The Secret Diary of Tanglewood Jones

By Tanglewood Jones

Tanglewood Jones -online artist and self-styled digital Goddess- decides to keep a diary from a book stolen from a clothes shop after breaking up with her boyfriend Richard. Determined to find the man of her dreams, she embarks on an epic yearlong crusade to explore her own sexuality; achieve cult status as an artist of meagre talent, and unravel the mysteries of the universe. What she discovers will have consequences for herself, the online art community she serves, and the whole world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tanglewood Jones
• Release date: Aug 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005336820

Tanglewood Jones

Chances are you’ll probably look at my book and decide that I’m sort of nymphomaniac slut, but really I’m not. In real life I’m shy and retiring and really nothing special to look at. You’d probably pass me by on the street without even noticing me. To look at me you’d never suspect that I was filled with all these tempestuous thoughts and dark yearnings.My main feature is my hair which has a life of its own. My friends call me Tangle which is something I like. Although obviously it’s not how my colleagues at work refer to me. It was one of my dad’s pet names. He used to call me it when I was a little girl, ruffling my hair, hugging me:Tangle what are we going to do with you?Otherwise I’m petite. My boobs are not very big. When I was very young I was confident and outgoing. But I guess at puberty when other girls morphed into full sized Barbie’s with gigantic bosoms I pretty much remained as I was, growing more moody and insecure each day. Diminutive and flat chested I turned into a bit of an outcast. As a woman, there was only one thing worse than being different from everyone else, and that was being smart.Art was always something I pursued as a hobby. I’ve always drawn people, but it took me a very long time to draw my first nude. Even if someone started off without clothes I felt obliged to add bras and skirts, or underwear and trousers. It took years to remove each piece of clothing in turn and finally break through my own natural reserve and cultural repression. After that there was no turning back.I remember when I first drew myself naked, sitting in the bathroom with a strategically placed mirror, squinting at the reflection, frantically scribbling with pink and mauve and purple pencils, amazed at an intricate interior world unfolding between my own legs. It was one of the first times I realised how art could stimulate me directly, and as I squinted and scribbled, dabbed and daubed, I was surprised to find myself becoming more and more aroused. It was a breakthrough moment for me, connecting directly with the artistic world, and my own sexual needs.My boyfriends have often been a lot older than me. I prefer men who are intelligent and sophisticated, even a little kinky. I’ve even known a few who wanted me to squeeze into an old school uniform and pretend to be fourteen years old again, so they could do disgusting things with me. It’s a pervy British thing I guess since the rest of the world doesn’t have school uniforms. Now I’m getting too old to carry it off.I remember studying my boyfriend’s cock all veined and throbbing, wondering what it must be liked to be controlled by this demanding pink monster, always inside me, in one hole or another. I watched it pulsating in my hand trying to commit its details to memory. I wanted to sketch it, capture all its details. I became fascinated by drawing cocks.In the end I was drawing things which were pornographic and shocking. They were never for public consumption; rather I think I was trying to stretch myself and break through all the prissy conservatism and moral niceties to find some sort of artistic, spiritual and sexual truth. It was a process of self-exploration in which I tried to come to terms with myself as a woman and as a sexual being- throwing off layers of doubt and insecurity. And now I don’t think I can be shocked anymore.So yes, here I am, Tanglewood Jones. Welcome to my world.

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Contents

Tanglewood Jones

The Secret Diary of Tanglewood Jones

Copyright September 2021

1. DUMPED

September 22nd

Dumped!

September23rd

I can’t believe it. What a piece of shit! Dumped, after we’d just made love. Feeling all gooey and stupid, half a million of his sperm still wriggling up my uterus. Dumped for some brainless bimbo, barely out of school. Jesus!

September25th

I’ve been crying for the last two days. And then I’ll suddenly become angry for a while and work myself up into a frenzy of hatred and start smashing things. Then I’ll start crying again. I took all of Richard-s’s pictures and deleted them, and then I thought of all the pictures of Richard I’d drawn and I found them and ripped them into tiny little pieces. There was one of him naked with just an outline of his body and his cock which was all carefully shaded with veins and reflected light. And I sat there for quite a while just looking at it, really calm, really intent. Thinking of all the time I’d wasted trying to love someone who never really shared my feelings; realising how stupid I’d been trying to convince myself f of something that I knew just wasn’t true, and understanding that this had been based on simple physical attraction all along.

