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Still Is

May 15, 2016

“Who knows” I said, “you and me…the idea of us might have been the knife that cut him out for good. I have no way of knowing.”

I don’t. I look and wonder, hope and faith fighting it out. But I know nothing.

And the moment I did know, was bittersweet. In the way of those horrid romance novels, I had to leave to see the truth.

And now I wait, and I work. Can we just skip to the end now, the happily ever after or something like it. A sort of fairy tale. Shaking sleeping beauty, wake the fuck up.

Charles Bukowski

I saw and re-posted that Bukowski quote today and broke my own heart, hard. I did that and I’m bleeding out at the thought of it.

I am so fucking sorry.

As a teenager, I fancied myself a writer, dropping bad acid and dripping bad poetry on bad trips. Reading Bukowski made me realize I am not a poet. That sometimes less is more (but I can’t shut up) there is beauty in simplicity and I wasn’t the only one who thought the world was seven layers of fucked up. He made me fall even more in love with words. I saw that words are power, the can kill or heal depending. Like knives.

Silence does that too, kills or heals depending.

Limbo is a bitch.

I said before that my heart went away a year ago and never came back. It’s true. She bounced off a satellite or three, slipped away from me in middle of the night. Traveling through time zones and space, landed softly. She’s currently locked out of the house. This is me, helping her scratch at the door.

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Every time he breaks me, and he does, I put myself back a little different. I like the person I am becoming, the one that heals and forgives, gets stronger and braver. Like a mosaic, or a stained glass window. But this time I broke him and I don’t know how he heals, I never did. To the naked eye it seems like something he cannot do, or maybe just not alone.

The only thing I know is he needs time, which I have and will gladly give. The other ingredients of his forgiveness elude me. I know he values loyalty and I fucked that one up, royally. Openness and honesty I can do. I have told him a few times that I fucked up, apologized with sincerity and then make a point of not making the same mistakes twice. He forgave me once.

It doesn’t help that I find new creative ways to fuck up or that he finds new things to look for and assume.

I’m tired of this dance, my feet hurt and I am a little dizzy, please can we just go to bed already, I’d rather dance with him there.

Accepting all I’ve done and said,
I want to stand and stare again,
til there’s nothing left out…

Peter Gabriel radio edit In Your Eyes.

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regular lust

Happy, Fun, Consensual, Sexy Time with a few Partners

May 11, 2016

Author’s Note

It has come to my attention that the term gang bang might be an exclusively male idea/ideal.
That is not how I meant it, however ‘orgy’ doesn’t fit because it implies mixed genders.
So what I meant was…whatever you would call me being sexually satisfied by many men at once, men of my choosing.
If this offends you, too bad.
If this triggers you, I’m sorry.

“Did I tell you the gang bang story?”

I typed and waited. Bracing myself out of habit and fear.

“No” he replied. “Not yet.”

Hmmm. No “ew, gross”. My comfort leveled-up in that moment.

This has become a litmus test.

Gaging reactions when I say those two words.

It’s not my gang bang story.

I haven’t had one.

Yet.

Once upon a time in a barber shop far, far away there were two barbers. There were really a dozen, but this story focuses on these two. One was an uptight dude and the other an open-minded woman.

Open-minded Woman said one day, out of the blue “Damnit.”

“What?” inquired Uptight Dude.

“I just realized I forgot to scratch something off my bucket list before I get married.” She said.

“And what is that?” he asked, mild concern in his voice.

“I wanted to have a gang bang.” She smirked, and waited for the fallout.

He huffed and puffed, grumbled and rabbled and finally spit out “well that isn’t very ladylike.”

She sighed, smiled and snapped back sweetly “Well then, you can’t come to my gang bang.”

I heard the story second-hand. I immediately wrote down the words, “You can’t come to my gang bang.” Knowing I wanted to write about this somehow, someday. A bunch of us were sitting around a dining room table, laughing, talking and drinking…swapping stories. 2 of the guests, barbers that had born witness to the aforementioned exchange.

That was about a year ago now. Took me this long and a few other occurrences to find my brave.

I’ve yet to have a gang bang, not sure about her. Fingers crossed.

I grew up in a small town. Having sex with more than one person every 6 months was considered slutty-as-fuck. I hid my escapades as best I could, but the label caught up and stuck. I tried to fight it, but as I get older and more comfortable in my skin, I am what I am. Sex is awesome. But that multiple partner taboo seems to have stuck with me. I should just channel Taylor Swift and Shake-shake-shake it off.

