgery. When you think about it, the price was terribly reasonable. If that were me getting the exact same level of care using the exact same medical supplies in a people hospital the bill would have been about $10,000. Medical care really stands out as overpriced when you think about the prices animal hosptials charge to provide equivalent care, and those are profitable prices for them.



Zoe is well and good, in good spirits, and most remarkably considering it was more gore than I've seen in a B movie, no pain. She's home and hopping up and down on the couch like nothing happened, not wanting to hold still at all for the trouble of changing bandages.

Current Mood: happy happy

subversive slut
Delia Day
User: deliaday
Name: Delia Day
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about this journal

“Is my trail bigger
or is it simply
left to see
as the unabashed facts
of a life lived,
instead of swept away,
conveniently forgotten,
buried
in shallow graves
like the evidence
of crimes?"”_

This journal is a companion to my real Web site, linked from the header of this page. It is the day to day mundanity of life. It is interesting, of course, but not as interesting as the decade long chronology of life there, with more than 8,000 photos from over a decade of my life to see and countless articles to read.

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