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lost boys

Archives and Arenas

July 7, 2016

I am so understanding of others that I routinely fuck myself over to keep from inconveniencing anyone I care about. Or just anyone really.

I remember driving home from the vet with an emergency rescue pup. A recently fixed (hours earlier), very young /hyper husky singing the sad song of his people while my son and his buddy argued in the back seat. I was driving erratically due to the chaos contained within my SUV. I had a moment of clarity. Every car on the road is a microcosm. I have no idea what is happening to them at this moment, and I’ve been a more courteous driver ever since.

You cut me off in traffic? You must have had a reason, come on over, I will let you in.

This is both the truth and a metaphor.

I step out of myself often to try and see things from someone else’s perspective.
Sometimes I forget to come back.
Sometimes I forget I am someone too.

I rarely trespass, I can forgive those who trespass against us with grace and ease as long as I can wrap my head around the ‘why’.

Doesn’t mean it hurts any less. But I get it. I don’t value myself much either, why should anyone else.

I sent memoranda out onto the ocean of the internet or via text and my queries go unanswered.
I see that you have seen it, but you haven’t answered a message I sent you last night, last week, last year? I’m sure you’re just busy.

It takes herculean strength of will for me to reach out to anyone.

I am shy. I am scared of rejection and even more of imposing on someone. My greatest fear is realizing I wasn’t invited to, nor am I welcome at the proverbial party.

Triple that with whipped cream and a cherry on top when it comes to men I have a) slept with, b) I am currently sleeping with or c) want to sleep with.

I am too much Tate and not enough Violet.

I care about their feelings more than mine. I don’t know how to make demands without feeling bossy and selfish. Even the word ‘demands’ sounds too demanding. But I cannot even muster a ‘please sir, can I have some more’. I usually want more. I am pretty insatiable, but in a cute way.

I will have to check the cougar handbook but I think that might be the golden rule when you find a golden ticket in the form of a golden boy. Enjoy the candy, respect the process.

I have won gold at the cougar Olympics the last few years running. It’s not a competition though. Any time an older woman finds a younger man and they run off into the sunset to enjoy each other everyone wins.

I ‘sex-friend’ like a champion. I really do. It’s my wheelhouse. I built it that way and I know how it works. Been fine tuning the inner-workings, cogs and gears for years. If a friendship is established, I’m good. I got this. Put me into a situation where I start becoming emotionally attached and I go full retard. The wheels slip and I with them, usually ending up in a ditch somewhere wondering what the fuck I did wrong.

“Never go full retard. Just ask Sean Penn.” Tropic Thunder.

Me: I swear if I trip and fall into feelings for this one I am going to need a full frontal lobotomy.

(And a ticket to the Special Olympics, just make it a one way please.)

This is all tongue in cheek. They are not a sport and I am not a game. I am not even the colosseum. I am not worried about being forgotten and I have no desire to compete with anyone, I never have. It is my lot in life to learn and archive, I am the embodiment of the Nalanda University library in Ancient Rome. I like my nickname Dharmaganja Treasury of Truth. Suits me. I don’t know how to lie anymore.

That is how it goes. As a walking juxtaposition being both a sapiophile cougar one would think I would constantly be left hungry for intellectualism, good conversation, something to feed my mind as well as my body. But that hasn’t happened.

Somehow, as if by magic, the ones that gravitate to me are both beautiful and smart.

I can only assume it is because my body is a temple, an athenaeum. Not an arena. Worship and learn. No need to compete. Although playing is encouraged.

I was lying in bed with the new one last night. Enjoying how easy it was, the conversation I mean, everything else was hard, in that really good way. A little bit of downtime between round one and round two. But round two never came. We talked for the better part of an hour.

There is a scene in Lost Boys (the irony is not lost, especially when the boys are) wherein Sam says “They pulled a mind fuck on us and talked.”

It’s true. Were circumstances different and this one didn’t have a best before date in the form of a plane ticket home I could see wanting more than I have.

But for now, he is really good food and I am full.