Once in my life I’ve had sex with two different men on the same calendar day, many hours apart, a righteous shower in between, two different locations. See how I had to pad that? You can take the girl out of the small town, but… I had so much guilt I was wide awake at 3am. My girl checked on me to see why in god’s name I was still up, I confessed, she absolved me and I fell right asleep. I needed to say it out loud. “How do you feel?” she asked. Sated, the answer was sated. And sore, and sleepy. Thanks mama.

Gang bang has become a reoccurring bright red thread weaving in and out of the tapestry that is my life.

There was the Ashley Madison hack wherein I heard a woman, about my age, married, kids, who had an account specifically to get fucked by two or more 20something guys at once. It was her kink, and I respect that. Especially because she made me feel less alone.

I can’t remember if I heard her speak before or after I started writing ‘voyeuristic husband slutty-as-fuck wife porn’ on demand.
I’m working on a novel, for publication. Due date is looming. Late July. Everything happens in late July.

The more I think about it the more I am grateful that I no longer work at the club. Except…I did recently work with an ex porn-star. And guess what her last movie was…yep…gang bang. I haven’t seen it. Not sure if I want to shatter the illusions I have in my head.

Seems like everyone else saw it. She had no shame about it at all. Nor should she. I gaged reactions from different co-workers when the subject was raised. They ranged from “ew/gross”, to “she has a really pretty pussy”… My reaction? Holy shit, good for her. But I couldn’t say it out loud lest I out myself. I never got a chance to talk to her about it before she left. I regret that a bit.

A few days ago, another dining room table, a bunch of friends sitting around having drinks swapping stories. My girl was taking a long time to tell a sex story, so I cut in and said ‘so then you had a gang bang…’ she said, “No, but I want to.” I looked at her with awe and reverence and I could barely get the words out…”Me too.” I whispered. I’ve never said it out loud.

There were smiles all around the table as the conversation took a brief detour about how to make that happen for both of us. I fucking love my friends, I truly do. Feels like coming home after 40 years of wandering.

I had a taste of how that felt late last July. The idea of another person being home. How it felt to be completely understood as I am. A man accepting and encouraging every bit of depravity I could imagine and celebrating me for it. He got me writing about it. I filled his inbox with debaucherous fantasies and realities and he praised me for it and found me a publisher.
It took me a while to wrap my head around him. Until one day the answer came. He is a lot like me when it comes to love, sex and the rest of it. Emotional monogamy is paramount and sex is just sex.

We had a falling out as of late. It is my fervent hope that one day I will get to come home to him. Time will tell, with help from fate, faith and work.

Now I know a lot of you will say ew. Think that I am setting the feminist movement back centuries. Judge me as dirty, depraved, wanton and slutty-as-fuck. To that I say “Yes, I am those things. And if you don’t like it, you can’t come to my gang bang.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

men

Wide Open & Held Together

May 3, 2016

 

 

I told another man I loved him yesterday…not my boyfriend… (I think I hear a gasp from the audience)…so why is he not freaking out? My boyfriend I mean.*

Because he knew. It’s how he found me, loving that other man who had a penchant for leaving me, in a crying puddle on the floor.

My (now) boyfriend showed up in my inbox unannounced, simply said “you okay there puddle?”

I was exactly broken enough to answer, “No, no I am not.” With an implied ‘help me’.

So he did.

I needed him.

He didn’t pry or force, he just let me ramble. Asked a few poignant questions.
“2 years huh? That’s a long time Sarah.” And I realized he was right.
Never once said ‘fuck that guy’.
And he didn’t let go.

As it happens when I am treated with enough patience and given enough time, I got sick of my own shit. I knew I had done all I could do with the Poet short of getting on a plane and showing up at his house, which I knew wouldn’t have gone over well.

So Jason and I started talking about other things, there was some tentative flirting sparked by a pair of kitten crotch panties. I read his writing, he read mine and we realized we had a lot of common philosophies.

He then drove 5.5 hours to see me for one. Held my hand through the bustle of an airport when I was close to flying apart and didn’t let go.

He sat across from me and encouraged me to tell stories in the brief time we were given. His eyes lit up when mine did and basically, that was it. I was smitten as fuck.