And at that point I took out a pencil and held it over the centre of the picture and slowly applied pressure scribbling out the drawing in broad loops, circling to a central point, and tearing through the paper. I was screaming too, an unearthly primal animal sound, breaking the pencil lead and snapping the pencil in half. I cut myself too, and bright speckles of red blood, mixed with the soft patter of tears on the paper. I felt as though my entire world had shattered and all that was left was there in front of me in that pointless destruction.

September27th

Perhaps I should explain a bit about this book. I acquired it on Saturday (it’s now Thursday). I went with Anne-Marie to the home of Charles Sedgwick on what she described as a cultural expedition to take my mind off things. Of course I was hysterical at the time and it was the last thing I felt like doing. However it was an amazing art deco building and it was certainly interesting. He had this staggering library with every book you could possibly think of. There was Dickens and Shakespeare and a whole section on modern fiction. And of course the obligatory occult library with some incredibly old and one assumes rare books. I seemed to be in there for hours, trailing through the dust, picking through old leather bound books. Emerging through an ornate nineteen–twenties revolving wooden door sometime later, a rather bad tempered Anne-Marie was waiting for me.

What have you been doing in there, she asked with exasperation, writing a book of your own?

She’d positioned herself inside a wooden alcove in the entrance hall, and stared at me intently over the top of the mobile phone which she was clicking with a busy blur of fingers. Her eyes are dark, very beautiful, and very Spanish. She’d already caught the attention of several men who she was pretending to ignore, shuffling surreptitiously at her periphery.

There, she said, sending her message, and with a yawn she unfurled her long tapering legs and smoothed down her too short orange dress over her white knickers.

In the afternoon we were clothes shopping -the real motive behind our little visit. I must have happened across this book while we were trying on different outfits. Or Anne-Marie was trying on different outfits and I was absently drifting around. I found myself staring off into space half the time, not really thinking of anything, and then suddenly snapping back to reality and realising I’d been gone for several minutes. I was just content sitting around waiting for Anne-Marie to reappear with whatever figure hugging dress or sweater that had caught her attention which best showed off her boobs. She would stand there hands on her hips, swiveling at the waist and puckering her lips waiting for an encouraging comment from me.

We’ll I’d fuck you, I felt like saying.

Instead I smiled weakly and mumbled something positive. I certainly wasn’t at my best.

Anyway, when I got home I discovered this book in my bag. I must have slipped it in there without realising and stolen it from the clothes shop bold as brass. When I’d got over the shock and dismissed the irrational fear that armed police were going to knock at the door and arrest me for shoplifting I wrote that first comment: ‘Dumped’ and then couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I thought at first that maybe some sort of journal would be good as therapy after my breakup with Richard, but you know I’m not one for pouring out my feelings in that way. I can’t shake off the feeling that this journal is meant to be written, and that in some way I have a duty to continue it, that it was there in my bag for some reason, and that I’m going to write something mind blowing.

September28th

I’m dreading the weekend. It’s Friday and I’ve taken the day off sick. It took all my energy to get up and phone in. I got through to Mr Granger, who knew damn well I was lying, and despite putting on my most pathetic voice, couldn’t stop himself from being an arsehole. I haven’t put on clothes or make up; I haven’t even brushed my teeth. You know what it’s like when you take a day off ill and you end up convincing yourself that you are ill. Propped up in bed with the laptop and this book. Maybe I should do some drawing.

I just received a post card from Tanya from a place near Lake Constance in Southern Germany called Lindau. She says it’s incredibly hot. She says she has got something exciting to tell me when she gets back, so I’m curious to know what that is? Is she pregnant? Has she got a boyfriend? I do miss her, and I need someone to pour out my heart to.

