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regular lust

Plastic Pussy

June 30, 2016

Four score and seven years ago, I got laid for the second last time.

[Author’s note: I wrote this article, or half of it, on pizza flyers on my way to work, way back when I was just getting back from vacation. April/May? I got a little lost around then, time got slippery and slid. Also, I lost the third flyer so some of this is now from memory.]

Back before my pilgrimage to New Orleans, Giant was both the second last and the last time I’d had sex, for quite a while. I kept going to ground and I was crying a lot. Not exactly sexy.

There was Football, but that game got rained out. The stripper in NOLA, just enough attention and snuggles to get my mojo rising, made even sweeter by my insistent insisting that it was Friday night and he should be off making money, but every time I turned around, there he was. And then I met Jason at the airport and there were sparks everywhere. I wanted to crawl inside him like a Taun Taun, but there was a table in the way and I had a plane to catch. So no sex.

Truth be told, heart was on lockdown and she took all of me with her.
Sequestered in an oubliette with nothing but my toy box and memories of lightning sex.

It’s no secret that if I am home alone I am probably playing with myself, less when I am sad but still. Less than a-fucking-lot is still some. I write porn, it’s a good gauge. If my princess parts ain’t a-tingling by 3pm, I probably need a rewrite on that chapter. If I get worked up while working on it, it’s good.

I equate masturbating with fast food. Tastes hella good when you are starving, fills you up. But there is no real sustenance there, and leaves a funny aftertaste.

Herein lies the title.

My one toy is a little plasticky. Because it’s plastic. Silicone to be specific. Hella ugly to look at but damn it felt good.

Giant and I had not-a-date planned for a Wednesday afternoon (see also Afternoon Delight).
I missed an opportunity Saturday and had vowed that next time I would walk out the door and knock on his.

Tuesday. I’d been writing all day before work, worked myself right up. Whipped out my toys and went off like a rocket. Jumped in the shower and went to work, just like any other Tuesday.

Now, once upon a time when I was a stripper I felt it polite and part of my job to show up clean.
Sadly, some of the clientele did not feel that way and I avoided them like the plague they smelled like. Eau de Bubonic and B.O. Bleck.
I however, was almost always freshly showered, mostly shaved, with my geisha/game face on.
I like playing dress-up, it worked. Playing the odds, my 4% versus everyone else, I wasn’t about to bet it all on black 19. I had bills to pay.

When it came to my actual sex life, the getting ready process for work and the getting ready process for a date with a boy I like? Two totally different things.

I had work bras and panties and I have sets I wear for the men I’m actually with. Something has to be sacred and different. Everything work-related was disposable, as was work.

The second involved a proper shaving of the legs, less make-up and a little extra prep work on my princess parts. I.e., I cannae be smelling/tasting like coconut oil and plastic. No one at work ever got close enough to notice, I was rather protective of my pussy. It’s MINE, don’t touch it.

Lamia: You shall not see the star, touch it, smell or hear it. You will not perceive her even if she stands before you.
Kinda exactly that.

That’s another thing. When will the makers of Summers Eve and other such French showers (google it I dare ya) realize men don’t go sticking their tongues in bouquets of peonies looking for a taste. They aren’t hummingbirds. Nor do they wrap their mouths around cups overflowing with baby powder looking for a drink.

I propose a new line of douches. Apple Pie, French Vanilla Ice Cream, Papaya or for the more adventurous souls, I feel like Maple Bacon Cupcake would go over rather well.

Again, for the millionth time, I digress.

The night in question, I walked out one door and into another.

Victoria: It’s not the star that I want. [She puts her arms around him]
[Seductively] You know what I want.

Except I was a little tipsy, seduction wasn’t necessary or possible. I was giggling and clumsy and fell into him and eventually into his bed.

First time we didn’t even pretend to watch a movie.

I have mentioned to him a few times that I admire this switch in him, where he goes from mild mannered mortician into full angel of death with wings. It is magnificent to behold and be on the receiving end of.