Like any of those teen romance movies from the 80’s where our heroine sees that the one she really loves has been standing in front of her the whole time disguised as a friend.

Like the Princess Bride, where she realized every time he said “as you wish”, what he was really saying was “I love you.” And I love him back.

He is my farm boy, poor and perfect.

I had a psychic tell me I would have to make a choice in the spring, between a rich man and a poor man. Huh. Just remembered that now.

The other reason he is not freaking out is that he saw the article I posted before anyone else did.

I sent it to him.

His initial reaction?

“That was beautiful”.

Me: You understand?

Jason: Do I understand as in?

Me: What I said. Why I had to say it. And that it takes nothing away from how I feel about you?

Jason: Yes baby I understand that….You’re making peace.

Me: I believe that you are the kind of man who can extrapolate that if I can love the wrong person this much…then I can love you even more.

Jason: Peace with what was….what could’ve been….who and where you are now. I know exactly how that feels.

Me: It should be enough to know I tried. But…Ima writer.

So is Jason. We feel things, see them touch, them taste, them and then write about it.

It’s how I noticed him in the first place. How we first began to explore and show each other how we felt. And how we continue to do so. I paraphrased an article he wrote about me as the opener for this one.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/ *

We joked yesterday about misplaced jealousy over our past.

“Do you really think I got this amazing by reading about sex and love in books while cloistered in a nunnery?”

I didn’t. I have fucked and loved a lot.

Nor did he. I know he loved his last one and she almost destroyed him, and baby I know exactly how that feels.

Rumi said, you must keep breaking your heart until it opens.

I am open.

Jason showed me how good it feels to be wide open and held together at the same time.

“Baby you have a good heart….and you love….it’s part of you being you…..but….I know you love me….and you know I love you….it’s that simple.”

Me: it really is. I swear to god we just leveled up, or I leveled up and caught up to you…and you know Ima blog about this too right?

Jason: Haha I would expect nothing less from my girl….I love our level ups

Me: Did I catch up or did you come with me? Either way I feel brave and happy and good

Jason: Honestly….I don’t think it matters….we are here….holding hands. And feeling brave and happy and good…..is what matters….

It is.

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the poet

Open Letter to The Poet

May 2, 2016

I had plans to write just this one line.

I stayed, I tried and I fucking love you…god knows I do.

The end.

But, there is always a ‘but’.
When she sent me over to your page to read ‘pretty damned sure this is about you Sarah’ and I found myself blocked, for the first time in 2 years, I knew beyond doubt and question that you loved me.
Not because of what you wrote, because you blocked me.

And honey, that is really fucking fucked up.

“If you love me, then love me.” Stephen King

Why is this hard?

What you wrote was glorious, and all of the things most women dream of hearing.

I am not most women. Nothing compared to hearing you whisper “you fucker” in my ear, that I gave you an ‘emotional boner’ or sighing when I said something that pleased you. That was the real you talking to the real me, that was us. That laugh when you’d call me a clever girl, like diamonds, but more precious.

I asked you out for coffee, 2 years ago tomorrow.

I remember the dancing dots, my hopes soaring that you might actually say yes.

You spent 20 minutes hunting through my profile pictures and found exactly what you were looking for, a reason to say no, a nipple.

You decided in that moment I was exactly like all the rest, an attention whore/exhibitionist who would do anything for social media likes.

You told me to fuck off.

You never asked me why I put it up. For the record, it was a show of solidarity for a female friend who had been put in Facebook jail over a nipple. Nothing more.

There was nothing to forgive. You were protecting yourself, I saw it. I understand. I feel protective over you too, viciously so, even in absentia I would allow no one to speak badly of you.
Even now, I still defend you. I always will. It’s my way.

The exact same amount of time you spent looking for reasons this would never work and making assumptions about me, I spent learning you. Gleaning why you are the way you are and trying to figure out ways to prove I loved you with the parameters given.
And lordy-fucking-lord there were a lot of parameters. I could barely move an inch without hitting a wall.

I think I realized, the third or fourth time you came back, that if you stayed, life as I knew it would be over. And I didn’t mind. I called you my life’s work and I meant it.

“…my love for you is so overpowering I’m afraid I will disappear.” Paul Simon

I wasn’t afraid.

