Skip to content

What Is Fall?

August 16, 2013
tags: , ,

Fall: a brick being thrown into a TV behind a bar, bursting the picture tube and making a white flash. We all laugh.

Porch smoking at the house on Camp, the roommate’s bedroom walls plastered with pornography: life sized vaginas everywhere.

School’s start, walking into the smell of the sour stale of it after the summer.

Fall: in the back of the class during chemistry, joking about sex I hadn’t had yet.

Underage and they won’t let me in the bar this time. I sulk and go home, mad at the friend who ditched me when she got in. I stew, alone, angry that no one wants to hang out with me.

Fall: I want rough hands that aren’t yours all over me. I don’t know anything about them, but that they’re not yours.

Waiting for the bus. The bright colors of the fallen leaves make the grass look greener. The slickness the fog’s left makes the tree trunks glimmer in a dull slimy way.

Lugging my saxophone around again for band. It knocks against my leg when I walk to and from the bus and down the hall.

Long lazy afternoons and nights, drinking, riding around in a cab.

A man inside and on me, cold corners of my body where the blankets have shifted, muted noon light through high windows.

Fall: walking through the city streets while my brains are percolating, spitting hot thoughts and making up reasons I’m alive, messages revealing themselves in figures hidden in the wood grain of a telephone pole, obvious to anyone who knows how to look for them.

Painting my face like a skull on Halloween and scaring passing children walking down the street.

Hard cider in the alley and gripping a hard ass muscle.

The crunch of leaves and the fungal smell of the inside of a pumpkin.

Protesting the war with a sandwich board sign. On one side is a painted utility knife that says “Weapon of Mass Destruction.” On the other hang two dolls painted to look burnt-black and bloody. “Liberated Iraqui Babies,” it reads.

Muscle against me with the world at arm’s length.

The smell of the inside of a lunch box, the rotten smell even fresh fruit makes and the yeasty burst of the sandwich bread upon opening the bag.

Fall: my breast is cupped for the first time behind a movie theater, the cold wind delicious on my collarbone.

By the cube at Union Square, I yearn for something I can never have while the world moves fast around my bewildered mind, breaking with reality for the first time.

The tang of new cardboard boxes and fresh paint.

Fall: the soft sound of rain on wet leaves.

A pint of cider in a bar with strangers before getting on the road to meet who I thought was fate.

Raking the big yard, the inside of my nostrils caked with pulverized leaf, with a sore throat and puberty’s rude shadow invading everything.

The bite of winter creeping in under my collar and the jingle of the buckle on my jacket.

Making music with friends, liberated and drunk, letting intuition make me scream.

Fall: as seen through the windows of the state hospital’s cafeteria, the lawn, only slightly less green, and the flags whipping in the high wind under a grey sky.

Advertisements

What’s an Ugly Scene Between Roommates Look Like?

July 12, 2013

Deadbeat groggily opens door of bedroom wearing sunglasses, scratches head, puzzled, speaks in froggy, bewildered voice.

DEADBEAT: Hey. The electricity’s out.

ROOMMATE WHO’S HAD TO EAT EVERY EXPENSE SO FAR AND BEEN LIED TO ABOUT MONEY FOR MORE THAN A MONTH (RWHTEEESFABLTAMFMTAM): Yeah. I turned it off so I could permanently disable the air conditioner.

DEADBEAT: You can’t do that.

RWHTEEESFABLTAMFMTAM (Clips the wires dangling from the wall with tin-snips): I just did. I’m not paying for it anymore. You lied about paying the rent.

End

I have come to understand that the reason I have been used in my life is because I accepted being used.

Someone I used to care for published something today, essentially blaming me for his lack of self regard. You can’t put that shit on me. That’s what I would say to him if I had the chance to tell him anything.