Boys

Not Forgotten

July 4, 2016

So Gelfling, derived from “Ghel-lflainngk” roughly translates to “those who live without knowledge of the future.” (Grant Volker).

That was posted under an article from a year ago about a boy I called Gelfling, Ouf and Mind Fuck.

I always felt like ‘ouf’ was an onomatopoeia for the sound of getting punched in the gut.

He said ouf like it was a good thing. To him it meant guttural/literal sex noises.

He did knock the wind out of me, both coming and going.

That is fucked up.

Seriously.

Both the Muppet and the boy have no knowledge of the future, by choice.
And I cannot shake the past, not by choice.

He did make a choice, they both did. To wander out of the safety of their cave dwellings out into the world for some greater purpose that has yet to be revealed.

So be it.

Oh Gelfling, my Gelflng.

He cannot possibly be my Gelfling.

If he was he would be here. With me, right now. Or at least message on occasion.

Giant messaged me recently and said “My dearest Sarah”. I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn’t wrong. Part of me still lives in his head, his heart and his bed. I wouldn’t know how to take that back if I wanted to. And I don’t. There are threads that bind and alternate timelines that I somehow remember even though they didn’t happen here.

The only way I run is at something, not away.
Wait.
That isn’t exactly it. No straight lines, I spiral out and back in again.

That thing we had for the most fleeting of moments that defied logic and words and could only be described as a magical convergence of entangled particles.
Both of them.
“You tie my tongue. You make my fingers into these clumsy things on the keyboard, like trying to articulate the aurora borealis in a foreign language and the only word I know is ‘yes’.” (I wrote that)

Tangled in timelines that went awry and I still can’t figure out why.

I saw this and things started to make more sense. Think I might get this tattooed on me. My best girl calls me a vampire, she is wrong. I just see time moving in spirals instead of in a straight line and I spiral with it.

At this very moment, as I am writing this there is the clear and present danger that I may run into Gelfling tomorrow.

I kinda want to. Cosmic finger crossing for a cosmic path crossing.

(^that was Thursday)

I saw him.

Truth be told I was terrified. The butterflies in my stomach were worked into a frenzy and their wings felt like sharp cutting things, leaving me slightly shredded inside.

I knew he would be where I was going, because I asked. I needed and heeded the warning. I thought he had wandered off to Tibet, or maybe Sedona, called home by the ley lines and returned to the cave of mystics that he came from.

I was warned that he got exponentially hotter in the last year.

Good god damn. Somethings cannot be prepared for even when you think you know what is coming.

He came to mind every time the sky went red or there were fireworks, literal and sometimes proverbial. I dream about him often, sometimes when I’m awake.

I have the ability to compartmentalize almost everything and everyone.
He never fit into a box, kept slipping out.
Everyone else becomes, after enough time, a page or three in a scrapbook.
Mental photographs, scraps of paper, bits of music and candy wrappers pressed between pages in pretty little vignettes of the good stuff.

When triggered my mind flips to their page I sigh and smile because I have cut out the bad bits, the part where they left. Instead my mind sees a slideshow of their more redeeming moments.

I read an article about our brains having a delete button and I recoiled a bit.

http://www.fastcompany.com/3059634/your-most-productive-self/your-brain-has-a-delete-button-heres-how-to-use-it

I have yet to watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I am scared of Jedi mind tricks, the red flashy thing and the glamouring by vampires in True Blood. When Lena tried to save Ethan by wiping herself from his memory my heart hurt and when he remembered anyways it soared.

I am more afraid of forgetting than being forgotten.

I suffered severe memory loss due to a concussion/brain injury from a car wreck that stole the month of December 2008. I also misplaced 35% of my vocabulary which came back with great effort, a giant red dictionary and about a thousand games of scrabble. The word ‘enough’ was the last to return. Still looks funny to me and cause a slight skip in my synapses. Gone also was my ability to make new memories for approximately 90 days (I can’t exactly remember). That was a blessing I believe my temporal lobe and prefrontal cortex were in cahoots, making it so I don’t have to recall that level of suffering.