I knew that once I laid eyes on you the rest of the world would fall away. And once you saw into mine you would trust me. My face would forever reflect that fact that I belonged to you alone. My body and mouth would back that up in their respective languages. I am yours, nothing more.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I started out being afraid of you. In awe. I chuckle to myself when I think back to my first idea of what and how you were. Some of it astute and the rest so far off.

I imagined you in a small apartment above a bodega. A desk overflowing with poetry and balled up pieces of paper, a few whiskey bottles and full ashtrays. A small iron balcony on which you would sit, smoke and drink your morning coffee or afternoon whiskey and just observe.
Pounding at the keyboard, trying to diffuse some love back into the world, one drop of your heart’s blood at a time.

Every time I bought a book or a piece of your work I thought I was helping you in some small way. Funny in retrospect, but it is the thought that counts.

Poor and lost and lovely to me. And I loved you, as is, or as I imagined. I still do.

When I realized how wrong I was, I just chuckled to myself and gleaned an even further understanding as to why those walls of yours are so damned high.

I wish I could remember the exact moment that I realized you were human. Flesh, blood and marrow. Fallible and fumbling, just like me. It was a good moment. I fell harder for you and became braver than I have ever been.

When you told me about your life I absorbed every word, every tone in your voice that said ‘this is what made me’. I learned you, even when you left, I kept studying our conversations. I wanted to be better at loving you. You were worth it.

You taught me I wasn’t worth it, to you.

Your safety is more important than the risk it was to just love me and see where it goes.

I understand, your safety is important to me too.

That is why 5 people know your name…and no one knows the secrets you told me in the dark.

I wouldn’t trade a minute of you.

Since last July I have had plane ticket money tucked away in a drawer, waiting for you to call me to you. But you never did.

You opened up a whole new world of possibilities as to how honest I can be with those around me about who and what I am, the things I want and the things I have done. You made me admit things out loud that I had hidden even from myself. You unlocked the cage society made for me and set me free. And I know you loved me for it.

So I will always love you. I had to flip the switch from active to passive. And now back again, there is nothing unlovable about you to me.

I am writing this to you, in blood red, dripping graffiti on one of the walls you threw up to block me with. And that is the best I can do, in the parameters given.

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men

The Big Blue Thingee

April 29, 2016

 

I put out distress calls, god knows I do.

I spent a long time alone in my head believing myself to be strange and unworthy.

Spent that exact amount of time toning myself down and trying to figure out what everyone wanted me to be. Like wearing costumes that didn’t fit. They pinched, itched and hurt.

I think I am naked now.

I found my people and came home to them. We are naked often, stripped bare, just being us.

And sometimes, the me that I am, is a sad girl, a scared girl, I don’t understand the actions of others. Especially those who seek to hurt, maim and manipulate me and mine.

Still, I go out and I try to live my life. I bump into people with sharp edges, I try to love them anyway and I bleed.

If it’s bad enough, I cry out and always, without fail, someone from my village comes running with bandages.

Only makes sense that my heart and ear is also fine-tuned to hear others crying out in the wilderness.

A girl said upon the Facebook “I don’t think I should be allowed out in public today.”

Sounds exactly like me 6 weeks ago.

My first instinct? Go get her and take her home. Make a sushi roll outta her and take it from there.

Instead I messaged and said “I’m around if you need an ear and a coffee.”

You see, we’ve only met twice in person. Once at a photoshoot covered in fake blood and once at the launch party for the calendar that said photoshoot was for. https://www.facebook.com/deadglamourgirlz/?fref=ts

She was drunky and I got her car where it needed to be.

She is cute when she is drunky, and next level sex kitten when she is in front of a camera.

Good times. Not enough to form a lasting bond, but enough that I was intrigued by her.
And then there was the distress call I couldn’t ignore.

We agreed on tacos the next Tuesday.

I told her she is a juxtaposition to me. A chameleon, and I find her fascinating and wonderful. Because at her core she is sweet, kind, smart and a total dork. Kinda like me. Except she has the switch inside of her that turns her brave ALL the way up in a way I have not learned yet.

That day her switch was turned off. Or maybe it wasn’t. It took guts to sit across from a relative stranger and show the absolute shit hand of cards she has been dealt lately. Her bottom lip quivered and I saw tears that never made it out of her eyes, but they were there, hovering, waiting.

