Lillith Avir

Blog

Me being silent

I haven’t written here for a long time. It’s not that I didn’t feel like writing, but there was nothing that would have had a place here. Or that was completely thought through. I did …

NSFW and anywhere else

I felt I needed to post something fun. So I made an audioboo πŸ™‚
Enjoy!

http://audioboo.fm/boos/805033-nsfw-or-where-others-could-listen

Anal

I do not enjoy anal sex. There I said it. Not only that I don’t enjoy it. I hate it. It is uncomfortable. It is painful. It’s more pain than I am willing to take. …

Electricity

I had started to make plans with a “special” friend for this weekend. I was very much looking forward to see him again. Talk to him, laugh with him, feel him, smell him. But unfortunately …

A promise never kept

There’s something I’ve been promised by a couple of people (men), but the promise was never kept.

To write something for me.

Why is it such a big deal?

I find it a very personal thing to do. It’s like making a mixed tale for someone. (Which I also have been promised, by a boy in high school, with whom I was madly in love. And I never got it…)
The person has to sit down, think about yourself. He has to care enough for you to concentrate on you. To wonder what you would like to hear or read. It needs time to be put into nice words, good sentences. It has to fit all well. And I it’s really good, one feels that it’s about you and for you.

As the mixed tape in high school, I never got a story or something similar.

For almost 2 years my ex told me he would write for me, but was never inspired to do so. I should mention that he writes for a living.
I’ve been with other men. I’ve seen them writing for their ex-girlfriends, ex-subs etc. and also for the new ones after me. But need for me.

Why I am so upset about it?

I am not sure. It has to do with promises which weren’t kept and with the feeling that all these men didn’t care enough to actually spend some time thinking about me and writing a little something.
Not a story, not even something describing him and me together.

It upsets me. And what upsets me even more is that the more I think about it, the more I come to a realisation, which I don’t like and have been trying not to have for a long time.

It has to be me. I am not memorable enough. Not inspiring enough. Not important enough. Simply not good enough.