You see dear readers, my life was shit before the car wreck. Being immobilized with physical pain matching my mental anguish just made it more vivid, or so I can only imagine and blissfully not recall.

I hold onto the memories I have left and the ones I make now pretty tightly, almost compulsively.
Hoarding them like a fat kid and Halloween candy MINE MINE MINE.
You can look but you can’t touch.

I was getting tattooed by Gelfling’s best friend who said something about ‘forgetting’ (meaning what happened between he and I) which, ironically I have forgotten the exact wording of.
But ‘oh honey no’, I said, ‘not remotely, not one tiny bit, not an iota‘. Nothing is forgotten.

I saw him.
I saw him and nothing happened except a few flashed smiles and a little banter. But that want that I had tried to quash or tame came rushing back.

If you understand, things are just as they are; if you do not understand, things are just as they are. (Zen koan)

Boys

Fucking Scorpios, the Saga Continues

June 26, 2016

I believe this and live it with my whole heart.

This can be compatible with my longer term mantra which reads ‘if you build it he will come.’ Field of Dreams. I am building something but I don’t need to be cloistered in a nunnery, or my office to get there.

I posted this the other day.

My sunshine caught me in a moment of bliss. An old friend messaged and said I looked stunning and happy.

I said “I was at the beach, fresh out of the water, flirting with a 27 year old Scorpio. In other words, utterly in my element.”

I have a penchant for finding Scorpios. Or maybe they find me.

Whether it be on a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street nestled in a boy’s lap whispering secrets, coveting what I saw every day aka Hot Neighbor, Young Un the First seeing just pictures of each other and declaring we wanted that one, once upon a Sunday, that friend of mine with a purdy mouth or this new Thai Fighter I found.

They’ve all read the Handbook I wrote and declared that I knew what I was talking about.

The new one said so and I replied, “Everyone needs a hobby.”

He proceeded to fuck me in that perfect/intense way Scorpios are prone to do.

But it’s deeper than that.

Messages with another friend this morning…

Him: So what’s your Scorpio doing?

Me: Being cute as fuck.
I am currently writing a thing about how I have a certain level of expectations based on age and sun sign. And although I am not punishing the new ones for the behavior of the old I do find myself pleasantly surprised when a new one ups the bar.

Him: Those are always fun moments. Being surprised in a good way.

Me: Yes. This.
He messages me more frequently and is more attentive than I expected.

Him: Hmmmm so maybe rethink the Handbook?

Me: We had a moment where I was trying to leave and respect his work/sleep schedule and he said ‘one more story’, 5 more minutes.

Him: I keep waiting for the rug to be jerked or the ice water to fall on me. That IS fucking cute

Me: I know right? He asked me to come over the very next night and I actually had to send him a message saying I didn’t know him well enough to read if that was sarcasm or not.
I get that I wasn’t expected. I kinda showed up outta nowhere.
He has work and goals and man-bonding shit to do. This is where past lessons are useful. I understand.
It could have gone the other way and he could have said ‘this wasn’t in the plan for me’, still could. So I understand your rug analogy.

(The Him I’m speaking to has a Scorpio of his own, I may be chairing that support group I have joked about joining)

Me: If I know anything about Scorpios, and I do…just take it as it comes. They don’t lie. It’s beneath them. They need space sometimes and will say so. We just have to respect it. Let them know it’s really okay.

Him: She loves that I can see her. I notice things and it drives her mad, but she loves it too.

Me: Yuss. They do so very much love that. (Everyone does)
The ones I’ve known seem to function on a different plane of awareness. Like alien visitors from another planet. They don’t understand even the whitest of lies or sugar-coating shit. They observe and see a lot of bad in the world. It weighs them down. So if someone can come along and accept them as-is, rejoice in their idiosyncrasies, show them kindness, understanding and enthusiasm it makes them open up and show these beautiful souls hidden under armor.

Him: That’s basically it, yes.

Me: Everyone loves being noticed, and it is a huge bonus when the noticing is of the quiet things left unsaid.

