I'm done....

with you all. Goodbye.

Truth Does Not Need Exaggeration

There was a hole in my heart, that she seems to fill perfectly. - Me



Discovering Destructive Reciprocation.

“Real sex is as much about reciprocity as it is exploration and if you need a reason to resent a man later on, just consider the guy who doesn’t believe in cunnilingus...”  

-Unknown

   The group of warehouses looked as if they had come from a black and white Pink Floyd video. Long, grey, and creating sets of parallel tin walls that you could tear apart and spray paint without any retribution. Causing damage to property had become a celebrated pastime in my early teenage years. That isn't out of the ordinary. It, at times, still isn't that far out of my range of desires. Walking through the gravel "alleyways" I would carry two six packs of empty bottles. Occasionally stopping to set the cardboard carriers down. Pull one of my mom's empty long necks from its comfortable sleeve. Take a three step hop, and throw it in a random direction. As if I was responsible for starting a revolution with no enemy. Shhhhhhhhh. The slow quiet of waiting to hear anything. The shatter of window glass. The thud of corrugated metal. If I was lucky, and the bottle didn't break, I could hear where it landed. Then, I would run and have another try with the same piece of alcoholic destruction. I was the original recycler. Fuck you and your blue bins.

   This was a time of no friends. No schoolmates. Bad acne, and worse breath. The fact that I was poor, stuttered, and lived in a trailer park afforded me the time that only the shunned youth have on their dirty little hands. I hear people talk about being a fat kid. Or a poor kid. Or the kid that peed his pants. The kid with the alcoholic parents, or worse, the drug addict parents. Try being that kid in one short, scrawny package. Some kids went to Little League. I went to the warehouses. Pitching pebbles up against an adjacent wall was "passing the time". Throwing those bottles, as hard as I could, off the two story roof, was my after school program. There were always plenty of bottles in the trailer park. Something tells me this hasn't changed in most the trailer parks that still exist.
   "My dad is gonna be mad when he catches you", she screamed at me from the other side of the dull, metal hallway.
   "WHAT!!!!", I screamed back. I've always been good at pretending I don't hear people. I still am.
   "My daddy is gonna call the cops on you", she's still screaming while death marching in my direction. This cute blond girl is B-lining towards me, and she looks like she means business. I start thinking about running, but then I realize, she is all by herself. "My daddy owns this place and he's been wondering where all these broken bottles are coming from. You're in deep shit." She is now, literally, nose to nose with me.
   "Fuck your old man. Where the fuck is he, by the way? I don't see him. I bet I can out run his old ass, and you", if you were wondering, my cussing ratio has not diminished since I was very young.
   "Well", she starts to stammer. "Well, he's at home."
   "Good. leave me alone.", I pick up my bottles and walk off. Obviously my knack for drama hasn't diminished either.
   "Why do you throw bottles all over the place?", now she's following me. Great.
   "I don't know. I just like the sound of glass breaking, I guess", I'm starting to realize how awkward my speech patterns were around that time. I don't think anything I said in my youth sounded smooth.
   "That's kinda cool. Can I try?"
   "Absolutely", I'm always willing to corrupt. She runs up next to me, and before I can utter one word of protest, she has snatched a bottle from the holder. She let's it fly. We waited, held breath, and then that beautiful sound. The smash of glass caused her to jump up and down, and shriek like an excited Japanese girl. So, the next hour was spent throwing bottles, kicking in walls, and making her father very proud.
   "So, you think you can run fast?" Obviously property destruction hasn't made her completely forget how we met. "I mean, you did say that you could outrun me and my dad."
   "I can. I'm real fast", am I the only one that is recollecting me as Forrest Gump.
   "Let's play a game", now she has my attention."I'll give you a fifteen second head start. You start running. If I catch you, you have to do anything I want." To this day I am a sucker for a good bet.
   "Let's do this. You will never catch me", and the game was off. It took my twelve year old brain about thirty seconds for things to register.

"You have to do anything I want..."

   I slowed my pace, drastically. Took a hard right into one of the dilapidated, empty offices, and boom.

   "Gotcha", she yelled as her hand grabbed my shoulder. 

   "Damn, you're fast", I pant. I'm faking this well.

   "I knew it......you're not that fast. That was easy. You better never have to outrun my dad. He's faster than me." Shit. I thought. Now, I'm glad that he's never wandered up on one of my destruction sprees. "Take off your pants", she blurts out.

   "Wait, what?" This escalated quickly.

   "You agreed. You said you'd do anything I want. Take off your pants," Seriously, this girl is not missing a beat. "Come here, I'll help you." She grabs me by the fly of my jeans. Pulling on my pants, she has taken a bit of an aggressive turn.

   "Okay, okay......I can do this." Of course I could. She hasn't backed up and it's turned into a struggle between the zipper and the waist. "I can do this!!!", I yell. Dropping my pants to the knees, I stop. I mean this is public. I have already heard the word "dad" too many times today. This is my luck.

   "You aren't getting off that easy. At least down to your ankles, and these have to come down, too", she yanks my boxers down. This is most definitely a first. Here I am. Leaned up against a cement wall, naked from the waist down. My dick literally staring this girl directly in the face. You know, as well as it can with one eye. I just typed that. "See, that's not so bad. Thirty seconds. You know the deal. She starts counting.

   "This is fucking embarrassing." She doesn't care.

   "26....25....24.....23...."