Went on line for the first time since this happened. One of my close friends had sent me a picture he had come across from the nineteen twenties of a woman who was my spitting image. Of course she was naked and brandishing a candlestick she appeared to be trying to insert inside herself, but I was touched by the sentiment. And also somewhat freaked out by it. He suggested that maybe I had a grandmother who had had the same interests as me. Or maybe I time traveled back there haha.

However I’ve done no drawing, instead I’ve been wandering around the flat in my underwear-it’s so hot for September. Had a shower and now I’m completely naked. Looking out of the window, don’t really care who sees me. Examining myself in the wardrobe mirror, I feel disconnected from my own reflection. I used to be petite and lithe with a good complexion, and now I’m scrawny and pot-bellied, sagging under the weight of my years.

September29th

Back on line and all my bad old ways. There was quite a few unanswered notes in my in-box including a ‘dick pic’ from some guy in America called Greg. I sent him a reply and he was straight back at me, and then I was kind of off on one. Well you probably don’t know what I mean. So let me try and explain if I can do so without it sounding too sordid.

There are a few things which press my buttons. Nothing stirs me up as much as good erotic fiction, but I’m not particularly a fan of writing it. I like painting and looking at erotic art, but I don’t find it arousing as such, more as a means of channeling my sexual energy into creativity. I find pornography interesting but nothing more. Only curiosity, looking at other women and their bits, artistic content if there is any, and all the bizarre and strange things people get up to. Looking at unsolicited pictures of men’s cocks, does not do anything for me. Nor have I ever spoken to any other woman who feels differently about that one-sorry. There are plenty of women who find it objectionable, disgusting and loathsome, but you know….it’s a guy thing, who knows? For me, I like flirting of course and using the erotic imagination, maybe it’s the male equivalent of that.

Anyway I sent a reply to Greg

Oh my, what a beauty, I’d love to get my hands on that.

And that’s how it started. By the time I was describing the moonlight pouring through my bedroom window and slowly tracing silvery spider patterns of saliva on the bulb of his beautiful cock, I was in the zone. Notes were shuffling back and forth. I’d already drunk half a bottle of red wine, and I was drinking more as I was writing. Another man had managed to join us and that’s what I mean about erotic imagination. There was no moonlight. There were no man as such, but I was aroused and had climbed to some sort of plateau of high excitement, where I was writing, reading and re-reading sentences to try and shape the words into perfect forms. My breathing was heavy, my nipples were hard, and I was flushed all over. But all I was doing was writing and kind of playing.

Greg had kind of focused in on a painting some of my on-line followers will be familiar with showing me with my mouth wide open and my tongue sticking out in an, ahem , suggestive pose. I had begged him to satisfy himself for me as he imagined my open mouth, whilst I made reassuring comments about craving the delicious taste of his semen. Soon I was left with just the second man who was more basic and not nearly as charming.

Normally I wouldn’t have encouraged him. There were none of the niceties of the erotic imagination, no eloquent words, no flattering introduction, or sexual play. But I was so far gone, I no longer cared, and indeed at the time it probably suited me that way. He had quickly pulled off my bra and panties (his word not mine) and positioned me on all fours so he could fuck me.

I remember describing how my arousal was so great perched as I was ready to receive his thick eager shaft, that I wished he was there to ‘do me’, even though I had just met him. And failing that, any man off the street would be welcome provided he could satisfy my immediate need. And I was salivating and grinding my buttocks as my fingers gripped the fabric of the bed-covers as I waited for him to have his use of me.

And though in reality I was merely propped up in bed wearing my pyjamas, with the heat of the laptop resting on my crotch spreading warmth through my belly, I still kind of felt that I was just waiting for him to sink his dirty, hot cock into me. And the last hour of role playing was having its effect in other ways. Convection current were rising from the area of spreading dampness of my knickers and wafting around the room. The air was filled with my own sexual scent, and for a moment I fancied it was prickled with the tinge of sweat and semen, and that my on-line sexual partners were connected on some psychic level -which is the crux of the matter. Every time a man masturbates, with the thought of me in his mind and somewhere warm gloop spatters out of his cock onto the sheets, or tissues, or wherever it goes; that sexual energy from the process from my ‘on line host’ enters me psychically. And makes me stronger and sexier and more attractive and feeds into my creativity which is the thing I really live for. See in reality, I’m some sort of on line sexual vampire.