Oh honey. I could teach a course, you know this. And as of late, if a pretty boy moth comes towards my flame it’s almost a guarantee that when the birthday conversation arises October 21st to November 21st will be the answer. To which I reply, of course you are. Come here boy.
Thai Fighter and I were talking after dinner, when he said November 17th, I felt my eyes flashed high beams and his flashed right back.

Him: Jesus, if the universe decides this one is a no, I’m not sure I could handle another Scorpio

Me: He read the article and said it was spot on…
Oh honey. Good luck with that, they are harder to quit than heroin.

Those of us who do not lie make them feel better. This world really is shit and we are little islands of safety, comfort and joy.

Him: You know that is her biggest thing. No lies

Me: As much as they are wonderful jewels of sexy awesomeness, they need us too. It’s a good secret club to be part of.

Him: I like this club.

Me: I find they bring out my most calm and confident self. Insta-Zen. No bullshit, no games. It’s nice. I need a rest too, and to be fed and I am totally writing an article as we are speaking. Ha 🙂

Truth be told I have never fancied being some queen on a throne with every whim satisfied or riches placed at my feet.
I like my books, movies and men with plot twists.
I enjoy the work, figuring things out, reading the subtle subtexts. I love being challenged and tested. I get off on figuring things out and adapting. I enjoy being understanding and kind. I relish sitting back and watching what people do on their own. I have no desire to influence anyone’s behavior. My satisfaction lies elsewhere. My life is full of organic, ecstatic movie moments because I let things happen.

You flipped the script and shot the plot (Sedona, Houndmouth)

And that is just fine by me.

regular lust

The First and Third Law (plus 4%)

June 19, 2016

I still can recall without much effort the fear that clutched at my throat and twisted in my gut simultaneously when he said it.

“I have something to tell you…”

I was terrified. We had been messaging about sex and he paused the conversation and said “I want to say this out loud.”

The phone rang and I answered it.

I understand the courage it takes to bare your soul with that much abandon, had I not done it first the phone would have been back on its charger beside my bed and I would have had a good night sleep.

I am tired of sleeping anyways. Spent a rather substantial portion of my life sleepwalking.

And that was not the way it went.

It rang and I heard his voice for the first time on the other end.

His sharp deep inhale of breath echoing my own. The way the ocean pulls WAY back just before a tidal wave, gathering strength and momentum.

I braced, like I would in the ocean, feet slightly apart, torso twisted just a bit to the left…

“I am one of the 4% of men who…”

I didn’t drown, it didn’t hurt or knock me over. I just kinda floated.

He laid it all out. And it was nothing to be afraid of, and nothing I couldn’t handle.

I can handle a lot.

I got out of the shower one hot afternoon, walked into the bedroom, that I shared with my boyfriend at the time, to find him dressed in women’s clothes.

My response?

“Well that explains the bra and panties in your bottom drawer”. Followed quickly by “is this a new thing for you, how does it work and what do you need me to do?”

I have long been treated like one of those priests in a box. People just tell me things. Maybe it’s my face, or my small town demeanor in the large city I transplanted myself into. I am always being approached for directions, time, advice and confessions.

How many Hail Mary’s for the other boyfriend who pulled out a dildo and asked me to use it, on him.
None. I don’t hand out guilt. I play along. My sexual comfort zone is a rather large place and no one, so far has asked me to step out of it.

When I’m asked about what I like? I always watered it down, afraid of reactions and rejection. It is only the last few years I have started to realize I am not as strange as it think I am.

I think I always thought that a part of you dies every time you make yourself vulnerable and someone says ‘ew’. So I never say it.
Those parts of you are only mostly dead, and with a small miracle can be resurrected.

Funny how I always let everyone own their wishes wants and kinks and I set mine aside.

I willingly handed over a knife every time I got in a relationship and allowed them (asked them really) to carve off bits of me so they could fit. I wasn’t comfortable being me. I was scared of my potential, of being myself and having to choose between what I Really want and being lovable. No one could possibly love me the way I am. Too much, too wordy, too strange, too sexual, too quiet, too loud etc.