It gets even better with bellies full of scotchy-scotch-scotch.

We were messaging the other day about, well none of your business really. But the last thing I said was “I never really let go with you.”

I didn’t finish that thought. The closest I got was after he started dating she-who-skis and she happened to be away and I happened to be there, lost in him enough to forget that my pussy tasted of fucking plastic until his tongue was just south of my belly button. Then I squealed a “NO”, with an explanation.

We tousled and he won. I called him the Giant for a reason. Actually I won. He ate my pussy with conviction and vigor, I squirmed and squealed with delight and a bit of horror. And when he came up for air and a kiss, I realized it wasn’t so bad.

Then my own switch flipped. I let go of trying to control anything, especially myself.

He liked hearing about what I had done to myself, he liked tasting it too.

I liked being coveted/appreciated/consumed in my less-than-perfect form.

Me and my plastic pussy, my not-so-shaved legs wrapped around this godlike creature. Explosions. Thunder, lightning and storm swells making soaking everything. The lingering scent in the room after it was over and I fell asleep on his chest? Petrichor. The smell of the earth after it rains.

I almost attained Ataraxia. (The tranquility attained from not fearing gods.)

And I love the smell of napalm in the morning. (Apocalypse Now)

(All italics from Stardust, Neil Gaiman)

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.

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.”

gypsy travels

Anticipation

May 6, 2016

I grew up on a pretty steady diet of Carole King, James Taylor, Crosby Stills Nash and sometimes Young. And Carly Simon. She was the soundtrack to house cleaning most often. You’re So Vain shows up in this blog with regularity.

I did have some dreams and they were clouds in my coffee and he was so vain.

But that isn’t where I am at right now.

I am here…

And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
But I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.
Anticipation, Anticipation…

Um ya Carly, exactly that.

It’s 7:30 am. I got up early to write. In 7 hours I leave for Toledo Ohio to see my love. It’s our halfway point and I booked a hotel with an indoor pool, and a 7 minute drive from Bob Evans…my wishes and wants and he is rolling with it. Because biscuits and bikini…

He rolls with everything, so do I….mostly. But I am having a mild freak out that must be acknowledged.

We have been talking for months. Facebook official for 10 days and met once in person mid-April for just over an hour at an airport. I almost missed my plane because I didn’t want to stop kissing him.

Fairy tale romance as far as internet romances go…or any romance really. I fucking love him.

But um…

We haven’t slept together yet.

Tonight is the night and I am feeling like a teenager again. Nervous. Maybe if I had ever dated in high school, or gone to prom this wouldn’t feel so strange. But I didn’t and it does.

I have really never dated like this before, all this getting to know you stuff before the sex.
Yes I have done long distance, but I had slept with them prior to the geographical rift.

I have started dividing my life into 2 parts. Before and after.

In the time called before I would (almost) literally trip and fall into a relationship by meeting a cute-ish guy, sleeping with him and then he just wouldn’t leave. 5 years, 7 years, 2 years, all gone.
I stopped that after Budget George/Pimp daddy. Not the sleeping with them right away. I fucked Young Un before dinner on our second date, less than a week after we met…but he was my choice. And he was/is magic.

Drogo, Gelfling, Wolfling, Giant.

Common denominator? Magic.
Empathic, ethereal and compatible. And they were my choice. Not something I fell into and couldn’t get out of.
Incredible transcendental conversations, dates, car rides, adventures.

And the sex?

Phantasmagorical.

I didn’t see the aurora borealis, I became them. Lightning, fireworks, molten lava in human form.

Natural phenomenon brought on by otherworldly compatibility.

I said before that we shouldn’t fuck outside of our tribe and this is why.

So why am I worried?

As I write this, I have realized. I am not worried, I’m nervous, but not worried.

He wrote this…

The Candle and The Fire – Jason King

And it sounds a lot like me. He is my tribe.

It’s no secret that I have had a lot of sex. It’s not a secret that I am really good at it, because I fucking love it, pun intended.