The things we talked about are no one’s business. This is my blog and my space. If I could out my friends and their shenanigans, I would have a million followers just for the Cara Show alone.
But one thing she said, I had an immediate counter for. I had real life proof that what she wanted wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

I was a bit late for lunch, for 2 reasons.

A real estate agent and the big blue thingee.

I got stuck waiting for my apartment to be shown, they were late.

Aaaand…Jason and I were trying to make our relationship Facebook official and we couldn’t get the big blue thingee to work. This one.

blue thingee

One of the reasons the girl sitting across from me eating tacos was sad is because she had been with someone for several months and he wouldn’t claim her on social media.

I know right now that some of you are inclined to believe that it’s not a big deal. And if that is your opinion, more power to you. I am not here to judge. I have said before my relationship status was on mute for 5 years.

The only other long distance relationship I had with a semi public figure/writer…it was important to him to be anonymous, so I kept his name like a secret in my mouth. Even though I could bury him, I wouldn’t, I didn’t and I won’t. It’s important that he is safe, even after everything.

It’s no different than some people like holding hands in public, some don’t. Young Un hated it and I knew it. He knew I loved it so sometimes he would, for me. And that was enough, more than enough actually.

It was important to her. So it is valid. She is valid. She is worthy of any gesture that adds comfort to her. Her partner, if he is to be called that, should have acknowledged this BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT A PARTNERSHIP IS. It’s not a failing on her part, it is something simple that she wanted and was within his power to give to her. But he chose not to and thereby didn’t chose her.

Now she is free to find someone who loves the way she loves.

I understand completely. I don’t want to be a secret either, nor does Jason.

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In my relationship with him, it is important to US. Doesn’t matter what his/my/our reasons are. I want to be with a hand holder. I want to be held and claimed and celebrated. And it isn’t some bullshit girly fairy tale shit that doesn’t exist. It does. I am proud of my man and proud to be his, and the world knows it.

We are both writers, we both spill our guts. And I have a feeling that we will show the world what is possible when it comes to love via the vast ocean of the internet.

When we are out in public there is no doubt that I belong to him. My body language screams it.

We finally figured out the riddle of the big blue thingee.

Jason has claimed me, over and over. Written pieces and articles about me, in which he calls me Sarah. And my name spoken by him in his sweet southern drawl is about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

 

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/

 

 

 

 

 

lost boys

Looking Back and Fucking Thumbs

April 28, 2016

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“…that’s a biiiiiiiig fuckin’ thumb you just sent me.”

That was the first time I heard his voice. InstaSploosh.

I am a sucker for a southern drawl, I won’t lie.

American accents sound like home and happiness. Some more than others. “Just shut up and let me say this” sounds bad regardless of the voice. I think even Morgan Freeman telling me to shut up would get my back up.

And that badly placed thumb on Facebook messenger. I hate it, seems dismissive. And yet I hit it by accident on the regular.

Meh.

Just gonna roll with it. And “big fucking thumb” has become part of our language with each other. I do so love it when he says ‘fuck’.

We talk, oh lord we talk for hours upon hours. I feel like I am in high school again, phone cord stretched to the limit out the back door so I can smoke and listen.

High school sweetheart went to juevie when we were god, like 17 maybe. I spent every night on the phone accepting collect calls and every day for the next month working to pay off the phone bill. He came home and dated someone that wasn’t me for the record. Why does my life get stuck on repeat? That was 25 years ago and I am still doing the same thing? And why do I have to have these moments mid-write?

And now that heaven is on fire, in the worst technicolor, oh and I’ve been chasing angels all my life. Amber Run, Heaven

There it is.

So now what us gonna do?

“This war won’t stand long, God won’t let it.”[1]

I am still fighting. I’m tired now.

“I am tellin’ all y’all it’s a sabotage.” [2]

Mercury is in retrograde, all phone lines to God are currently down, please try again later.

Day one. Shit is already slipping sideways.

My laptop decided to do an update shutdown and I lost 5 pieces I was working on. Microsoft Word had the audacity to dangle a carrot called “would you like to restore your previous documents” to which I replied YES. And no, not a thing. Just blank spaces where before there were words and feelings and thoughts and links.

“This is me breathing.” [3]

Jason had to tell me that yesterday. Breathe baby.

Somehow he knew. I was sitting in front of my laptop, mouth agape, tears rolling down my face.

