Likes me the least

   I just can't read her.
  
   Usually by now it's a head over heels,
   or she can't stand me.
   I just don't get it.

  "Possibly", "Maybe", "I think so", are the answers I get to simple questions.
  
   Kisses, hugs, lust, and eye-fucks, are what I get when she is near me.
  
   She sat on the edge of the bed pouting, the last time I left her.
  
   "I thought you were going to spend the night?", she whimpered
 
   We never removed our clothes.

  We never touched bare stomachs
   I never choked her,
   and she never groped me.

   That's not why I left.
   Not mad,
   Not angry,
   Not withholding,
   I just wanted sleep.

   I can't read her, and I can read everyone.



Short

Realizing that a whisper,

makes its point better than a scream.

Realizing a caress,

fills me faster than a punch.

Realizing the truth,

energizies my brain more than a lie.

Realizing that life,

awakens me more than death.

Mornings...

  I woke up sore as hell this morning from Yoga. My calves and triceps burned. At 4:45, when everything is silent, my thoughts scream at me.
   "Don't get up."
   "Get the fuck up"
   "She's never coming back"
   "Maybe today is the day you hear from her"
   "You are fucking pitiful"
   "You are a brave, strong man"
   "You will be alone, forever"
   "I saw that girl looking at you yesterday"
   "Don't worry"
   "Worry about everything"
   I start on the treadmill. The self improvement started a while ago, but I'm fairly certain no one noticed. I quit a lot of things. Life will not be one of them. I have to remember, that even if all things don't happen for a reason, this did. There were three people in the gym, this morning. I'm fairly certain I was hurting the worst, inside and out. Yet, the second that first push up started, I was back in familiar territory. No thoughts. No worries, except the next push up. No thoughts. No worries, except the next pull up. No thoughts. No worries, except my abs burning like Syria in the newspaper.
   "You need this. You want this. You know that no matter what, no matter how, your mind and body need healing", I whisper in my own ear. I said the same thing to myself at 12:30am, 3:30am, 4:30am. Slipping out of the gym, I can see the shadow of her walking across the street. That shadow, doesn't even deserve me, right now. No shadow deserves me. Yet, one day, I know that it will be every shadow that will be scared of me. They will be scared of the light that I am. They will run and tell the people to whom they belong.
   "That man over there. Look at him. You want him by your side. In your time of need, that is a brave soul."
   I know this.

 

*p.s. If you would like you can become a follower of this blog. Just saying. 







Divorce vs. My Son

   Lately, I have leaned on my son in a way I don't think most fathers would or should. Yet, when I think about the advice he's given me in this time of need, I realize that he is amazingly wise and mature for his age. This week has been a cleansing and revamping of my house. So, as a friend and I painted my kitchen I related this story:

   My son was around 11 when I went through my divorce. Anyone that knows me, knows that he is my life's blood. Anyone that knows my son, knows he has always been strong and handled adversity in a way that is way beyond his years. So, during the divorce he showed no real signs of wear. It was a rough divorce. Lots of yelling, some broken windows, and I remember one time my ex-wife chased me and a woman down with a truck. All this time, my son kept a good head on his shoulders. Then, there was this night.
   I'm tucking my son into bed at my house. His nightlight is on, he is up to his shoulders in covers, and the dimly lit room is shadowed my stuffed animals and legos. He has brushed his teeth, taken a shower, and combed his hair and looks incredibly adorable when I walk into his room. Also, incredibly sad.
   "Logan, are you ok?", I ask, as I sit on the edge of his bed.
   "Not really, Pops", his cute squishy face looking down into his blanket.
   "Talk to me, Boog", best nickname ever, by the way.
   "It's this divorce thing. I just don't know what to think of it. It's starting to make me sad.", suddenly a ton of bricks falls on my emotions. My hearts sinks. I want to hold him. I want to cry with him. I want to tell him how fucked up I am over it, also. Yet, something kicks in.
   "Hey, look at me Boog", I grabbed him by his little chin. His big, ass blue eyes looked so pitiful and beautiful. "I know that in these times that it might be necessary for you to not only be sad, but be mad. Like really pissed. I understand that, and I would feel the same way. So, if you need someone to blame, here I am. Sitting right in front of you, and whether this affects our relationship today, tomorrow or in the future, I will always understand. I should have done a better job, as a father, as a husband. You both put your trust in me to be a good role model, and a strong man, and I failed. Yet, all I can do is move forward from this, and show you that not only in this situation, but in every situation in the future, that I can be that man. So, if you want to be sad, I will be here to hold you. And if you want to be mad, I will be here to take every punch." There was a long pause. A Mexican stand off.
  