That relationship, like so many in my life, was based on me expressing more regard for someone else, at certain points, than I did even for myself. It was a bond formed on emotional pressure. I felt important because I could help and I could advocate and I thought that the balance would change sometime. The person in question (PIQ) was so ill at a certain point that I wondered if he might die if I weren’t there. I spent time worrying, long hours at his side or nearby at the expense of my own life and the deteriorating relationship I had with my boyfriend at the time. I was under pressure, holding down two jobs (one of which kept me in close proximity to PIQ) and lived an hour and a half by bus away in a working class neighborhood in Buenos Aires.

Much later, I grew tired of PIQ because I saw how ungrateful and self-serving he was. It wasn’t even on my own account that I first realized it. Someone had held a benefit for him, raising cash and handing it to him on the spot. This Woman (TW) had rallied, gotten the OK of a bar and even a substantial alcohol donation, solicited auction items from the community for books and photographs and things for his benefit. He was about to move and needed a suitcase, and she had told him she’d bring one.

The event was over and PIQ was quite drunk, to the point of slurring, and a guy we know was walking with us to the bus stop. It was quite a trek. PIQ was in a foul mood, his cadence like sea waves cresting and crashing, and each statement a negative one. He was much better than he’d been when I’d feared for his life, but was sick and fed up with his situation. Despite everyone’s kindness to him that night, or maybe because of it, he spewed what was stupid and why about this and that. Finally he lit on TW, brandishing the large duffle she’d given him and saying, “Does this look like a fucking suitcase to you? What the fuck is wrong with her? Now what the fuck am I going to do?”

“I don’t know. Get some fucking boxes?” I said in a bitchy tone. He hadn’t thanked me for my effort (albeit a small one) in helping with the event and he had hundreds of pesos in his pocket, maybe around a thousand. “TW helped you a lot tonight. I’m fucking sick to death of your negativity.”

The conversation changed quickly then and the guy we were with hung out so we could make sure PIQ got on the bus. He was so drunk, we were afraid to leave him there on his own. We waited for nearly an hour, then PIQ decided to get a cab, but it was almost impossible to find an empty one of those. I was very tired. The guy we were with and I saw busses that would take us home at dwindling intervals as we attempted for nearly half an hour to hail a cab for PIQ. He didn’t appreciate it if he even remembered it and it took me another hour of waiting to decide to give up and take a cab home, wasting time and money.

I saw then that there was no slack for any perceived transgression. TW’s effort was unacceptable. You might forgive this as a drunken outburst, but it showed me something fundamental about him as he had yelled at me several times, accused me of things, even once screaming at me for making fun of a teen television drama he insisted I watch with him. In every case he was sick or drunk. He never apologized for it, and I had seen the pattern by then. Everything that was wrong in his life was someone else’s fault.

That’s why today, I was not at all surprised to read that it’s apparently my fault now that he won’t go to the doctor. His disregard for himself is brought on by the enormous blow to his spirit it was when, for the last time, I asked for an apology. He’d screamed at me after I’d spent four hours every day for a week visiting him in the hospital. I found him a place to stay, even after he’d insulted me in front of a room full of mutual acquaintances and friends. I felt responsible. But I was angry that he’d treated me the way he did.

About a month later, he asked me for a favor. I said I would do it if he would apologize for yelling at me. He became irate and told me that the aggression he’d felt free to unload on me was justified because he was upset and in a lot of pain. That was the moment I decided I’d had enough, that I’d been used enough. “After all I did for you, you can’t even bother to apologize when you’ve treated me badly. Don’t ever ask me for anything again.”

Training yourself not to be treated like shit can take a long time. I’m no master, and I’m closer to 40 than 30. But now that that’s one of my primary goals in life, I have no doubt I will succeed. Now, if you want to listen to a cheesy hair metal song from the ’80s, this would be the time.

What the Hell Is Wrong with Me?

March 17, 2013

The Sun or the Fall of Icarus, 1819, Merry-Joseph Blondel (1781-1853), Photo: Wikimedia Commons user Jastrow. Click to go.

The Sun or the Fall of Icarus, 1819, Merry-Joseph Blondel (1781-1853), Photo: Wikimedia Commons user Jastrow. Click to go.

I feel a taste of success and go flying out to remedy it. It’s not something I allow myself. It’s not something I appreciate. It’s not something I feel I will ever have. This is more than alcoholism. It’s a denial of independence.