   "You are counting too slow", I fained protest. Then it happened. Here's the deal, and I'm just going to put this out there. It was fantastic. I don't know if you've ever done acid, but I found oral sex to be the sexual equivalent of opening the doors of sexual perception. I think back on it and I picture rainbows shooting out of the top of my head. Does any of that make sense? It caused a vibration to shoot up my spine like one long, warm goose bump.

   I would like to clarify something here. I think that there might be a misunderstanding. That I thought I was going to get a blowjob. That is untrue. That did not enter my young, teenage mind. The initial thought that ran through my head was that she would ask for a kiss. We would mess around. That is it. Then, dropping my pants, I thought maybe a hand job was in order. That is all. Her mouth on my cock, was the last thing I was expecting. Back to the story.

  I don't know how long she did it. Or better yet, how long I lasted. I do remember that I had manners in the form of this statement.

   "I'm done. I'm about to be done", and that's how quick it's finished in your youth. She didn't spill a drop.

   "How was that?", she was asking a question, where in the answer was obvious.

   "You had to ask that?"

   In my youth I remember the disgust that came when teenage boys discussed the idea of eating pussy. It was treated just like every other subject that involved us being sensitive to the needs of a female. The bravado and machismo that only the inexperienced can speak with utmost stupid authority. Yet, that day I realized something. If a girl was willing, and could give me that much joy, why the hell wasn't I doing the same. It was the day I learned that a certain amount of concession has to be given in order to bring happiness to someone you care about. Even if you only care about them in between the sheets. Or on a living room floor. Or against a wall in a vacant warehouse building. I never viewed give and take the same way after that.

      

 
  
   

The Ways We Think...Are Immeasurable.

"Human fate gives itself to human fate, and it is the task of pure love to keep this self-surrender as vital as on the first day.”

-Martin Heidegger

 

 

 

   I'm not going to pretend like I'm the best looking person in the world. Yet, I'm also not going to pretend that I have the creepiness factor of an aging hipster that owns a vintage clothing shop. I like to feel that I fall somewhere in between having to bribe a decent looking woman, and Justin Timberlake. Plus, I never discount my personality. I account 90% of all intimate relationships in my life to nothing more than personality.

   And dick size.

   That being said, I am still astounded by the utter lack of sexual energy that comes off the normal human being. I am also equally shocked by the subordinate disgust that sexual energy gets met with. Now, I know that not everyone is as casually energetic as I am. Trust me, I have had my share of run ins with those lackluster in the field of intimacy. The problem is the occasional conflict of personality.  The bored attitude I have towards those unable to digest casual conversation about what I consider one of the greatest gifts we have to give each other. The ability to make each other lust.

  J'aime la luxure

   That is putting it simply. The adoration of lustful thoughts, and the subsequent ability to manifest those into action is no less than heavenly, to me. It is overwhelming at times. It is a burden of thought and time. It can come with a bit of regret. These things are easy for me to admit.

   My mind wonders about the mind's of other people. How do they not feel this way? Why do they not wear it on the outside of their psyche as I do? Does this mean it is an addiction, or a personality flaw? My answer has constantly been, "I don't know."

   This is a short blog because right now I am in the midst of a conundrum. Writing, for some people, helps with large questions about life, love, lust, friendship,...etc. It doesn't do that with me. Writing makes me unable to think. It sets up a roadblock in my psyche. This is why I write when I am at my most despondent. It blocks out the bad thoughts for a brief shining moment. I have no bad thoughts right now. Just weird questions.

 



If I Die Before I Wake

   She lives in this oddly, fragile bubble. What makes it worse is that I don't want to pop it. Don't get me wrong. I want to crawl inside it with her. Do you realize how hard that is? Bubbles do not take kindly to the intrusion of foreign objects, and that is exactly what I am. I am a foreign object, in all sense of the words.
   "Do you ever wonder if I'm just a novelty?", she asks through wine stained eyes.
   "You don't think that I wonder the same thing about myself?", it's rude to answer a question with a question. "I'm sorry, that was rude, but let's be honest. I could be the same thing, Yet, I'm not going to spend our time worrying about that. When I look into your eyes I don't see a series of clichés, or interests. I don't see someone defined by what they wear, or where they go. When I look into your eyes, or hold your hand, or walk down the street with you, I see.....hope. I see respect. I see interest in what I say, even if it is ridiculously ludicrous. When I am with you, I am with you. Not a novelty."
   "You talk too much."
   "Isn't that why you like me?"
   "That's one part of it", she slinks down in the booth seat, next to me, as if she's hiding from someone. It's no less than adorable. This is new for me, and by all accounts, new for her also. This is the best part. It feel new to me.
   I don't miss seeing her body. I miss seeing her. I don't miss dirty words coming from her mouth. I miss any words, from her mouth, that take the time to grace my ears. I don't miss making out with her. I don't miss sex with her. I don't miss the groping, and late night sweating that comes with being in bed with a past woman. I just miss laying there, listening to her breath, and moving her hair away from my mouth so that I don't end up chewing on it in the middle of the night.
   At one time I was confusing her shyness with a lack of self confidence. I was wrong. She is a woman. A confident, radiant, independent woman. She is also coy, aloof, guarded, and meaningful. Spending so much time defining people by one quality has made me pretentious. It has made me judgmental. The realization that one faceted people are everywhere is not a new thing. Yet, it does not mean that I have to surround myself with them.
   She is not a novelty.
   She is a novel.
   And as long as she is writing it.
   I will continue to read every page.