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lost boys

Hearts and Moons

June 25, 2017

One of the more liberating things I have ever heard in my entire lifetime is that I am allowed to feel more than one thing at once.

I think I had the same sense of relief way back when I realized that bisexual was a thing I could be and was.

Still am to a degree. I admire and celebrate my girls girly bits a lil more than is normal I suppose but Manda Bear has got the butteriest-butter skin, Panda and Shae have got the booties like pow pow pow…and honestly, I think every stripper after a time learns to appreciate the female form in a way most women don’t. Naked is our normal.

I haven’t slept with a woman in years. Sisterwife kinda beat that want out of me. But hey, moving forward.

Where was I?

Oh ya. More than one thing at once.

Story of my life.

Double edged epiphanies. For the first forever of this blog I always started out “So two things happened”…because that is just how it is. I don’t tend to catch on the first time so I get two earth shaking signs from above, or below, depending.

I gotta try things more than once, reread books, rewatch movies because I might have missed something.

I am Jacob Two Two, forever repeating myself because I feel/felt unheard.

My newest noticeable MO/ blog phenomenon is writing an article, hitting publish and realizing I have WAY more to say and then writing part two.

To be totally honest all my articles have sucked donkey balls the last little while. Why not suck twice as hard in twice as many words…

I admit it. Massive drop in quantity and quality.

I used to have this schedule. Tuesday Thursday Sunday. Write for 3 hours or so, sometimes 16, sometimes the piece would just fall out pretty perfect in under an hour. But lately, I am of two minds about everything. My schedule has gone to shit. I need some structure and discipline dammit. I need to decide what I want to say before I say it. But alas, this is going to be yet another bit of free flow drivel.

I write better in the mornings and I have been sleeping til noon. Not okay.

I need to be a little bit easier on myself. I realize now, when speaking of newer boys or situations, I did not yet have all the facts, or their true nature hadn’t revealed itself or shit just changed as it always does.

Fuck, I used to write nicely about ex hubby. Can’t now really except to say he still continues to be a better father figure to my kid than my kid’s actual dad. So there’s that then.

It’s been a year and a day since Panda and I made our first pilgrimage to the beach and found me exactly what I had asked for the night before. A nice and easy summer fling.

And for a time it actually was.

Just like for a time everything else was good.

Until it wasn’t.

I posted to Facebook a year ago today “I do so love it when they open their mouths and by speaking become exponentially hotter.”
I read that and grinned. T’was the truth. Just because he is gone doesn’t make it less true.

I was never overly smitten with him. He was just a band-aid. Did his job quite nicely. I found out 6 months later that he had been engaged the whole time, but if I put on his giant size 13 work boots and walk a mile…I wouldn’t have said no to me either. Who wouldn’t want dinner and a good fuck after a 16 hour work day a million miles from home.

I don’t hate him.

I don’t hate much of anything. Never have. Pineapple on pizza, but I will pick them off and not make a fuss over it, it is pizza after all.

I have been accused of reading too much into things, thinking too much so I suppose that is a sort of fussing and possibly over analyzing. But that is kinda who I am as a person.

I can be happy for them moving on and forward and still be sad that they left me behind.

I end up alone with gaping holes in the landscape of my life, the spaces they used to fill. It’s a matter of time really. Suddenly I have more of it and less of him.

My heart looks like the moon. Craters everywhere from being smashed into. Hard to walk around sometimes. Everyone leaves a hole I gotta navigate around. And sometimes I fall back in.

lost boys

Erasing My Fault Lines

April 11, 2017

Um, all of them Rob
ALL. OF. THEM.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20):
Now is an excellent time to FREE YOUR MEMORIES. What comes to mind when I suggest that? Here are my thoughts on the subject. To FREE YOUR MEMORIES, you could change the way you talk and feel about your past. Re-examine your assumptions about your old stories, and dream up fresh interpretations to explain how and why they happened. Here’s another way to FREE YOUR MEMORIES: If you’re holding on to an insult someone hurled at you once upon a time, let it go. In fact, declare a general amnesty for everyone who ever did you wrong. By the way, the coming weeks will also be a favorable phase to FREE YOURSELF OF MEMORIES that hold you back. Are there any tales you tell yourself about the past that undermine your dreams about the future? Stop telling yourself those tales.

https://www.facebook.com/Rob-Brezsnys-Free-Will-Astrology-133041234078/

But that is what I do. Isn’t it? Post-game analysis, see where I went wrong…

I was wrong…right?