I learned years ago that ‘bad sex’ is a rarity, especially if you know what you are doing, and I do. And even more rare if you know how to use your words as well as your hips, and I really do.

Jason and I have developed our own secret language, some of it makes us belly laugh and some of it is just guttural growls and moans when we lose our words. I can see both of those things happening in our hotel bed.

I remember pressing my body against his under the overpass by the pillar that divided terminal one from two at O’Hare, and how it felt like I belonged there.

I’m no prophet, I don’t know nature’s way
So I’ll try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, ’cause these are the good old days.

I am a prophet and I do know nature’s way. 6 hours now until I can look into his eyes for the second time. The ‘right here’ that is a Comfort Suites in Toledo is where I want to be. I will stay right here. Because so far, this relationship with him is rivaling the happier times in my life. And I have to agree, that no matter what comes, I know I will look back years from now and see that these are the good old days.

I love you baby, no more sleeps.

Author’s note…
As fate would have it, I got fired on Tuesday. Which gives me more time to write.
Something that was sorely lacking.
There is a ‘pay-per-view’ section contained within this blog that has gone unused.
I promised porn and stripper stories. And here they come.
No better thing to start with than an unadulterated look at why I got fired and a closer examination of the dirty fishbowl that is my old workplace…don’t’cha think?
I have been collecting secrets and stories and now I have time, and if you want to see what I wrote about you…pay up buttercups.
Launching May 10^th 2016.
The timing is delicious.

lost boys

Looking Back and Fucking Thumbs

April 28, 2016

“…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.

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.

[1] Cold Mountain, Ruby Thewes

[2] Beastie Boys, Sabotage

[3] Grosse Pointe Blank, Martin Blank

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.

https://www.facebook.com/KingsPoetry1/photos/pb.1723932144510357.-2207520000.1461513578./1763620803874824/?type=3&theater

lost boys

The Head and the Heart…Shake

April 8, 2016

I have been falsely crying ‘writer’s block’. I don’t have writer’s block.

I have a mental block and it is fucking HUGE.

I want to stop talking/thinking about the Giant and I can’t.

I tried.

I tried to write about other things and it all kept wrapping back around to this.

There is some scientific research that states that sometimes you have to hear a song 10 times before you like it.

Happened to me with the Biebs, “Where are You Now?” mind you we were driving fast in Leah’s car laughing and smiling in the late summer warm.

Sometimes you just know.

I knew.

Also my life is a double entendre so keep that in mind while reading.

I told a lie.

I said “I hesitated to give you these songs because I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to say things with the lyrics, you know having feelings and whatnot.”

Walking After You was strategically placed and I meant every word. And I hunted down that version of Comfortable by John Mayer because it’s important.

I retracted the lie, but only partway. I have feelings, it is entirely possible I am made of pure feels.

Which is going to make this next part harder to believe. S’okay.

There is a girl at work, I call her Giggles because, ya, she giggles and it’s the sweetest thing, she is the sweetest thing. Baby strippers can go one of two ways in the first month, crazy or cute. She remains, totally adorable. She makes me think it is possible that serotonin can walk around in human form, just looking at her makes me happy.

One night whilst texting with the Giant, I asked him to come rescue me from work. She knew what was happening and was shaking invisible pompoms hoping he would show. I told her I would walk right out the damn door with him.
I wonder if she thinks my life is some kind of romance novel, I wish I could write her a better ending, but we are still in that conflict/shit is not working out right now, middle portion of the story.

He didn’t, but she watched the door for me and we played a rousing game of ‘that’s not him’.

In fact, all tall people now beg the question, “is that him?” I think she will just know if and when he ever shows up.

I gotta digress a bit.

I loathe a good portion of the music at work. We call the place “Tommy’s Hungarian Disco.” Lots of dance music, I realize there are different genres and subtle nuances to that shite but it’s lost on me, it all sounds like a headache waiting to happen, or the muzak in one of the seven levels of hell.

When I was on my staying away from anything remotely emotion kick post Giant, I stole some music from Giggles. A rather rapey, grindy tune by SoMo called Ride On.