This is not the way. I have been wandering through my past for the last few years, safely alone, picking up pieces of the girl I was and lost trying to put me back together. Finding things I didn’t know were mine. Way more ‘me too’s!’ than ‘ew’s’. And even then, doesn’t matter, I am alright with who and what I have become.

I had a dream that I was wandering in the woods and I found a cottage, everything I had ever loved and lost was inside and I was so happy.

That was how I felt when we talked on the phone that night.

Desires lining up like puzzle pieces. Not the same exactly, but a perfect fit and part of a bigger picture.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

A man like him and a woman like me. Equal and opposite. Symbiotic.

Newton’s third law and the 4%.

Compatibility of that magnitude is rare.

Since finding him and realizing this exists, I have met another…hidden right under my nose. He, his views and relationship with his wife making me feel more comfortable in my skin.

I have my suspicions about a third.

There are more I’m sure.

But him…fuck

He is irreplaceable. The change he caused, or the awakening of what was already there, irrevocable.

I hesitate to use the word soulmate. It’s losing meaning with how often it gets thrown around. But he is something bigger than I have experienced before.

Sexual compatibility is amazing, spectacular and necessary. But there is more. There has to be more.

How did Ludacris put it… ah yes “a lady in the street but a freak in the bed”.

I have the freak part down, and I let my flag fly. Sometimes when it ought not to be, often when it ought not to be.

Some things have to be sacred.

I get excited and I forget this. I babble, I dig my heels in. I over think and under react. I underachieve too. Not sure if I am more terrified of failing or succeeding. The thing is I love being challenged and I rarely am, so why do I sabotage it. Things to ponder.

I regressed after meeting him, tried handing him the knife so he could cut out what he didn’t like. But he didn’t take it. He dared me to build myself up, be more, do more.

He became the first law of inertia.

An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.

I needed thrown off balance and set on a new trajectory.

dancing girls

Angels of Harlem (and elsewhere) a playlist

June 15, 2016

I should be writing.

I am not out of the sad zone just yet but I can see where the end is, timing depends on my momentum and traffic.

Instead I made 8 new playlists.

My fixation du jour?

Cleopatra by the Lumineers.

“I was late for this I was late for that I was late for the love of my life.” (I really was)

I heard it in a store and quickly scribbled down lyrics so I could look it up.

I am currently late, for an actual party.

The house is clean, the bed is made, the dishes are done, the dog has been walked. I am showered and adorned semi appropriately its 39 degrees, 102.2 F. I googled it. So I am wearing a sheer skirt, my ass is covered. The rest of my tattoos, just barely.

I am fighting going out.

I want to stay home with my music. I barely know anyone where I am going and my shyness is coming back in a way I don’t know how to deal with.
So I have gone back to high school and am hiding in my room with my albums to shield me from the world outside.

I was told therapy is making me into an open wound.

There it is. I feel raw and exposed right now. I don’t know how to people. The last few attempts have gone badly.

But I promised. And I love the birthday girl.

Just one more song…please.

I remember being blissed out when I realized you could find music on the internet. Just think of a song and there it is. Except I can’t seem to find a copy of Crash Vegas covering Down to the Wire by Buffalo Springfield.

Every once in a while I hear a song that was hidden in an album somewhere, and or never made it to the radio and I didn’t remember it until I heard it again by fluke.

My heart stops, then starts again a little too quickly. It hurts. I shake. Sometimes I cry.

Elvis Presley and America by U2, was like that, heard it pouring out of a van in a gas station parking lot and watched the sun go down with a stranger in total silence and awe of how perfect that moment was. Hadn’t heard it since 1990. 20 years had passed. Could have been to the day, I have no way of knowing.

I had a moment when I was waitressing, Curtis put on a Peter Gabriel album and I heard I Grieve for the first time in 10 years. I stood frozen in a sea of people, just lost in the music, he took the plates from my hands and served them for me so I could just be.

Yesterday…the Badger by the Tea Party came on and I was transported back to my early 20’s. It made it onto the instrumental playlist. I haven’t named that one yet.

The one with only women is Angels of Harlem, and elsewhere.