Rob says stop, so stop I must.

This is the end, my only friend the end. The Doors

I haven’t been that emotionally down in a long time.

How about ‘every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end’ (Semi Sonic)

That works.

I never write about endings on here, or very rarely I guess.
Sometimes it’s because…’and then he never called me again and I have no idea why’ doesn’t really make for a gripping story.
Sometimes it’s because things just faded into a friendship, or with the ones wherein I had the revelation that I was 7 of 9 and not ‘his girl’ like they had promised.

Why would I want to archive that? I pick up the pieces and move on, sometimes slowly… then all at once.

I’ve been left and I have been hurt and I refuse to visit pain on others.

I am rarely the one to leave. End of story.

In the interest of clean breaks and tidy endings…

On a long enough timeline the truth always comes out. Still waiting on a couple but I know they’ll come.

My first foray into dating ended after 3 months of happy when I asked if we could be boyfriend/girlfriend, him saying he ‘wasn’t ready for a relationship’ and me waking from a midsummer night’s dream with a very loud voice echoing in my ear stating “her name is Kayla and she has cotton candy hair.”

It was actually K___ and her hair has been baby blue, baby pink and lilac respectively in the months and years that have passed since then.

18 months later, when she was mean to him, I consoled him. Not like that, just said nice things.

The next one fell into a deep chasm of depression and had to move away atop a mountain.
No great mystery there.
He is as happy on his side of the country as I am on mine.

There was a patented Fuckboi in there, again nothing to be solved, he just was what he was. Well, is what he is. He still pops into my inboxes from time to time. I say hello and deliberately leave it up to him to plan something, knowing he won’t. He never calls back until the amnesia wears off again and he wonders what I am doing or runs out of other girls to fuck. He has abandonment issues the reasons for and the likes of which I have never seen so I refuse to be cruel. Ain’t waiting around neither.

Thai Fighter was engaged the whole time.

Black 19 was incarcerated, again.

The mystery of Lumberjack may well remain unsolved. He blocked me from everything ever and it’s not like I ever saw him. The only thing I was good at was living without him, so that’s a freebie.

Gelfling…well that is a whole other tale along the riverbank. I met his new girl recently and everything suddenly made sense, twice actually, once for him and once for another. A two-fer if you will. A perfect balance of me being too much and them feeling not enough. Can’t be helped I supposed. I refuse to shed my muchyness and they have yet to grow up. The hazards of young un’s I suppose. No great loss in retrospect. Like setting down the Holy Grail and deciding on a sippy cup instead. Better call not-Becky with the red hair.

There is a footnote here.

I am hard to explain to people. I am older and strange. By vocation I am a writer of truths and porn, plus the stripper thing. I am not not-Becky, red headed or otherwise.

To be with me, to claim me in public you have to be pretty brave. You have to give fewer fucks than most about what other people think.

Am I worth it?

I think so.

Nevertheless she persisted.

I cook, I clean, I fuck and I love. I clean up nice and can carry a conversation.

I don’t bitch, steal or lie.

I am already way ahead of most.

I know this now.

Took me a while.

I was mired down in the idea that I had to take some responsibility. But it isn’t mine. I did my part. I showed up and I cared. I contributed to their happiness and well-being. I asked for very little in return.

I’ve long held the belief that I as the common denominator must be part of the problem, even if it was so basic as ‘I felt bad about myself and thereby made bad decisions’. At least I made a god damned decision.

That scene in Good Will Hunting at the end. Robin Williams looks through Matt Damon’s file, sees the abuse and says “It’s not your fault” until Matt Damon breaks down and sobs from his core.

It’s not my fault, these things that have been done to me. It’s truly not on me that they left. I did what I was supposed to, I came all the way forward and stayed.

It’s not my fault at all.

unable to even

After the Flood

April 4, 2016

I have cried and come enough the last few weeks to end up drowning in all of it.

The levies broke and I got washed away. Trying to get my bearings and figure out where I am and where I want to be.