   "Pops, I love you", he reached up, wrapped both arms around my neck, and squeezed like nobody's business.
   Here's to you Boog. One day I hope to be as strong as you.



  
  

Halt

This blog has been stopped due to emotional breakdown. Just give me time........just give me time.......just give me time...........

Fuck You for Being You

*editor's not: Sorry, vacation got me out of rhythm. Sometimes the joy of leaving one place for a while masks the inherited problems of that place.

Fuck you for being you.
Fuck you for being so nice.
Fuck you for being original.
Fuck you for the way you stand with your hands on your hips.
Fuck you for the way you smile.
Fuck you for the way you look up at me.
Fuck you for appreciating me as an artist.
Fuck you for the little pussy mound I can see in your shorts.
Fuck you for being intelligent.
Fuck you for the clothes you wear.
Fuck you for flirting with me.
Fuck you for making me feel like a man.
Fuck you for knowing when my comment is nuanced.
Fuck you for being sarcastic.
Fuck you for helping me with a bad day.
Fuck you for wanting to see me, again, and again, and again.
Fuck you for saying, "Good Morning".
Fuck you for saying, "Good Night".
Fuck you for asking how I'm doing.
Fuck you for looking me in my eyes.
Fuck you for letting me help you.
Fuck you for making me nervous.
Fuck you for being realistic about me.
Fuck you for your soft lips.
Fuck you for thinking highly of me.
Fuck you for more than you will ever know.
Fuck you for being you.



Blow Me Down

   It was a huge group of people. I hate that. My friend's birthday was on Wednesday, and the gathering was a pre-kickball dinner that was filled with familiar faces. Except two.
   She walked in with, presumably, her boyfriend. She was pixie-like. Short black hair that was cut in the way of Demi Moore in Ghost. Even if I had mentioned this reference to her, the empty response would have been a result of her being all of about 21 years old. You could tell. Her face had held onto the smile of a shy teenage girl. Her soft, freckled skin was smooth and white. Don't confuse this with pale. It was that soft white of the girl that never had a problem with acne. The black-netted blouse she was wearing did little to hide the cleavage of her young pert young tits. The valley of her stomach led down to the top button on the Levi's that had been cut into shorts. Shorts so small, when she walked away from the table, I could see the faint show of where her ass and long, slender legs met.
   She hated me. I was loud, depressed, and obnoxious. I could see that eye roll or that mouth agape when certain phrases came out of my head. The uncomfortable laughter when I said the words "Roller derby Miscarriage". Those words came long after this slid into my head.


    I could see her lips sliding over me. I could feel her tongue, and the way it rolled over every vain. Her large doe-like eyes looking up to me. I pull completely out of her mouth.
   "Don't stop", she whispers her plea. "I want to taste you. I want to drain you. I will cum with you."
   That's all I need to hear. She wipes the spit from her lower lip, and slides her hand down to the young, "paper-cut" of a slit between her legs. I grab myself with one hand, right at the base. Her mouth opens and I force into it, deep. She starts to moan and it vibrates up my spine.  I keep my hand on it and make myself feel like I'm shoving something in over and over again. Tears start to fall. The dark black mascara, that young twenty somethings use to overcompensate, starts to run down her cheeks. I take my hand off and grab the back of her head and bottom of her chin. I can see a faint smile as she closes her eyes. I gain leverage. She can imagine that her mouth now knows what her pussy would feel like, right now. I start to fuck her, hard. Her muffled moan is accented by the gurgling spit running down her chin, onto her stomach, and helping her "working" hand. We can't stop. She manages to look up at me, her eyes are telling me it's time. I work harder, and start to hit the back of her throat. I can feel her tongue start to wince. Her hand starts to move rapidly, and the top of her mouth is barely able to open from around me. The "doe" eyes open widen. Mine clamp shut. We both rain, pour, swallow, and grab onto the nearest object for support.

   This is what I can think of in literally ten seconds. Sitting across the table from someone. Not breaking conversation stride. Not batting an eyelash. Not showing a moment of conjecture. I keep wondering if something is wrong with me. If there is something wrong, I don't know if I want it to be fixed.