A friend of mine died recently. He died because his body couldn’t handle alcohol, but he kept on drinking. He kept on thinking he was invincible. Or else he saw that he was killing himself. I know it’s possible to see both things at the same time. Maybe he did.

I thought the lesson of his death was that we need to treat people with mental problems with more kindness. I thought that it meant that we need to show support and love in any way we can, even when it hurts, because the person I knew him to be was someone who accepted people, who showed love in a way that was profound to the ones he gave it to. I thought that if someone could have been there in the right way at the right time with the right word, or that if a thousand someones were in little ways across time, that it might not have ended this way.

But each decision he made that pushed people away sealed him tighter in the drum he was in and the chaos was a bacteria in there with him that grew and pushed at the borders of himself. For right or for wrong.

I see now that he didn’t accept himself. He was out there. There was a touch of immortal about the way he saw things and did things and because there was a divinity mixed in with the breakdowns, the upsets, the losses, the addictions, the broken friendships, the arrests, and the assaults, because of this, there was no talking to him. There was right in the same place where the wrong was and no one could square that, least of all him. There was inspiration in the self-abuse. There was strength in the veneer of denial. There was growth in the loss — a crooked, lateral growth that expanded something that seemed important and was hard or impossible to let go of.

In this last year, since I started to drink again, I thought that the hurdles alcohol took away were worth the consequences. It’s really hard for me to contemplate letting go of that ease in access to my strongest thoughts, to the shackled person inside.

When I went back to my hometown, I saw the behaviors that hurt me. They came from outside me and became part of me. I will, forever, in my mind, be an idiot, a moron, hysterical, and ashamed of my emotions. My abuse was shone in my face like a spotlight and set off a Rube Goldberg machine inside me. “This is where it comes from!” my mind shouted. I was angry and tried so hard not to show it. I am angry. Maybe it’s all I am. And all this time, I thought the recognition of what it was and where it came from made me immune from the pain. But I’m tucked right back into that cycle. I need, selfishly, to live it large to illustrate to myself what it is. It starts small: a humiliation I can pick at and chew on until I do something worse, then worse, then worse. It’s an echo that becomes a hurricane and wipes out everything good I ever do. I do it so I can be comfortable in my worthlessness. So I can be the problem that everyone can focus on and solve, so I can be the bad guy, so I can nullify myself again and again and again. Back to 0. And when I think I’m over it, I do it again. I’m the symptom exhibitor. And in the midst of a proud hour, I have to chop myself apart no matter who’s in proximity to the hatchet.

Knowing this doesn’t change anything. It’s the same as it ever was. I have always known. I will always know. The lesson has always been the same. Without alcohol, with alcohol, I manage it anyway. Drinking is the brick on the accelerator, but the car’s already pointed toward the lake and the kids are in the trunk. It’s only the destruction of my hubris that makes me who I am, and makes me hate who I have the potential be more than who I am. It’s the only thing that saves me. It kills me.

Euphoria or Dysphoria?

February 1, 2013

This beard is bullshit.

This beard is bullshit.

I spent yesterday trying out a binder. The wealth of information out there on how to bind your chest is really impressive. I got pretty damn flat. It looked awesome and didn’t hurt, thanks to a technique from Amber at FuckYeahBinders. I used a lumbar support brace instead of ace bandages — much better.

Today, I tried applying the beard I bought, and it’s just not right. I think, to be minutely satisfied with my appearance when I cross, I’m going to have to go spirit gum and sticking individual hairs to my face. The mustache and beard and the sideburns I bought aren’t going to work. I spent some time figuring that out today, and I got a look I like with the real hair (and there’s still someone’s human hair in my mouth) from the beard, which, when I bought it looked like something Hell’s Angels circa 1970. I bet whoever sold their hair to the wigmakers never imagined it would be stuck to some bitch’s face. The trimmings are serving me well, though the net beard itself is not.

Wednesday, I’m going to emcee a comedy show as Frank Brohaim. He’s a closeted gay sexist prick of a comedian, and a total hack, but I’m excited as hell about this.