In any case, though I didn’t seriously want any man off the street to come and service me right there and then, I knew that there was some one that I did, someone out there who would be able to fill the need and emptiness, someone that would be able to heal the wounds, someone who could satisfy the ache in me. And I was determined to find him.

September30th

You should be careful what you wish for. I don’t know I dare to even write the words or set down the terrible events that followed. I had blown off Anne-Marie for a girl’s night out, and Tanya is not back from Germany yet. I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s unedifying events so I had a bath, washed my hair and set myself down to watch a movie with a Chinese take away.

In my most anxious states last week I had rehearsed in my mind over and over again what I would say to Richard should our paths ever crossed again, whilst simultaneously reassuring myself that this would never happen. Nonetheless when there was a sharp rap at my door at ten-thirty last night my heart skipped a beat. I experience an intense feeling of déjà vu and I knew exactly who it was.

Richard was charming and full of smiles as ever, with a bottle of wine and a lame excuse for his presence. He wanted to know how I had been, he was worried about me, and he missed me. In all the hours I had thought of this moment and considered my responses to it, the actual reaction had never occurred to me. I didn’t shout at him. I didn’t scream at him. I didn’t even take the contents of his stupid bottle of wine and pour it over his head. And it contrasted perfectly with the previous night’s online pleasures.

Breaking up sex I think you’d call it, and I’m not really sure which one of us instigated it. But there were hardly any words, just raw emotion and instinctive responses which overrode every carefully thought out word or action. I had planned. I was at a disadvantage anyway dressed only in a white bathrobe which was quickly gone once I had surrendered to that first desperate kiss. And it wasn’t what you would call sophisticated sex either.

I remember a moment, a picture, a mental snapshot, sprawled on the sofa my bathrobe spread open. And Richard perched on one leg trying to get off a shoe and pull off his shirt at the same time. Or maybe a strobe effect, because the next he was hopping with a ridiculous bulge in his boxer shorts and I was budged into the corner of the settee my chin resting on my collar bone looking along the white line of my body at the goose bumped swell of my breasts and the pink nipples like little pencil stubs. Before the cock was free from its constraints and he was swaggering towards me like some all-conquering hero and I was spreading my legs in open invitation. Guiding his cock inside me, and I must have been so wet that despite him being so large in that department he was able to slide all the way inside me with a couple of quick thrusts. It was splurge sex, just letting it all go, and it proved impossible on the sofa anyway, and we had soon twisted and collapsed on the floor, and my back was on the living room carpet, fucking amongst the remnants of the Chinese takeaway. Richard was puffing like a blow fish and I could smell the left over chicken chow Mein and congealed sweet and sour sauce.

At the moment Richard screamed I pushed myself upwards forcing his cock all the way inside me, gripping his shaft as tightly as I could with my vagina and triggering my own orgasm, digging my nails into his back as hard as I could.

Fuck, he screamed. Fuck. Oh my fucking God.

I clung onto him as tightly as I could filling with pleasure my whole body shuddering as I gulped in air and let out my own shriek of delight. And Richard continued to scream even when I was done and filled with serene post coital euphoria unable to stop smiling as I plastered his agonised face with tender butterfly kisses.

My back, he screamed. My fucking back!

He had seized up and I was jammed underneath him unable to move. Every time I attempted to move he screamed with pain. Eventually I had an idea. By reaching out with my right hand I was able to reach the strap of my handbag and pull it slowly toward me. Inside was my iPhone which I was able to extract.

What are you doing? he gasped.

I’m going to call the fire brigade. I said.

2. THE DINNER PARTY

October3rd

Seems I’m pretty useless at keeping up with writing a diary. A lot has happened since I last wrote, but now I come to write it down, I don’t really know what any of it is. Tanya is back from Germany. Gareth phoned and I am supposed to be going out for a drink with his latest girlfriend Darcy. I’m back at work which is the same as ever. Anne-Marie is having a dinner party and has a new boyfriend called Melvin. And Richard is still with his schoolgirl whore-I mean Stephanie.

