I Stopped Twice, and Never Saw it Coming.

   Weekends come and go, and sometimes as fast as their counterpart. This was one of those. An influx of great aspirations, mixed with the idealism of action, made for strange badfellows. Mix together car crashes, teenage lies, indoor picnics, surprise boyfriend visits, crying women, garage sales, dog shaving, listensing to the song "Sara Smiles" a few too many times, and sombreros. Yes, sombreros.
   I wonder if people think that I should listen to myself more often. Yet, if they could hear what I say, deep inside, they would ignore me too. Soon, very soon, the time will come for me to make that great trek. That cleansing of the soul. The sweet moment in time where I walk away from them all. I do smilingly refer to it as, "The Great Cleansing". Motivation has eluded me as to why I choose to wash away the acquaintances that have gathered around me every couple years. Trust me, it is not a form of social conceit. It's just cyclical.
   Hearing the same comedy, the same tragedy, can become overwhelmingly mundane. I don't mind, glee, sadness, gloating, sarcasm, self deprecation, etc., surrounding me. I just hate the same forms of it. It becomes predictable. Boring. The same person making the same joke about themselves, or others, becomes.......un evolved.
   Yes, I am sick of you right now. Can you tell?

 

 

 

P.S. Yes, this post is ADHD. 







The Precipice

“A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there... is... no... key.”  

 

 

 

   It was the third time I have seen her this week. Same spot, same time. She stands in line, directly in front of me. This time, it was a little different.

   "We have to stop meeting like this", she coyly stated. This hit a nerve since she is a stranger, and I want her to be so much more than that.

   "I know. They are going to start thinking we are casing the joint", I smiled through my response. I've never been good at initiation. This is where I get nervous and stammer.

   "I have a feeling this place won't make us Bonnie and Clyde."

   "I know. Just sad. I have a feeling they don't even have enough money to get us to the border", my mind has already wandered into "undressing her with my teeth" territory.

   "Let's be honest, neither of us would last ten minutes in a border town", she's got a smile on her face that I would love to turn into delightful anguish.

   "Speak for yourself sister. If need be, I'd just use you as a bargaining chip anyways", I can see her on her knees, mouth filled. Her large brown eyes, wide, and tears ruining her makeup.

   "Hahahahaahah, oh really? What's to say I wouldn't do the same to you", practically laughing at this point.

   "Please, I'm an Americanized Mexican. I'm worse than a lazy gringo. I can't even mow a decent lawn. I'm the worst bargaining chip you could hold", she is laughing almost hysterically. I can't stop smiling.

   "I guess I should stop thinking about this convenience store robbing fantasy and order my sandwich", she giggles.

   "Oh, yes, without a doubt, because I am a notorious "cutter". I was like a cat burglar in elementary school", she laughs, steps up in line, and smiles back at me.

   At this point I have done things to her in my head that would make her cry in a shower for days. Luckily, any physical manifestation of my thoughts can not be seen. She has laid in my bed and smoked cigarettes, while I read her Chaucer. We have made love in an alleyways, in Paris. Like Henry Miller, and every single prostitute that held on to his coat tails. She has laid on a Chaise Lounge, let me fuck her mouth, while her best friend tongued her, and yelled Satan's name in proper Aramaic.

   She turns and bids me farewell with a grin. My esteem tanks. My fantasy withers. I order my sandwich, and make my way back to work, throwing open the glass doors.  

   "What's your name?", with my head down, it could be anyone's voice, but I know who it is.
   "Robert. Sorry, I know I can take things too far. Especially in public", I extend my hand. She shakes it. Yes, as a matter of fact I am still picturing her moaning on top of me.
   "I'm Chelsea, don't worry about it. You're hilarious. We should go get a drink sometime. Do you work around here?"
   "Yeah, I work right up the road............", the conversation trails off into what she does. What I do. How we wish we had the rest of the day off. I'm letting the "We should get a drink sometime" sit out there. This is not going to be the ending I had hoped for, but it's the one that needs to happen.
   As we trail off to go to our respective places of slavery, she reaches inside he car, and comes out holding a business card.
   "Call me sometime. Maybe we could go see a show at a "real" comedy club. You know, instead of just making each other laugh", she winks. I accept the card.
   "I'd love that. I haven't been in a while, actually."
   "Do you have a card?", she rightfully inquires.
   "I do, but we just changed locations, and my new ones haven't come in yet", all the while my cards are trying to eat through my wallet. This is literally going against every fiber of my being.

   She leaves.
   I walk with my head hung even lower.
   Morals suck.
   Her card goes in the trash.



 

 



You Know Who You Are.

“There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”
― Henry Miller

 

 



It Has All Taken a Turn

   It really has. There is this incredible amount of anxiety and nervousness that goes with change. No matter that you like to tell people how versatile you are. You exclaim that you are used to altering yourself, or instability. No matter how liberal, and willing, you are to accept change. It is still different, and with that difference comes an amount of wariness. Discomfort.
   "I don't like this, at all", I stared up at her.
   "Shhhhhhhh. You are mine. Let go. Stop trying to control everything", she vampishly stared into my eyes. Her dark eyeliner highlighting a confident, secure look.
   "Seriously, this really isn't my thing. I've never done this before." Now, I was talking through a nervous half laugh. It didn't accent how absolutely serious I was. I was laying underneath her. She had started to wrap my wrists with my leather Brooks Brothers belt, above my head. The head board and my arms had become one.
    "I.....I....really....can't...", I stammered as she kissed her way down my stomach. Usually, anything soft, caressing that part of my body would cause me to kick and squirm. This was not the case. Looking up at me smiling, she could see me struggle. Testing how well she had tied my hands. It was tied extremely well, and quick. I was impressed. The loss of control. The inability to take my angry urges out on someone else. The small bit of helplessness, with someone you know, wouldn't truly hurt you. This has all the makings of sad, disastrous sex.
   With my eyes, and the feel of her breath moving farther down from my lips, the feeling of something different has set in quickly. I am the one that uses my hands. I use my arms on you. I use my belt on you. I whisper dirty things in your ear. I use my mouth on you, while you are tied helpless. This is not the way, sex with me, is supposed to go. Others have tried this. Why am I letting this go? Without any other classy description, this is where I go soft.
   I can feel her mouth enveloping me. The undesired result, of this loss of appendage use, has shown me the opposite. I can't get enough. I need more. This change has caused something. Something deep in me that I've never witnessed. Something I have struggled with has been broken. I can't stop feeling warm. My breath releases like it hasn't ever released before. She has me. All of me. Deep within her mouth, but for me it's also mental grasp. 
   "This is how this is supposed to feel," my mind says to my cock.
   "Oh yes it is", my cock excitedly says to my mind.
   "Now what do we do?", my mind inquires back to my cock.
   "Looks like you don't really have a say it what happens next", my cock is rarely right.

   This time it hit the nail on the head.





  

The Only Problem with Jumping off a Tall Building, is Getting Lonely on the Way Down.

I am almost done with the book. It's a parable. The symbolism is bold, and transparnet. Hating books like this used to be my hobby. Classics, who needs them? Obvioulsy, I do. In the last weeks it has brought me solace. A warm respite that no living person could have. In fact, no living person has done much to supply me with reassurance. The normal has been an uphill battle. The mundane has turned stressful. Vacation provided only a moment for everything to turn upside down. Yet, I couldn't be more determined.
   "You are a broke bastard", she turned to me and said.
   "I know. I need another paycheck, soon."
   "That's not what I'm talking about", laying there, calmly said between inhaling cigarette smoke.
   "You're right.", I'm wearing it as a badge of courage. Feeling like my mind is in a hospital bed, and occasionally getting up to try and walk with invalid legs. I like it this way. I knew what she was talking about. I was just hoping that a sly deflection would work. It didn't. It also didn't stop her from following me to the kitchen, and running her hands down my chest.
   "It's ok, baby. That's why I like you." She looked up into my eyes. "Let's be honest. That's really why any woman likes you." Fuck. It's ok when you say it to yourself. It sounds completely different coming out of someone else's mouth.



   

No use crying over spilled milk.

      It's funny how you can express yourself to one person, in a crowded room, with just a small piece of body language. It's not a wink, or a twirl of the hair, or even a touch that gets me. It's the quick glance. You know, that small look that happens when she glances up from talking to a friend, and quickly there is a soft, crooked smile. If done right, it's sly, and side of the mouth. It says, "don't talk to me, just look at me for a while, until I come near you. Then you can engage me, but don't be to overt."
   It slows you down. You might have been watching her all night. Quietly salivating. Side listening to her conversations, hoping to find that "in". Thinking to yourself that it's going to be a night where you either go home alone, or start texting a stand by.
   Then, it happens. You see the glance. You see that smile. She looks back down, and you realize that, the later the clock strikes, the better this soiree has become. You find yourself not positioning, but admiring. You know the time will come. You will do something small, like walk out the front door. Just to get some oxygen away from the crowd. Smoke a cigarette in quiet confidence. You've already seen the glance a few times. You know that no one is in a hurry to go anywhere.
   The door opens behind you.
   "Do you happen to have another one of those?", it's her voice, you aren't startled. This time was coming. You could see it. Luckily, she's the female, so she saw it before you did. Trust me. She did. You think that you found her attractive. She saw you come through the door. While you were busy shaking hands, and introducing yourself, she had already made the decision for both of you. When you were busy trying to find a way to interject in her conversations, she had already decided to steer the conversation in a direction to keep you on the outside. While you were busy salivating, trying to get her attention, she had made the effort to keep her gaze away until the right moment.
    This is how you ended up here. Fast forward. You are keeping one ear on the party, and another on her. You have quickly, and quietly found yourself in the bathroom. Pants around your ankles. These long, slim legs are wrapped around you, and her ass is being pushed against the counter so hard there is a soft squeaking noise every time she moans. You can see your face in the mirror, through your tight eyelids. You went from having nothing, to having it all in a matter of minutes. None of it was your choice. Yet, you still haven't realized that. Her mouth is open, no sound. Your brain is reeling, no thoughts. The night is ending on a high note.
   Until your head hits the pillow, and you realize, that nothing happened by accident. Nothing ever happens by accident. Nothing ever will, happen by accident.



  

When I look into her eyes.

"I want to do to you, what Springtime does to the cherry blossoms. In a prison way." -Pablo Neruda.