Now everything is a salty/sex-and-tear stained soaked mess and I’m trying to figure out what, if anything, is worth salvaging. Picking through the flotsam, hanging some of it out to dry. Fighting the urge to throw it all away.

Ain’t nothing making any sort of immediate sense at all and I’m losing my mind.

Saturn has gone retrograde and the life lessons and déjà vu are coming in such rapid succession I can’t pull back far enough out of the feels to see the big picture.

8 planets are heading into retrograde. That’s a lot of planets. Honestly, I don’t know what it all means to have them moving backwards like this, except I feel like I am running up the down escalator. Fighting for every inch of climb. It just started and I am already tired.

Like a heartbeat… drives you mad…In the stillness of remembering what you had…And what you lost…And what you had…And what you lost.*

Forgive me father for I have sinned and I have no plans on stopping anytime soon. In fact, I think I want to stop being so fucking virtuous and start thinking/believing that I deserve some happiness too. Taking it when it presents itself. Being a good girl and worrying about people who couldn’t give a fuck about me is no longer serving me, nor my ego/heart/logic/vagina aka the Royal We.

I am not a saint, at some point every saint had a choice.

If Saturn goes retrograde, and he has, does that mean he stops being an asshole?

Sadly, the answer is no. If it’s even at all possible Cronos the Titan becomes and even more titanic alcoholic dad swinging a belt with ferocious strength and deadly accuracy.

Ow.

The fuck?

The actual fuck, seriously now. Not cool universe.

“Oh baby you almost got a hysterical tear filled panic attack induced ear full of crying girl yesterday. I hit a fucking wall, after I thought I couldn’t hit it any harder. I sprained my soul I cried so hard.” I said.

“Next time….call me. Cry and wail and scream….we don’t even have to talk….just know you won’t be alone. And those walls serve a purpose….” He replied.

“It is time for a big upheaval methinks violently tearing things down so I can rebuild and the universe is swinging the wrecking ball with my name in it.” (Please let this be the truth.)

“Let that fucker swing baby.” (I love it when he calls me that).
He proceeded to send me his phone number, just in case. The world needs more of him, MY world needs more of him.

I didn’t post on a Sunday, I think I have missed maybe one other Sunday ever. I didn’t know what to say.

I have 14 documents open on my laptop. 15 if you count my Opus, but the filth and the fury contained in there is for print only.

All these tidbits and opening paragraphs, some just a link to a meme and a working title.

I can’t seem to make sense of anything. And everything is so rapidly changing. Things that were the truth last Monday morning have ceased to be tangible or real.

I drunk texted the Poet in one last attempt to free his head from his ass, to no avail.

I slept with the Giant for an extra week to attempt the same thing and also because um …mind boggling lightning sex. Nope, just got passed over yet again for the safehaven of a traveling waitress.

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions, I keep my visions to myself. It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and…Have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness…

(Of what you had and what you lost)*

Friday/Saturday were cluster-fucks of epic proportions.

Took a Friday night off work to go to a birthday party with friends. Got lost, got rescued by a man I have harboured a tiny crush on for a decade. We were flirting, then we weren’t, then we were again. We had a date and then we didn’t and now we do again.

I went out for lunch the next day with friends from the previous night’s birthday revelry. With the intention of going to a tattoo shop re-opening. Said shop has taken over the Hulk’s old apartment and converted it beautifully into a tattoo studio. I haven’t been there since he left last July. Thought I was okay.

Nope.

I made it up the stairs. Everything was so different. Eyes wide open, taking everything in. Every time I blinked flashing right back to couch snuggles and kitchen renos, unpacking boxes and then packing them again. Face love from his brown dog. Knees shaking at the bottom of the stairs, confessions into his jacket on the back steps. Biting my hand to stifle moans having afternoon sex and knowing how thin the walls were. Choking back tears when he left.

Caught a mutual friend’s gaze in the middle of this. He was looking at me with that “are you okay?” stare. His eyes and mouth conveying pity mixed with concern. I turned on my heel and ran down the stairs. I was not okay with this.

Took me 45 minutes sitting in the parking lot to start seeing/breathing normally enough to leave.