In the process of trying on all the “costume” of Frank, though, I’m encountering a feeling that’s not foreign to me.

After I unbound my chest yesterday, I just felt sad. I wanted to keep it on, and then I had to go out and so I took it off. And I regret the shape of my body.

That’s also nothing new. As a stocky, chubby woman who’s pushing 40, the things I already hated about my body are exactly the same, only it’s exaggerated when I see a flat chest with the rest of it because nothing about my body would ever pass.

Today with the beard, it was the same thing. I had to spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, and I liked what I saw when I got it on. I cut a little out of my hairline that I can cover with my bangs. And I started watching videos of guys who have transitioned. I went on a huge binge. To a man, the change was something positive in their lives. It isn’t without its struggles. It’s clear that there are plenty of things these guys have to contend with to this day. But there’s an overall sense of self-actualization in the videos I watched.

The thing is, it’s not always that I think about my gender. It’s been more lately because of things I’m reading, the politics I follow, because I have more lesbian friends than ever and I don’t feel weird talking to them about these things (hopefully not to the point of being annoying). I also have one awesome straight guy friend I talk about it with a lot.

I feel like I’m not transgendered, then I feel like I am. If I’m riding the fence about this, I feel like it’s not true — maybe not even in part. I see these videos from guys who made the change and are happier than ever with their lives, and I have to say that my life isn’t all that bad. It took a long time to be okay with being a psycho leather freak and being out about that. I’m doing standup and look forward to doing more. My writing is for me — I have the luxury of that. I live a life of my choosing. I have great friends.

I also have a friend who made the change. She got top surgery, and then at a certain point, had to transition back. It just wasn’t right. I don’t think she regrets it now, but what she told me about it sounded painful. She struggled for acceptance as trans, passed as a man, then had to fight for acceptance again as a woman.

Before starting the sex writing challenge, I read Roving Pack by Sassafras Lowrey. I had already decided to be Frank at open mic, and gender was something I’d been thinking about more than usual because of that. Hir book showed me a lot about being trans and about trans culture that I never knew or considered. I highly recommend it to anyone. I love hir stance on the gender binary. It’s a spectrum. I’m way more about Jung than Freud (Animus in the house!).

While all this was going on, some guy I met at an SM event wrote me wanting me to top him. What he wanted was sex. And he’s much younger than I am, and totally inexperienced. I agreed to hang out, to play with him at the next event, and things got sexual. I didn’t deliver on what he wanted right away. I was concerned with taking things slowly and introducing him to the lifestyle. It seems he lost interest, but I shocked myself by becoming unbearably turned on after struggling to keep the little brat in his place all night.

Normally, I’m not very good about writing about what’s happening in my life. If you’ve read the last four entries here, you might have noticed a pattern: I write about the past when it’s all squared away and I know how I feel about it.

I’m starting to think that’s kind of a wuss move. So while normally, I keep my writing about my confusions to myself, I think it’s time for me to push myself a little more. Is this some Jodie Foster not-coming-out coming out? I don’t even know the answer to that question. What I do know is that my perception of myself is changing, and I’m letting it because to me, that’s what freedom is all about.

How Did You Fall in Love in Buenos Aires?

January 21, 2013

A sneeze is an orgasm for your nose.  Photo by Beatrice Murch. Click to go.

A sneeze is an orgasm for your nose. Photo by Beatrice Murch. Click to go.

I was worried that it would be too soon. I said to him in butchered Spanish, “But will you call me after? I just don’t want to do it if you’re going to lose respect for me.”

He corrected my conjugation before he said he would call.

The last time we’d hung out, we were shamelessly clothes-burning all along a long walk through Villa Crespo. A dark doorway, a street corner, behind a parked school-bus, against a tree. Big-city frottage. It was a real turn-on, and the fact that his kisses lacked subtlety was okay for me then. His eagerness was something I already knew couldn’t be learned, and kissing could, I reasoned. And he seemed to be a fast learner.