I like naming things.

On the Mend by Foo Fighters was on one drunken night in Giant’s kitchen. Hadn’t heard it in forever. We both just sat quietly until it was over and I sighed a lot. He was playing Matthew Good Band in the truck the first night he picked me up for our first real date. “I came back for you, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

I am alone now and avoiding that song.

Once upon a time in a strip club probably 7 years ago now, I sat with a table. Asked them what they did when they mentioned working together. They worked for a company that was engineering speakers that attached to the body and connected to the nervous system.

I got totally overwhelmed and excited. I took a card, they offered to let me try it.

I proceeded to get rather drunk and lost said card, never heard of it again. But it sounded like heaven.

I wonder how many once in a lifetime moments I have experienced and then lost in strip clubs, in the haze of drinking myself not shy.

Speaking of. I have quit. My skin is happy with the lack of alcohol I have been imbibing. My body is doing fine as well, except…

I was putting together the playlists and stumbled on Rat Finks, Suicide Tanks and Cannibal Girls by White Zombie and muscle memory dictated and urge to run to work and jump on the pole. Good god I can move my body to that song. Mark that one as a trigger and pack it in a box until a later day. It isn’t safe yet.

Sitting in the Giants truck. He lured me in by saying “I have this really great playlist” and proceeded to play one of the CD’s I made him. I smiled then and I am smiling now. It was the same disc I had to replace because he wore it out.

He stopped for a second. Said he heard something that made him think of my trip to New Orleans. I smiled again and am smiling again now.

I listened for a minute. Went to peek at the display to double check before speaking, but I knew it was The Band and said so. He said yes. I replied “my sister’s dog is named Levon.”

Thought of another story tonight, wherein I remember one of the half a dozen times my dad ever yelled at us. He had gotten a VHS of the Last Waltz. Sat through all the opening of all the presents, had breakfast with us, cleaned up, did all his weekend/holiday dad things and finally sat down to watch it. We were all running and being loud like kids are prone to do.
He said “I have been waiting my whole life for this, let me watch it in peace.”
I swear I barely breathed for the next 4 hours.
I feel that way too now.

Having to skip back to the beginning of a song because I wasn’t listening with all of me.

I wish we could do that in real life. Just hit repeat, make lists and mixed tapes of our favorite bits.
Skip back. Make lists blend sweetly with perfect cadence.

Shazam experiences so we can see the details of what is actually happening.

Wishing I could go back and hear things again for the first time.

Sometimes, when I get really lucky, that last wish is granted. And it’s almost better with that buffer of time. I am a new girl hearing something old and precious with new ears and a new found respect for something once lost and found again.

men

Tripping Down Memory Lane without Skinning my Knees

May 18, 2016

For once. Actually, wait for it…I almost made it.

Normally I end up bloody, road-rashed and crying in a puddle of my own making.

This was better.

I saw a meme about bigger men cuddling better.

That shit drives me nuts. Real women do this and real men do that and skinny bitches are bad and men can’t do this and blah fucking blah. To each their own. If we all like the same thing there would be only Appleby’s, the Gap, Oprah’s recommended book list and top 40 music. I would die from banality within a week.

I am always after Young Un to borrow my eyes and see what I see. He fusses about having a ‘dad bod’. This negative body image shit isn’t limited to women.

I personally think he is sexy as fuck. More so when he opens his mouth to sing or speak, boy has substance. I don’t covet him anymore but I am not deaf/blind either.

But that’s me, I am a sapiophile. Attracted to intelligence over looks every damned time. That and compatibility.
I spent way too long with men who had no desire to know me on any level other than how well I cooked, cleaned and fucked.
I’m past that now. But even they had bellies, some of them.

There is an anthropological precedent that leans towards a natural attraction to a heftier man.

Cave men had to journey far and wide to bring home the proverbial bacon. Bigger belly, more fat stores, more successful of a hunter.

I messaged he who posted said meme and said ‘I like cuddly menfolk’. I do.