After last week’s debacle I’m feeling a bit more on top of things. I managed to extricate myself from Richard by squiggling out underneath him and left him to put some clothes on. By the time I’d finished in the bathroom he had at least put on his underpants and he was sufficiently recovered to be begging me to stay the night. But I called a taxi for him and packed him off half dressed. Oh my God I almost forgot! On the way out he attempted to take back the bottle of wine which we had never opened, and I had to wrestle it out of his hand. What an arsehole.

October4th

It’s hard not to think of Gareth as my annoying kid brother who was always spying on me and sticking his nose in my business. Or irritating, the way he would never let things go, and would push and push and push. I remember slapping him around the face on more than one occasion. Now of course he’s all grown up and women seem to love him. Of course he’s good looking and full of charm, but that essentially annoying quality which is Gareth still remains.

Tanya’s exciting news existed purely in her description of it on her post card. I expected her to be pregnant or at least to have finally got laid, instead she got her hair cut. Her long blonde locks which I always thought were her best feature have been hacked off and she has rather masculine cut which frames her face in an unflattering manner. I know she’s my best friend and I love her dearly but her personality has always been her best feature.

October5th

Looking through my old biography which I’ve had for many years. I thought I’d include it in here for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I am conscious of the fact that I haven’t sought to explain myself to anyone who isn’t a long standing member of the on-line community of which I am a part. In which case, it will provide some sort context or information about me. Secondly, any reader will probably get bored or a little irritated by this particular style if they have too much of it. Sure it’s OK for a couple of pages, but I’m fast forwarding to when I’ve got a completed book, and if it’s all like this, then it will be hard to take. As you’ve probably gathered too I’m writing this as I go along, which I’m not convinced is a method anyone would recommend. I’m also having difficulty keeping up (already) so anything I can use to help me will have to do. Anyway, here it is:

Chances are you’ll probably look at this blog and decide that I’m sort of nymphomaniac slut, but really I’m not. In real life I’m shy and retiring and really nothing special to look at. You’d probably pass me by on the street without even noticing me. To look at me you’d never suspect that I was filled with all these tempestuous thoughts and dark yearnings.

My main feature is my hair which has a life of its own. My on-line friends call me Tangle which is something I like. Although obviously it’s not how my colleagues at work refer to me. It was one of my dad’s pet names. He used to call me it when I was a little girl, ruffling my hair, hugging me:

Tangle what are we going to do with you?

Otherwise I’m petite. My boobs are not very big. When I was very young I was confident and outgoing. But I guess at puberty when other girls morphed into full sized Barbie’s with gigantic bosoms I pretty much remained as I was, growing more moody and insecure each day. Diminutive and flat chested I turned into a bit of an outcast. As a woman, there was only one thing worse than being different from everyone else, and that was being smart.

Art was always something I pursued as a hobby. I’ve always drawn people, but it took me a very long time to draw my first nude. Even if someone started off without clothes I felt obliged to add bras and skirts, or underwear and trousers. It took years to remove each piece of clothing in turn and finally break through my own natural reserve and cultural repression. After that there was no turning back.

I remember when I first drew myself naked, sitting in the bathroom with a strategically placed mirror, squinting at the reflection, frantically scribbling with pink and mauve and purple pencils, amazed at an intricate interior world unfolding between my own legs. It was one of the first times I realised how art could stimulate me directly, and as I squinted and scribbled, dabbed and daubed, I was surprised to find myself becoming more and more aroused. It was a breakthrough moment for me, connecting directly with the artistic world, and my own sexual needs, first pushing one coloured pencil inside myself, then another…whimpering into my finished artwork.

My boyfriends have often been a lot older than me. I prefer men who are intelligent and sophisticated, even a little kinky. I’ve even known a few who wanted me to squeeze into an old school uniform and pretend to be fourteen years old again, so they could do disgusting things with me. It’s a pervy British thing I guess since the rest of the world doesn’t have school uniforms. Now I’m getting too old to carry it off.

I remember studying my boyfriend’s cock all veined and throbbing, wondering what it must be liked to be controlled by this demanding pink monster, always inside me, in one hole or another. I