Now we were leaving a pub where we’d sat on the second floor. I was long sober then, drank water and diet soda. We wrote the words we were learning from each other in my notebook, drew little pictures as we corrected each other’s pronunciation. When he pulled me to him and kissed me full on the mouth in the midst of the other patrons, no one even seemed to notice and we spent a long hour necking in the dark room with marble tables and wrought-iron chairs.

He suggested that we leave, that we go to a nearby telo. I knew that telos were common. I knew that they were “love hotels” and that their use carries little to no stigma in Argentine society. When you have a multi-generation family home, sometimes you just need to get away to do it right.

He had tattoos over almost his entire body. To behold his wide shoulders and round tattoo-covered ass, his uncut hard-on, his wide fingers, and his taut, round belly gave me a jolt. He was so visually appealing to me, looking at him felt like being high. I stared greedily. His movements were assured and graceful and masculine. He’d given up a decades-long study of martial arts in the recent past. When I looked into his eyes, I saw a pure being there: someone interested in what was happening in my mind, someone curious about life and himself, and whose emotions were not hidden. It was a refreshing dose of honesty after fucking so many jaded losers for so many years.

In the foyer, he spoke to a young man behind a plexiglass window. He put the money into a drawer that ran beneath the counter, like the money and merchandise was handled in service stations in my old neighborhood. He paid and got the keys and I felt embarrassed.

He seemed to be rock hard effortlessly. His cock just stood up at attention with the least provocation, even though he was a couple years older than my 33. I would watch him as he went to take off the rubber and clean his dick in the sink and feel like I was ready to go again.

The room was mirrored on nearly all sides. I was immediately drawn to the knobs over the bed that were so like a car console. The headboard’s black, lacquered surface housed a radio, dials to the various sets of recessed ceiling lights for any variety of mood-lighting, and a button to call the front desk. There was a menu so you could order drinks and food and ice. The shower was frosted plexi. The bed had a black rubber mattress and an ill-fitting set of cheap sheets.

That first night, we tried at least a dozen positions: standing, sitting, lying down, off the side of the bed. I felt no compunction about making a ton of noise. I was so loud, I was even more sheepish leaving than I had been going in.

I loved the shivery way he responded to me, the vulnerable sound he made when he came, the way he regarded my body. It felt so good to be seen in such an overtly sexual way, but to be treated with affection. Affection was one thing missing from my romantic life for many years by then.

I loved surprising him with odd positions or new sensations. There was a purity to his enjoyment of sex that I also saw when he ate. I used to love watching him eat, because there was this naked happiness I could see in his face. He seemed to taste with every part of himself, and it was the same thing with his sex. He was the first person whose noisy eating wasn’t something I had to tolerate because I loved seeing him get so much pleasure that I barely noticed his horrible table manners.

When he looked at me as we fucked or when I went down on him, he was obviously so pleasantly surprised by my frank handling of his tool, and I felt more sexy watching him enjoy me. His eyes would go wide as I scratched my fingernails along his balls. I could see that I was introducing him to things he’d never experienced before and watching him assimilate new sensations gave me a joy I’d never felt with another partner.

I had never been with anyone so freely physically affectionate. There were hugs and kisses and grunting bear hugs. The love I felt from him was something I could almost breathe into myself.

We were a sweaty mess. Every surface of our bodies glistened. My eyes stung with the salt from my own skin and my eyeliner bled into dark, heroin-chic half-moons. I’d glimpse my face, red and distended in orgasm or catch a glimpse of my swinging tits as he did me from behind and look away from the mirror, at him. His truth in my raw, animal sexiness was much more pleasant to look at. I felt gratified that my orgasm made him come even if it meant shortening mine. We’d lie wordlessly with the Argentine alternative radio station on low, barely touching and sweaty and spent. Then one of us would make a joke and we’d be babbling like kids at the back of the school-bus again.

When I think about it, I see why we ended up together. And it’s hard to see how it got so bad in the end.

*

This post is the fourth of the Sex Writing Challenge. This challenge is more to myself than anyone else, but it’s also an invitation. Want to write about how sex goes in your own life? Comment on any post here with your own.