I have a private album upon the Facebook called “holding area”. It’s where I put the things. Snippets, screenshots, inspirational shit. I was pulling screenshots off my phone looking for a conversation with Leah for an article. We fought, I was expecting a heartpunch. What I wasn’t expecting was uploading these tiny wee thumbnails that were not conversations with Leah.

Here come the Giant. Waltzing out of the past.

I wasn’t ready.

nelson

Sucker punch.

And this wasn’t the worst one. Not even close.

I have a self-defence mechanism, sharpened and honed over the last 3 years of dating ghosts.

More often I cut myself on the damned thing and baby do I bleed.

I decide I made them up in my head and he wasn’t that great, he didn’t really say those things and I am just a silly girl and look, everything is fine now.

And then time passes and I go looking for something else, innocently enough and I open their assigned oubliette.

And lo, he did say those things, and so much more.

I have got to learn how to label things better.

I also need to learn to stop looking back over my shoulder lest I trip, or worse. What if God sees and I become Job. Nothing grows on salted ground. I need to grow.

I said to Jason that I thought he deserved better, that I wasn’t coming into this clean. And he just stayed. Made a hundred excuses as to why this WILL work.

He doesn’t punish me for my past or even ask me to hide it. He works through it with me and looks for the why.

He doesn’t tell me to shut up. Quite the opposite actually.

He simply says “okay baby”. Let it out baby, give it some air and let’s work through this.

We did. We are. We will.

“Maybe what you think is you being a hurricane just feels like a light sprinkle to me.” He said.

I think so maybe, yesh baby.

This.

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[1] Cold Mountain, Ruby Thewes

[2] Beastie Boys, Sabotage

[3] Grosse Pointe Blank, Martin Blank

 

 

Uncategorized

Okay Baby

April 28, 2016

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Oh you did a buttload of drugs and you feel shitty and you need me to come get you so you can sleep in my bed and cry on my couch?
Okay baby. Love you be there in 20. What’s the address again?

Oh, you want to ride a mechanical bull with no panties on?
Okay baby. I will hold your purse, and film it.

I want to go swimming, can we get a hotel with an indoor pool?
Okay baby. (What no foot stomp required? Thanks baby.)
(See also, can we go shopping at Target for shit I don’t need so I can be supportive and then can you fuck me in a blanket fort…okay baby. Yesh)

Oh, you think its okay to bring your drug dealer to brunch and spend 3 days text screaming at me because I didn’t just say ‘okay baby?’
Okay baby, we done. That one wasn’t okay.

Which is weird considering…lately everything okay baby.

It’s my new mantra, whatever life hits me with, its just okay baby.

Once upon a time my dad was a shutdown coordinator for a huge company.
He would tally the man hours and outside hires to get everything running on budget within the time given. He worked with another man to whom he would show his well calculated specs to.
This man would look them over and religiously say at first “Okay Jonny”. Then it would all slide downhill. “Okay Jonny, I thinks so…I think so maybe. Um no. No Jonny. Just no.”

In my household it became part of our vernacular. Those inside jokes, movie quotes and song lyrics that become a private language between those you love and spend time with. The original back and forth got shortened. And any time the answer to anything was ‘no’, it became, “I think so maybe no.”

I have since changed my outlook on life the universe and everything due to a random trip to New Orleans with Miss No Rules.
There are no rules.

If I love you, I just love you. As is.

You wanna do a thing? Okay baby.

You hurt me? Shrug, okay baby.

Plans for hotel rendezvous? Okay baby.

It works for everything, like tabasco, perspective, duct tape and WD-40. And should be applied liberally.
This is some next level, ‘just roll with it’ shit. And I love it.

What happened is while I was waiting for life to happen, it was already happening. I panned out whilst watching the movie that is my life and saw that with little or no direction, everything was great. We lay in the road and get up if a car comes. Dance to no music or all of it. Life isn’t scripted, and I love the people playing star roles with me right now. Exactly the way they are, messy, funny, honest, belly laughs and sometimes out of control.
We have all survived everything up until this point. Those nights laying in bed with my heart ripped out, I wanted to die, thought I might. But at some point I got back up and back on with the business of living.
And as scary as the new stuff was, it was also really amazing. And it continues to be so, exponentially better.