Hot Neighbor and Gelfling were exceptions. I outweighed both of them by 10 or twenty pounds (never could guess weight). Their hipbones and cheekbones sharp as knives. The pixie dust running through my veins loved the pixie dust running through theirs. And if my washing machine ever broke I coulda just scrubbed the dirt outta my clothes on their abs. I let them go.

Wolfling was tall and toned, but he was a fun gym-rat-sport-fuck, nothing more. Although he had moments of sweetness too, I will give him that. But that is all he gets. I let him go a long time ago.

I pulled up pics from the archives just to say ‘look, this is what my exes look like’.

Ex hubby and the Hulk in particular.

“Well, I figured the Hulk was big, you call him the Hulk.”

“Good god I loved walking next to him, feeling so safe and so small”. I said, “how I felt about him wasn’t conditional on him loving me back, mind you he finally said it the day before he moved far away.”

I said something to him about loving Memphis Lee, and he said “We love you too.”

My eyes lit up, so did his. I remember that moment clear as day, blue eyes shining in the sun, that squint he would get and just the slightest curl to his mouth when he saw that I heard him and understood. I do, I did, I always did.

I just love who I love for as long as I love them.

My love for the Hulk manifested in an hour drive every two weeks to knock on his door and give him candy and a hug. I called it reverse trick or treat. Sometimes he let me in the house, sometimes he didn’t. He had the sads worse than I had ever seen. He moved home the day after he said that and has been happy since. And I let him go.

I had a private photo album hidden up in my Facebook with photos of ex-hubby. I’d forgotten about it and briefly wondered if I had deleted it, but nope, there it was. Was being the operative word. I opened it looking for proof of his thickness to prove my point and braced myself for … something … anything.
And nothing happened. That was what shook me up a bit, the nothing. I took what I needed, just a moment from the past to show the present and deleted the damned thing. I let him go years ago.

I spoke yesterday about the distinction I make about ‘before’ and ‘after’. Sufficed to say, ex-hubby was from the time called before and there was no magic there.

The time called after has been a sort of fairy tale. My bliss coming in metered doses, chapters if you will.
No happily ever after…yet.
Glass slippers and valiant knights, wolves in men’s clothing, Giants and other assorted beasts and fae.
And now this…
“You’re the King and I’m your lionheart.” Of Monsters and Men.

I found my king and I am his lionheart. I just had to figure out what that meant.

I started the whole body type conversation trying to explain that I don’t have a type, but I do.

It’s just not physical.

I love someone.

“He loves me and is terrified of it, I am not over him. I blink and he is there, so I try not to blink.”

“…you’re not over him….It’s never fun it hurts.”

(over him is not an option)

“Especially since I know he is just being a chickenshit.

(oh lord)

Maybe I do have a type.

FUCK.”

That was when I started to cry. Not from the memories but because of the reality of this mess.

I love someone who is afraid, because I am afraid too.

I wasn’t running, I was standing still. Which, as it turns out, is just as bad.

I likened my heart to a revolving door. I don’t know how to deny entry without risking broken glass and no door at all.
Time to tear it all down and start over.

He comes and goes and until now I just let him because I too was coming and going.

Not anymore.

Maybe I should move out of this building and build a castle with a moat around the empire in his chest.
Keep us both safe from the world and broken glass.

Uncategorized

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.

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.

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.

lost boys

Holding onto a Ghost

May 13, 2016

https://www.facebook.com/KingsPoetry1/photos/a.1723946661175572.1073741829.1723932144510357/1772039469699624/?type=3&theater

Fucking hell, dammit Jason.

Here I am, 9.5 hours and a time zone away and he is picking through my brain again/still, looking for what I need to hear before I know I need to hear it.

He’s good like that. And it’s this weird juxtaposition between comforting and maddening.

At least he wipes his feet and cleans up in there a little when he comes.

When we split (correction I did this) when I said ‘I can’t’ he said, ‘I know’. He fucking Solo’ed me.

Fucker.