I think my writer’s block yesterday came from my inability to articulate the why I was so sad. I still don’t know exactly. Each snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty (Stanisław Jerzy Lec ) so does every drop of rain in a flood.

When the rain washes you clean… you’ll know, you’ll know*

Time to get clean, learn to swim in this or else I’ll drown.

I’m ready for things to make sense right about … now.

(*Dreams, Fleetwood Mac)

Boys

The Guest Room

December 31, 2014

~my bed~

A very long time ago a boy taught me the true meaning of intimacy.
It is not simply sleeping with someone, but beside them. Holding each other like twins in the womb.
Outside is chaos but in here we float, safe as houses.

Just like any blissful feeling, human nature dictates we chase it, covet it, lock it down, and abuse it until it loses all meaning and the original feeling.

For years I forced that concept with other partners, never realizing that sleeping next to THAT boy was a warm and lovely manifestation of how we felt. but not the next one, he snored a lot. The one after that made me feel claustrophobic. And the one after that fit all my curves just right and let me be the big spoon so that was okay until it wasn’t. Another would caress my cheek until I woke up at 4 am and we could talk about dreams so I liked being there, but the next one was the filling in a burrito he made of all the sheets…different boys, different joys.

Dr. Suessisms aside, rocket science this is not. So why am I the only one saying anything?

I read an +Elephant Journal article,”why we sleep together” and just the title filled me with a great sense of relief, thank God, it’s not just me, and him and that other lady who thinks I am onto something. phew.

Turns out said article was advocating bed sharing. ugh. Like we need an article telling us that it’s okay to do what everybody does.
I say nay nay.
Time to open a dialog.

The following statement is true.
I love the way he looks, tastes, feels, sounds and smells.
The following statement is also true.
The sheer magnitude of his morning cuteness is enough to make me ovulate.
The following statement is also true.
After our first night together I offered up the guest room should he sleep over again.
He continues to sleep over, and he does sleep in the guest room.

(insert shock and awe)

but but but
But what?
But you said you loved all this stuff about him and he is adorable in the morning.

Those things are the truth…and so is this…

After sleeping with enough Scorpios to write a handbook* I have stumbled on the notion that their night time is precious.
Sleeping next to them is a privilege, not a right. in the past I have earned that privilege SIMPLY BY ACKNOWLEDGING IT, accepting it, not taking it personally and behaving in a reverent manner when it does happen.
I have expanded this theory to include errrrbody (even though this one is a Scorpio too, I have a problem, I need a support group.)

The following statement is false.
I care about him, adore him, respect him, want him LESS because I do not want/need to trap/sleep with him in my bed at night, after we fuck.

Out of all of the men I have slept beside, I have rarely enjoyed the experience, but when I have it’s been blissful (see; tickling my cheek and whispering dreams). my ‘twin in the womb’ was over 20 years ago, and sorry, it’s kinda hard to top. Why sully it by trying?

I have spent the better part of 18 years in relationships and due to finances, living arrangements, convenience (that in retrospect was not convenient at all) always shared a bed. Back when we slept on furs in caves, the conservation of body heat and safety in numbers made sense, but I am not a huge follower of anthropological precedents and I have a guest room with a lovely bed in it. Again, not rocket science. I also made the bed uncomplicated, in the manner of men, and removed the throw pillows. Boys don’t really like throw pillows. they tolerate them.

The following statement is true.
My dogs sleep in my bed.
(insert more shock and awe).

One keeps my belly warm, the other my feet. I don’t worry one bit about waking them up to take back the covers. they know sleeping with me is a privilege not a right.

The new hotness said, when I offered him the guest room citing the (literal) dog fight for sheets and space as one of many reasons for it…”the dogs were here first” (see why I love how he sounds…he says shit like this)

The door to his room is shut to keep out the dogs and noise, not me. You see dearhearts, I have opposable thumbs and have been successfully operating doors for years now. If I have a bad dream, get cold or sucky for whatever reason, I am welcome on the other side of the door and the bed. Because I ASKED him and he has concrete proof of my respect for him and his space. So he knows if I am climbing into bed it’s because I need to, or it’s morning and I brought him coffee.

(come back for * “fucking scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane” on 01.01.14)