She dances to a vast array of whatever she fucking feels like.

One song is called Shake, by The Head and the Heart.

I had to ask her 27 times what it was called. It was one of those songs I ‘just knew’ I liked.

I stopped talking to the Giant for 3 weeks, when I messaged him again he said he had burned through one of the cds I made him, played it so much it was starting to skip.

Oh ya I totally did that.

That was the lie. I made him 3 or 4 mixed cds, 19 songs each. Labeled them funny things like I tend to do. Lightning in a Jar was the one he warped, it was all instrumental. Oh the irony isn’t lost.

So, when we decided to meet for coffee of course I made him a new copy, and two new ones.

Upon which just so happened to be Shake. Song 5.

I swear it didn’t know what it said, and everybody knows I drink too much at work to retain lyrics.

But if the perfect song fits…

Well the ink in my pen ran dry long before your smile
And the pages have always been blank like the trees in the wild
But the wind yes the wind keeps pushing you to me
Time being time I know when it’s time to leave

And the memories we’ve made
Will never be lost, no
And the look on your face
We both knew the cost
But the wind yes the wind keeps
Howlin’

I put in the pictures, you put in the time
You put all those memories so deep inside my mind
Now the wind yes the wind keeps pushing you to me
Time being time I know when it’s time to leave

And the memories we’ve made
Will never be lost, no
And the look on your face
We both knew the cost
But the wind yes the wind keeps
Howlin’

Even if it was a mistake, I can’t forget your face
Even if it was just a day, you won’t forget the one
Who’s making you shake

Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see

Even if it was a mistake, I can’t forget your face
Even if it was just a day, you won’t forget the man
Who’s making you shake

Who’s making you shake
You shake
I’m making you shake
You shake
I’m making you shake

He’s making me shake.

The last thing he said is that the things we’d done would be hard to forget.

Why would you even try?

I can’t Taylor Swift and “shake, shake shake it off.”

I cannae Florence and her glorious Machine neither “And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back. So shake him off”.

Maybe it isn’t so much of an I can’t, as an I don’t fucking want to.

What if this storm ends and I don’t see you? Snow Patrol, song 7.

I fucking miss you.

regular lust

Lightning Sex, a Retrospective.

March 18, 2016

She opened the door and her breath caught in her throat.

The Giant in all his towering glory. Leaning back on the railing looking as close to perfect as anything she had ever seen.

Every time she saw him it was like the first time all over again, and she was awestruck.

Her tiny apartment suddenly seeming miniscule as he took his shoes off at the door and navigated the narrow hallway.

“I am almost ready” she said.

“Take your time” he smiled. That brilliant smile, the one that made her melt. She finished gathering her things, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he politely petted a hello to her dog and then the kittens. He really did exude kindness.

She passed by him, he reached out and put his hand on her waist gently pulled her in. Held her close and kissed her, her knees buckled a little but he held fast. She sighed, audibly.

Down the rickety stairs and out to the truck. She felt so shy and nervous she was shaking, pretending it was the cold. For a minute she hoped she was having an empathic moment and picking it up from him, seemed plausible, she decided it could be coming from both of them and relaxed just a little. He opened the door for her and she climbed up into the truck with a little more grace than the last time. Conversation and music flowed easier on the drive over to his house. “I came back for you, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

She had offered to cab over and he had refused.

He opened her door again, told her to be careful on the ice up the walkway beside the house. Slowed down so she could keep up. Let her hold the back of his hoodie just in case.

She surveyed her surroundings for the second time. Marveled at how one young man could be so focused on what he wanted, noticing all of the detail of the half renovated main floor. Her mind piecing together what it would look like in a month or a year. Secretly hoping that she would be around to both help him and to see.

She followed him into the kitchen, chair already waiting for her to sit. She asked if there was anything she could do to help, he said “tell me stories and look beautiful.”