I wrote twice during our brief time together about other men.
More if you count my notes scribbled on the back of pizza flyers in a cab on my way to work, the bones of a post called “Plastic Pussy” that will probably end up in the pay-per-view section.
I discussed it with him first. Said “Baby I gotta get this out.”
Writer’s write, that’s what we do. Write what you know, okay got that down, a little too well.
And if a writer falls in love with you, you just don’t die.

Mine ghost, but death never comes.

It was supposed to be past tense, passive. It wasn’t.

My ghosts haunt. Active, present tense.

Herein is the problem. It’s okay to have ghosts, skeletons in the closet (mine boogie out and down on the regular) and monsters under the bed.

But…

I invite mine into my head, bed, laptop and life always.

I can still feel you there, are we tangled in time somewhere? Armistice.
(We will get back to that, I think I have an explanation)

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

Smitten as Fuck (airports and kudzu)

April 24, 2016

When you live 9 hours away from the one you are smitten as fuck with, date-night takes on a whole new meaning.

Netflix+sweats, yesh. But my show stayed on pause for 5 hours while we talked about the universe, life, exes, work, our children, parents and grandparents. Feelings growing like kudzu, about a foot a day, wrapping us us in happy green and changing the landscape. Then we belly laughed for about an hour and made plans.

And it came to me then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. (Death Cab for Cutie)

It is.

And with every new relationship we must battle the demons of what came before and the cold, cruel, pessimistic leader of their army, Sargent-at -Arms “What If”, his never-ending arsenal, bombs and bullets labeled ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’.

What if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he likes me and then stops?

I don’t have to pray to any God’s for that. They have given me the gift of ‘try one more time’. I am optimism walking around in human form. Now is blessed the rest remembered. 90% of the time I only remember the good anyways, so there is that then.

I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s either that or be a nun or a lesbian considering how I’ve been treated by men.
And men on the internet? Fugedaboudit.
And (gasp) another poet sailing into my inbox? Nope nope nope.
2 years of Chinese water torture under my belt there. The slow drip left me fucking Thirsty.

But I opened the door and invited him in. Didn’t think of any possible outcome beyond friends. He knows everything because I told him.

“2 years?” He said.

“Yesh.” I replied.

“Well that makes no sense.”

I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. I allowed myself to briefly imagine how much loving and living could have transpired between the Poet and I in 2 years, and suddenly I was kinda angry.
Who does that?

It’s easy to find all the ways something won’t work out, especially when nothing ever has.

I have the Giant as recent (I think he is still living) proof. Perfection and compatibility and magic mean nothing when you dangle a nice safe waitress in front of a boy. I mean nothing. It hurts.

Men are sweet as fuck to me and then they run.

This one is sweet as fuck and he may yet run.

But why would I deny myself the possibility contained in his eyes, the ones that crinkle at the corners when he looks at me, smile going all the way up and lighting tiny fires there. Why run from that voice? The one that sounds like a young Elvis…low, southern twang, wrapped in velvet and says wonderful things. Why deny the pull between us?
Why turn my back on the body that drove half a day to see me for an hour, the one that radiates heat and looks and feels like home.

Yes, him.

Once upon a time in New Orleans I gave a stripper a lap-dance on around midnight and so began the day of opposites. I stopped adulting. T’was I who suggested getting massages less than an hour before check out from the hotel. T’was I who took a cemetery tour with no way of telling time, just so I could say hello to Marie Laveau and the other ghosts that wander St. Louis. T’was I who said yes to shrimp and grits, knowing we had to be on a plane within the hour.

And it was I who stood under a pillar at O’Hare, tucked in between terminals, wearing a red dress as not to be missed. Eyes darting from the door to the road and back again, like a tennis match, simultaneously waiting on my PIC and him with 2% battery and not a care in the world. I just knew it would all work out.

I wasn’t wrong.

I saw him before he saw me, and I just knew.

“I’m here”, I called out. Head down, studying his phone. “Jason.”
He looked up and smiled, kept coming towards me.

My walk became a run, I totally forgot about watching the door. I forgot about everything beyond closing the gap between us. He opened his arms and I fell into them like I belonged there. Airport chaos forgotten when I asked him to hold my hand and not let go.

He still hasn’t let go.

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