I always loved this poem…so much that i wanted to be it, somewhere I lost my way.
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Found it again and found the one who makes me feel like he is yesh, and I may…

Planned a vacation with Jason, we must have reorganized things, added and subtracted 1000 times, if once. Now he has to work 3/8 days. No breakdown, no subtext, no foot stomps. We can snuggle and watch movies when you get home and I’ll make dinner. Okay baby.

My friends are all at different points in their lives, most of them younger than me, some of them making right messes out of things BUT THOSE ARE THEIR MESSES TO MAKE. In retrospect all my messes had lessons buried in the shit. Why deny them the same thing just because I actually know better. If it gets dangerous I will pull them out, and they will come with me because they know that I am the Queen of Okaybabyland and if I have to say, no baby, there is a reason for it.

They say things like ‘I love him.’ and I just say “okay baby”. I am not the expert on love, I have a really good idea what it feels like to be accepted and wanted as is. Like a solid friendship, with lust on top. Closer than I have ever been. Feels like love to me. For them? I just know how I love them and hope they find something similar. Someone who just lets them be themselves and says ‘okay, that’s my baby.’

men

The Claiming

April 25, 2016

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My relationship status on Facebook has been non-existent for over 5 years now.

I haven’t been single for 5 years mind you, but I left it blank.

I dated Pimp Daddy for 2 years and never felt the need to claim him, gee I wonder why.
(See the 3rd word in the previous sentence.)

He never called me his girlfriend even after we moved in together, even after I got pregnant and then fired, rendering us gypsies. Even after I got us out of that mess and every subsequent mess after that.

He wasn’t that important.

End of story.

There was a method to my madness, or a reason for it.

I remember one day when ex hubby and I were fighting. I’d run away from home and was sequestered in a Pepto Bismol pink room above a strip club surrounded by everything I could possibly jam into my Jeep, including my laptop thank fuck. I was using it for evil, posting passive aggressive shit. Obsessively checking my relationship status on Facebook to see if maybe this was the time it would actually be over. It wasn’t. I mean, he DID dump me on Facebook that week, but it didn’t last.
And so it went, different locales, always the same game.
Is it my turn or hers?
Where am I sleeping tonight, and watching my status obsessively to assess how bad things were this time.

If I left 7 times I left 20. If he dumped me 17 times he dumped me 57. The center didn’t hold. It was never my circus and they weren’t my monkeys.

My monkeys fly.

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck them.

Every time I start shit talking my exes, I hear Sophia from the Color Purple.

“He ain’t worf it.”

“Don’t trade places with what I’ve been through. Sat in that jail, sat in that jail till I about done rot to death.”

I did. A few times. And I was always the key.

Hell can get pretty comfortable if you have been there long enough.

But I was the key, the key to leaving, the key to the locks in my life.

The secret is all inside your head she said to me. The answer is easy if you take it logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free. There must be 50 ways to leave your lover. ~ Paul Simon

The leaving, I have that down. Being left? Got that too, don’t want it but I get it.

But what about the in between?

How in the good lord’s name do I deal with that?

Where is that fine line between belonging with/to someone and territorial pissings?

Once upon a time I posted a profile pic of me in a doorway, wearing The grey dress. My corner of the internet exploded, compliments flying everywhere. But the one I fixated on was from Young Un. We had an inside joke about ‘man pants’, jeans I owned that hung off me rather than hugging my curves. He posted under said grey dress pic that I was beautiful no matter what I wore, even in my man pants.

It was the first time I had been claimed publicly by someone I was with, in what felt like forever.

And it felt amazing.

The Poet did the same, a few times, and it always elevated me. I felt wanted, like he was announcing his presence in my life. And I liked it.

I realized, I had lived without it for so long that I no longer need it, but I kinda want it.

With the new one, good god I wanted to brag. But I would restrain myself, mull over the comments I was leaving out for the world to see, and if I felt they might offend someone…inbox or not at all.

We talked about it, he makes it easy to talk about everything.

“I’m scared.” I said.

“It’s okay baby.” He replied.

I wanted to climb the air traffic control tower at O’Hare and announce how smitten I am with this man.
I told him that too.

“Okay baby.” He said.

Shortly after we each got called out by mutual friends…”so you seem really happy, what’s his/her name?” They already knew. I am so transparent it’s like trying to hide elephants inside a greenhouse.

I don’t want to hide anything, I don’t keep secrets nor am I one.