What’s too Far?

January 12, 2013

When I pulled up outside the convenience store, he asked me for a smoke. He was cute, with a square jaw and wrinkled clothes, stubble, and blue eyes. I told him I’d give him one after I bought some.

When I came back out, he said his name was John, that he was staying at a nearby shelter. I was in one of those low-grade manias where everything seems predestined, and felt connected to him immediately. I had the day off and asked him if he wanted to hang out. He got in the car.

(Photo by contact-ts.)

He didn’t tell me about the shelter’s curfew, so when I offered him a ride back there and he told me he couldn’t go back so late, I let him stay at my apartment. He laughed easily. We got some beer. We wound up kissing, then having sex. He was rough in all the right ways — not kinky, but rough. I liked the way his hands felt on my body.

After he’d been with me for a couple days, we went to a massive bar in town called The Back Door, famous for their generous pours. Lots of the neighborhood drunks were there every night on the same barstools, and many more came to play pool and darts in the back. We got a booth, and we each got a drink. Since I was driving, I couldn’t have more than one. I saw the look in my friends’ faces when I introduced him. They were obviously unimpressed, and I could see that as far as they were concerned, I’d picked another loser.

Out in the parking lot, I was about to start the car when I noticed the people parked next to my side were smoking a joint. “God, I’d love some weed,” I said, and I waved at them with the intention of seeing if they’d sell me a little.

John was immediately enraged, and I didn’t understand why. “You can’t just ask people something like that,” he yelled. “I know a place where we can get some weed. Start the car and I’ll tell you how to get there.”

“I only have, like fifteen dollars,” I said. “Who’s going to sell me fifteen dollars’ worth?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just go out the back parking lot.”

I did as he said, though I was a little frightened by his tone and didn’t understand what the big deal was in asking people who were clearly already smoking weed if they might want to sell a little.

I followed his directions and we wound up in some projects that weren’t too far from my apartment. He got out of the car and I waited. He came back with a man who got in the passenger seat. John sat in the back, and the man with dark skin and a pompadour hairdo lit up a glass pipe. It smelled a little like burnt sugar.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not having crack in my car. Get out.”

“It’s not crack,” said John. “It’s weed. Smoke some. You’ll like it.”

“What do you think? That I’m some kind of fucking idiot? Get the fuck out of the car.” The man handed the pipe back. John held the lighter to it and inhaled deeply, the planes of his face illuminated briefly with the flame. “John! John! Fucking cut it out! You can’t fucking smoke crack in my car.”

He ignored me and so did the man in the front seat and I started to cry in frustration. I got out of the car with the keys and hid behind some shrubbery in front of one of the identical housing units. I sobbed in the bushes, watching the spark of the lighter passing between them in the darkness. Then I watched as they got out of the car and John and the man started arguing. John pushed the man, then hit him, and the man fell down. He towered over the man in the street and yelled, “Kate, come on! We gotta go.”

I ran out from the bushes, got into the car and started it. It was clear to me that John had refused to pay the man, but he lied and said that the man had wanted me to have sex in exchange for the drugs. I was furious. My car was conspicuous, with spray-painted symbols all over it, and I didn’t live far from the projects. John hadn’t only put me in danger by smoking and running, but had made me and my car a target. The guy could have friends. The guy could impulsively take revenge for being ripped off and assaulted if he happened to see my car. This was my neighborhood and John had made me a moving target.

The ride back to my place was fueled by a crack panic. I felt culpable. I felt like we were escaping from a crime scene, that there might be people after us. He issued commands about how to get to my house, as if I didn’t know. We argued the whole way back. I concentrated on the road about 100 feet in front of me. I kept checking the speedometer, careful to stay within the limit. It was all I could do just to focus on driving while the empty nausea of fear pounded in my belly and I could feel my heart beating in my head. I decided to park behind my apartment complex, fearful that my car out front would be recognized.