They talked about kitchen parties and farming. Elora and the origins of the steak he brought home. She was overwhelmed that he had put so much thought and effort into everything, especially considering he had already worked a full day. She had to sit on her hands and bite her tongue to keep from ‘helping’. She was not used to letting anyone be nice to her. Kept having to remind herself how good it felt when she did things like this for others and hoped he felt that way too. Seemed so and she relaxed a little more.

She made a horrendous statement about how she had told her bartender that she considered him to be so perfect that there had to be a catch, like dead hookers in the basement. She was horrified the second it came out of her mouth, but he chuckled and took it in stride, ran with the joke just enough. Told her a few days later that the hookers in the basement were replaceable, but she wasn’t. All she really had wanted to say is that she really liked him, it just came out funny.

He had put on an Incubus album, said he remembered she had said she liked them. She wondered if it was possible that he noticed and remembered all the nuances and subtle things about her like she did with him. Couldn’t be.

She watched him move around the kitchen with grace, turning this or that up or down, cutting mushrooms, slicing garlic with a paring knife. For someone as huge as he, he was surprisingly lithe. Or maybe it wasn’t a surprise, she was starting to see what he was.

There were moments of silence and they were warm and comfortable. There were moments where he suddenly stopped what he was doing to gather her up in his arms and kiss her. Those were unadulterated bliss.

When the barbeque was hot enough, they both went outside, he to start the steaks and her to smoke. They talked about the neighbors stealing cans, scarlet runners and morning glories.

Dinner was spectacular. There is something about sitting down to a meal that was made specifically for you. There really is nothing on earth that tastes better. She told him so, said Kraft Dinner would have tasted like ambrosia, and he told her to be careful what she wished for. She smiled and let herself think forward to a day when they were eating macaroni out of a pot in the kitchen.

She tried to think back to the last time someone had cooked anything for her and decided against it. This was infinitely better, the here and now with him.

She realized she couldn’t look him in the eye when he spoke, that it felt like falling into the ocean at night, drowning in the same expansive blue reflected by a full moon. She focused instead on his ear or his forehead, sometimes allowing herself to watch his mouth, wanting to fall into it too.

When dinner was over, more scotch was poured. She carried the plates from the table and he playfully forbid her from doing dishes. She acquiesced, relieved really. Not because she didn’t like doing dishes, just afraid she would be clumsy and drop something.

Back at the table she asked about his work. Reverently listening, asking for clarification when needed. She watched discontentment furrow his brow when he spoke of how other people interpreted what he did. Imaginations taking them to nasty places. She said what he did is sacred, because it is. Explained psychopomps, those who escort the dead, it was easy to picture him with wings. He told her he had felt strange once upon a time, when he realized he was the last human being to ever look into someone’s eyes. Sacred. Yes.

He finished his drink before her. She got caught up in talking, he made it easy to forget her shyness. When she was finished he said, “Can we go upstairs or do you want me to keep playing with my empty glass.” She blushed a little. Yes, upstairs, please.

Her shyness came back full force as he opened the door to his bedroom. It was amazing, exposed brick, perfect balance of masculine and comfort. She yammered something about the new rug. She sent him downstairs to fetch the iPod, buying herself a minute to compose herself and seizing the opportunity to wiggle out of the impossible to get out of jeans she had worn. She was almost naked and under the covers when he got back. Kept on her bra and panties, she had to redeem herself for the last time. He seemed to agonize a little about finding the right music to put on, settled on the Neighborhood. Said it was good for most situations, she agreed.

She propped her head up on her elbow and watched him undress. Even in the dark she could see, fascinated by his silhouette, her eyes eagerly devouring every inch of him and enjoying the reflection in the mirror behind him. Overwhelmed at the enormity of him. Huge, beautiful Nephilim, his aura changing from oceanic indigo to vibrant ultraviolet as he crawled in beside her. That is what happens when you mix roses and blues. Perfect purples.

He put his hands on her and the storm started. Electrical impulses racing through her body reaching up through her to follow his fingers as he traced patterns on her skin. Kissing going slowly from zero to sixty, tentative tasting to all consuming and back to teasing again. Hands matching rhythm from caressing to grasping the perfect push and pull, like the tides.

He rolled her over onto her back, his mouth tracing the line through the center of her. He became a paradox, simultaneously pulling her apart and holding her together. Attaining a seemingly impossible balance between chivalry and savagery. She had to fight to keep her hips on the bed as he playfully nibbled the insides of her thighs, she could feel him smiling and she smiled back. Anticipating. He had been here before, and even then she had had the oddest of thoughts, it was as if had studied her before they ever came near his bed. He just knew somehow.

She let go of trying to control herself, moans escaped her lips, he smiled again and suddenly everything intensified. Teasing turned to tasting, tasting turned to consuming. All her inhibitions fell away and were replaced by exploding stars and pulsing nebulas behind her eyes running all the way through her. She lost her words, forgot her own name, forgot anything at all existed outside of his bed and his mouth and his hands on her.

She laughed a little, earth shattering orgasms sometimes did that to her. He climbed up and hovered over her, she arched her back up to meet him and tasted herself on his lips. He said she was the best thing he had eaten and promptly went back for seconds. More explosions in the sky. The ceiling flew away and there were only fireworks.

He climbed up beside her and she eagerly reciprocated. Wanting to taste him again, tease him with her tongue, learn him and read him like he had somehow magically done with her. She kissed and bit his chest and neck, suspending her body over his. Leaning in and writing all the words she couldn’t say out loud on his skin with her fingers and tongue. His cock was magnificent. Velvet skin and unyielding flesh. He tasted divine. The sensation of rolling him over her tongue was enough to shot sparks through her yet again. She marked every moan and movement no matter how subtle, cataloguing them and her corresponding actions for next time, she wanted to be as good to him as he was to her.

She fleetingly found her brave and said ‘come here’, again overwhelmed by the sheer colossalness of him. She got shy again for a minute as rationality escaped her. She managed one clear thought as he was fully inside of her, ‘this is what sated feels like’. Then she was lost again in the galaxies radiating out from her core as she came again and again, waves of warm overlapping each other, she felt like she was floating in outer space, experiencing a star exploding from the inside. She held onto him, matching his movements with hers, wave after wave of warmth and orgasms. She felt him come and couldn’t help but come as well.

He rested his body weight on her, still inside and another clear thought came through the ether, whispering in her ear “perfect isn’t a myth after all.” She smiled.

She told him she hoped he felt half as good as he made her feel, that would be more than most could handle.

He told her to roll over, with this sensual authority in his voice. She did. He rubbed the last remaining knots from her muscles, she felt like liquid.

He climbed up beside her again and she found the perfect spot to rest her head on his chest. She wrote love notes on his arm with her fingernails, hoping again he could read what she was trying to say. His arms went on forever and she felt safe enough to say that the last time they had been together she had one clear thought, that she wanted to keep him. He said yes and punctuated his answer with a kiss on her forehead. She melted a little more. He said she had the gift of touch.

After a while of holding her, he asked her if it was alright if he put on a song.

“Of course” she said. He could’ve asked her to go jump off the roof with him and she would have agreed.

The first few notes played, she thought it was Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah and was again reminded of the word perfect. But what reverberated through the speakers transcended perfect. Postcard from 1952, Explosions in the Sky.

She stayed silent for the entirety of it. Tears rolling down her cheeks. Dumbstruck by how he could first elicit all of those feelings from her body and then play her the exact score of how she felt. She lost her words, she didn’t need them, it was all right there in tones and matching cadence.

She still sees him in her mind’s eye like this. The graceful dance around the kitchen. The first bite of steak in her mouth. Watching his eyes shine while he spoke and listened. That maddening grin when he stole a kiss or said ‘upstairs’. His silhouette glowing in the streetlights as he was on top of her, moving inside of her. The warmth of his body pressed up against hers, purple lightning fusing them together. She fell asleep, beyond happy and dreamt of him and carousel horses.

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