So I said it, out loud. Posted upon the Facebook that “I am smitten as fuck with Jason King.”

Took him nanoseconds to comment underneath “and I am smitten right back.”

And in that moment I allowed myself to be happy. Still am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

men

Hot Neighbor and Humble Pie

April 10, 2016

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It seems that I’ve been chasing angels
for what seems the entire of my life.
Amber, Run Heaven

See also “angel came down from heaven yesterday, (s) he stayed just long enough to rescue me”.
Jimi Hendrix

Hot Neighbor brought pie and wine the first time he came over.

We were both kinda awkward, didn’t know each other very well.

My how things have changed. We now eat cheesecake.

We do however, still call sex ‘pie’.

I re-posted The Dress a few weeks ago, and contained within is “An Ode to Hot Neighbor” wherein I hadn’t met him yet, but he looked at me like I was a goddess even in my sweatiest sweats. He still does that. He came over last Saturday right after the Hulk apartment incident. I opened the door, crying and he lunged forward and caught me in the best hug, he then drove me and my Sunshine to work.

I looked at her that night and said “I am not doing right by him, making him listen to me cry over other boys when he is right here and treats me like gold.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind” she said. And for a second I believed her.

He was here through the Giant recovery, just holding me and listening. Giving me pep talks and much needed perspective.

I’ve been standing in the forest screaming at the trees again.

I fucked up.

Is no bad. I make fix now.

I wrote an article yesterday about all this wonderful unconditional love I get from my girls, and I do. We all deserve a love like we have for each other, as messy and strange as it is and we are.

But, um wait. I have boys in my life like that too. Men actually, good ones.

Hot Neighbor. The one I call Home. And a new one, the Blue-collar to my Ballerina.

Blue-collar messaged me shortly after I put up the aforementioned article.

Him: I just wanted you to know I love your newest writing….and I know you’re still having some good and bad moments….but I am enjoying seeing you with that fire in you more….very proud and happy for you Flash….

Me: It’s you too. You treat me like gold.

Him: Love you’re more precious than any gold.

Me: As are you darling

Him: Thanks sugarpants

He calls me Flash. He is the factory worker to my stripper and together we make the premise for Flashdance. I could spend the rest of the article explaining the subtle private language we have begun to develop, but it’s ours. He makes me smile and giggle and sigh on the regular. Yesh, yesh he does.

He is also making an 11 hour pilgrimage to buy me tacos in Chicago whilst I have a two hour layover. That is the stuff memes and dreams are made of.

The one I call Home maintains vigil. Popping in every now and again when my Facebook statuses or profile pics get too morose. He keeps up with this blog. (Hi honey). He was with me when the false soldier/bouncer debacle happened, offering advice and keeping me from beating myself up too badly. I came to peace with that horrid situation in lightning speed thanks to him. Actually the article I wrote about him called Sexual Healing was the catalyst that launched me out of that relationship. Thank you honey.

And what of Hot Neighbor?

He was here last night for proverbial pie. We broke in my new We-Vibe.

I had a mini epiphany while we were talking and smoking in the afterglow.

“I can sex friend like a champion” yes, I meant to put the R in there. “But if I get an inkling of ‘relationship potential’ I turn into a retard.” (The way Zach Galifianakis says it in the Hangover)

I do, I become less of myself, I start pulling back and trying to be what my idea of what they want, and I am normally wrong, because um…THEY PICKED ME IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE. Old conditioning makes me feel like they want a watered down version of me, but I don’t like me watered down, neither should any man I want around. Its science.

I slipped up and cited the Giant again, after I promised myself I wouldn’t.

I apologized immediately to Hot Neighbor. Said I felt like I misused him and took advantage.

His response? “Sarah, you treat me like a prince.” And here I was thinking I was being douche aka myself, my messy crying self.

Geographically speaking it is impossible for me to always look cute when he is around. We live across the alley from each other, he does see me in my sweaty sweats, morning hair, racoon eyes from the night before. He has held me while I cry and shake and get boogers on his shirt and he just keeps coming back, checking in and serenading me.

Also geographically speaking it is impossible for me to be around the other two, but if they were here I think we would make fine sex friends.

So basically I have 3 men in my life who actually love me as is. Why was I sad again?

I am smiling as I eat this piece of humble pie, washing it down with good coffee and good karma.

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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)

 

 

 

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