I lived on the second floor. Someone had run into the wooden staircase behind the apartments with a car, and the back steps hung from the joints at the top. The bottom couple stairs were missing, and it was difficult to mount them. It was an unwarranted and delusional fear that prevented us from just going around to the front of the building. Instead, we threw ourselves up onto the dangling stairs that bucked with our weight and walked the long, unpainted wooden balcony to the front of the building where my apartment was.

We were arguing the whole way, and once we got inside, John grabbed my wrists and held my arms at my sides and kissed me. He pushed himself against me and reached under my skirt and pulled down my tights. He got on his knees in front of me and started to lick me. My fear started to evaporate in my warm arousal. When he pulled on my arms to get me down on the floor, I complied.

Then he got on top of me and started to push his cock inside of me. He wasn’t wearing a condom. “Stop it,” I yelled. “Hey, hey, hey! Stop it! You’re not wearing a rubber, god damn it. Stop.”

He didn’t stop and he’d made me wet so he’d slid in easily and was thrusting into me as I yelled. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed as hard as I could against him, but it didn’t slow him down at all. I started screaming and trying to get my feet under his legs to get enough leverage to get him off of me. “Fucking motherfucker! Get the fuck off of me. No! No! Stop!”

Nothing I said made any difference to him. He was a fucking machine, intent on getting his rocks off inside of me, and so I started to hit at him and kick at him from the side. I balled up my fist and punched him in the side of the head, but it was as if he could feel no pain and he just kept humping. The weight of his body was too much for me to lift.

I managed to get my knee under his abdomen and pushed with all my might. I pushed his cock out of me that way, and he rolled to the side and I stood. “How fucking dare you.”

He lay on the floor, his cock still hard, his pants down around his thighs. He looked up at me. His face in the light from the street-lamps outside looked lost and detached.

It was then that I heard my neighbor’s voice through the floor. “I’m calling the police,” he yelled. He’d heard the whole thing.

“It’s okay, George. I’m sorry,” I hollered back. “We’ll be quiet. There’s no need to call the cops.”

The idea of having cops in my house, of having to explain the whole crack situation, was too much. I’d stopped him before he came in me, and I told myself that what had just happened wasn’t that big a deal because I’d won.

“You sure?” he yelled back.

“Yes, George. Thanks. It’s okay.”

John wasn’t contrite until the next day. He stayed, and maybe we dozed, but early in the morning, I told him to leave. He started to apologize and I told him that I didn’t want to hear it.

A couple weeks later I was institutionalized again. One day after I got out, there was a knock on my back door on a Saturday morning. The sound startled me from sleep. The only person who ever knocked that door was the exterminator and he came on Fridays. I went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“John.”

“Go away, John.”

“I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Good for you. Now go away.”

I never saw him again.

*

This post is the third of the Sex Writing Challenge. This challenge is more to myself than anyone else, but it’s also an invitation. Want to write about how sex goes in your own life? Comment on any post here with your own.

Is This a Poem?

January 8, 2013

What you can see in the clouds...

What you can see in the clouds…

What if I used to be twins with someone? What if we had a relationship of the deepest kind and got divided? And then were reincarnated far away from each other?

Or what if that’s not right at all. What if it’s really that I was a part of a bigger soul, and those other parts are knocking around and I hear their echos? What if I hear them in recordings? What if I hear them in thin air?

What if all that connects us all is our passions? Are parts of people, great people, split and disseminated? And the rest of us are not so great? But then there’s an Einstein or a Bourgeois or a Truth or a Christ or a Curie?

What if there is nothing? What if everything in my head is just moving cogs that keep the animal alive?

What if we are a festering bacteria in the turd of a massive intergalactic space dog and the owner of the dog is going to pick up that turd and send it hurling into a waste receptacle where it will be transported and fester in something analogous to a landfill? What if it’s just that a second there is a million years here?

What if I still believed in love? What if I still do?

What if I just felt a breath in my ear and that wasn’t the fan?

What if all we can do is teach and show and build fellowship?

What if the world really does matter?

What if we keep destroying the land? The oceans?

No, now there there’s no what if. This is what we do.

%d bloggers like this: