grant me the
Serenity
Serenity
to accept the people I cannot kill,
Courage
Courage
to massacre those I can, and the
Wisdom
to know who will be missed.
PHASE TWO BEGINS
15 years ago
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Repatriation of the Planet of the Apes
Before the naked ape
took control of his dominion
the jungle was sultanate
to his brother the simian
When man's kingdom falls
to the secret of hydrogen
The family of pongidae
will renew their lost sovereign
took control of his dominion
the jungle was sultanate
to his brother the simian
When man's kingdom falls
to the secret of hydrogen
The family of pongidae
will renew their lost sovereign
My Lover Loses Her Temper
My lover loses her temper
and every fucking star
shatters to slivers
falling at my feet
A lexicon of loathing
unleashed at her blithering idiot
My face, swiped and sore,
flames from her abrasive tongue
Balance lost, I stagger
spattered by exclamations
of spitting anger
And I am too stunned to strike back
Tripping again, as I always do
I submit to the blame,
for I must vex her so
due to some transgression on my part
or a witless overstep of sacred bounds
Only a humbled apology
spares further assault
Such is my fate
to be the dupe of my woman's scorn
while suffering the stigma of provocateur
Reason holds no place in our love
and I've no courage to question
when my lover loses her temper
and every fucking star
shatters to slivers
falling at my feet
A lexicon of loathing
unleashed at her blithering idiot
My face, swiped and sore,
flames from her abrasive tongue
Balance lost, I stagger
spattered by exclamations
of spitting anger
And I am too stunned to strike back
Tripping again, as I always do
I submit to the blame,
for I must vex her so
due to some transgression on my part
or a witless overstep of sacred bounds
Only a humbled apology
spares further assault
Such is my fate
to be the dupe of my woman's scorn
while suffering the stigma of provocateur
Reason holds no place in our love
and I've no courage to question
when my lover loses her temper
Monday, August 11, 2008
Pepino Voce Is Cute
Before picking up Lacey, his girlfriend of nearly a year now, and heading out to dinner, Nicholas Pocard had to call USA Trade Bank and transfer money from his savings to his checking account – an action which reminded him of the need to find a job soon, or else be unable to pay for his and Lacey’s routine Fancy Fridays. To Nicholas, Lacey wasn’t particularly demanding, but she kept to traditional gender roles which meant that she never deigned to enter a cab first, remove her own coat, or pay for a formal dinner. Mostly because of Lacey’s striking beauty, this ladylike obsession (no doubt inherited from her wealthy Alabaman mother) annoyed Nicholas no more than a slight tic would have, as if instead of draining one hundred dollars from him each week, Lacey was merely stretching her fingers on the edge of her seat every three minutes.
An automated bank teller’s “Thank you,” came through the earpiece and then, as Nicholas was taking the phone away from his ear, “Please stay on the line for our brief customer survey.” Nicholas, not one to bend to corporate interests beyond what was needed, hung up the phone, buttoned his shirt, slapped on a scent and left to pick up Lacey.
----
Lacey Allon looked like a teenaged angel when she opened the door for Nicholas Pocard. Like always, she was wearing a more-than-a-little formal gown for their Friday evening out. Nicholas noticed that her outfit and hair, together with the shape of her body, made her appearance not unlike that of a giant-sized bishop from a chess set, with the bottom two-thirds painted a rich blue by a player more interested in aesthetics than strategy.
Lacey skipped down the stairs of her front porch ahead of Nicholas. “Where to, darling?” she smiled, turning to face her boyfriend at the bottom of the stairs. Nicholas, hands in his slacks (which were only a bit too small for him) walked down the stairs two at a time, but slowly.
“I was thinking Pepino’s,” he said, taking his right hand from his pocket and placing it on Lacey’s cheek. After a kiss, the two turned hand-in-hand towards Nicholas’ Dodge.
“I like that,” said Lacey. “Anything else?”
“I just thought of Pepino’s,” said Nicholas.
“You only thought of one idea?” said Lacey, who, like the lady she was, waited for her door to be opened.
“Just the one,” said Nicholas. Opening Lacey’s door, Nicholas gasped at a nearly-empty package of cigarettes lying on Lacey’s seat. Lacey picked up the cigarettes without a word and, straightening her skirt against the backs of her thighs, sat down calmly, her knees hardly separating throughout the whole motion.
Nicholas sat down on something small which gave way. “You’re sitting on something,” said Lacey.
“I’m sorry. I left them on your seat,” said Nicholas almost dismissively, trying to steer the controversy towards chivalry – clearing the lady’s seat – rather than the more troublesome issue of Lacey’s hatred of tobacco products.
“You left what.”
“Smokes.”
“Do you smoke?”
“They’re Trace’s.”
“Trace’s,” said Lacey, with mock epiphany.
“They are. How could I smoke? You know how much I run.”
“When was the 10K again?”
“I don’t know when the 10K was, Lacey. Two months ago, maybe,” said Nicholas, trying to be peeved at Lacey as much as she was at him.
“Well, keep up the running there,” said Lacey, putting her hand on his thigh. “Don’t get mad, Nick. We’re not fighting.”
Nicholas took a second or two to speak. “I know we’re not. Lean over and kiss the driver, please.” She did. “So, Pepino’s? Or something else?”
“Let’s do Pepino’s. I like their shrimp,” said Lacey, leaning over to kiss Nicholas again.
“Pepino’s it is, then.”
----
Pepino Voce was a thin, one might say gaunt, Italian man not over five and one-half feet tall. An exceptionally polite host, he greeted diners as if they were entering an art gallery filled with paintings by his late father. Each man was greeted with a warm, firm handshake that made him reconsider Pepino’s size, as if he had mistaken a contrabassoon for a piccolo. This handshake between host and gentleman, it must be noted, naturally only came once each lady in the party had been embraced, kissed, and relieved of her coat.
Mr. Voce’s restaurant was like a projection of the man into dining room format. Pepino’s, at once small and spacious, hummed like a harmonica with its popping corks, an attentive wait staff, and carefree conversation without there ever being a moment when one did not have a secure sense of quietude. Pepino’s restaurant was as inviting, and as full of charming contradictions, as Pepino Voce himself.
But even the best of hosts cannot be equally hospitable to all, and Pepino Voce quite preferred pretty girls. So that when Lacey Allon and Nicholas Pocard entered his restaurant, the smile and handshake which Nicholas received were as cryptically, almost imperceptibly, cold and jealous as Lacey’s welcome was mildly tinged with sex. A distant observer with great vision could never have failed to notice Mr. Voce’s lecherous scowl as Lacey and Nicholas were ushered to their table.
Lacey ordered shrimp and Nicholas had the veal. Nicholas tried to order a bottle of wine, but the waiter asked for identification. So they both had iced tea.
----
“This was a good idea,” said Lacey, signaling she was finished eating by taking her napkin out of her lap and folding it next to her plate. “I always forget how much I like Pepino’s until I come back again.”
“Agreed,” said Nicholas, still eating.
Lacey sat, faintly smiling with her hands in her lap, and looked about the room for a moment before she spoke again, as if counting diamonds in a jewelry store. “You know what half of it is? I mean what’s great about this place, you know what half of it is? It’s Mr. Voce. I just love him. Isn’t he the nicest little man?”
“I like him.”
“He’s the cutest thing,” said Lacey, shaking her head at Pepino Voce, who looked up, found Lacey’s face like a walnut among almonds, and gave a quick finger-wave.
Just then, the waiter walked over and asked Nicholas if they needed anything. “I think we can do the check, please,” said Nicholas. Then, to Lacey: “I thought I was cute.”
Lacey reached her hand across and laid it on Nick’s. “Oh Nick, you know I think you’re cute,” she said. Nicholas stood up to kiss her across the table.
“And you, my darling, are ravishing,” said Nicholas, emphasizing the last word in a hauty accent.
“Don’t! Don’t talk sexy in my mother’s voice,” giggled Lacey.
“Talk dirty to me.”
“Stop,” said Lacey, and slapped Nicholas’ hand.
They looked at eachother until Nicholas continued. “I’m serious though, Lace. Let’s talk about this. I mean, I really wonder. What makes two people as different as Mr. Voce and I are both ‘cute’?”
“Why is that so hard?”
“Well, for example. I mean…Okay, I got it. I mean, when girls say ‘cute’ – and I’m making an assumption here – I think when girls say the word ‘cute’ they don’t exactly mean it like the dictionary says. Like, you could say that a bear cub is cute but that doesn’t mean the same as ‘Pepino Voce is cute.’ When you say it about a person – a male person – it’s something else.”
“That’s quite an assumption.”
“I think I’m onto something. You’re nervous.”
“Am not. You’re just over-analyzing everything I say. What exactly do you mean by ‘something else,’ anyway?”
“I don’t know really. But I almost want to say it’s sexual,” Nicholas said, looking to the ceiling for confimation. “Yeah, I’d say it’s sexual.”
Lacey was more baffled than offended. “You think it’s sexual.”
“I really do,” said Nicholas, putting his own napkin on the table. Just then the check came;
Nicholas slipped a Visa card into the black leather folder and balanced it on the edge of the table.
“Even if you don’t Lace, just go with it for a second. I’m onto something.”
“How much money do you have anyway? Seems like it’s been forever since you had a job,” said Lacey. “Before the 10K, even, and we both know how long ago that was.”
“Don’t be mad, Lace. I’m just trying to make a point.”
“That women are sex fiends.”
“Only some,” said Nicholas, who lightly kicked Lacey’s shin beneath the table in a failed attempt to resurrect some sense of levity. Coughing, he went on: “I’m not saying you want to have sex with Pepino Voce.” Lacey stuck out her tongue and Nicholas grinned. “But I do think that, if a girl finds one guy sexy, and she uses a single word to describe both him and another guy, then she must think the other guy is sexy, too.”
“That’s silly,” said Lacey, and thought for a moment. “I know what that is. It’s…a syllogism. A bad syllogism.”
At times like these, Nicholas became filled up with anger, all due to Lacey mentioning a subject which she had more familiarity with than he did. In this case, it was Lacey identifying Nicholas’ argument as a syllogism, a term not quite in his vocabulary, which sent Nicholas into such a hidden, embarrassed fury. Nevertheless, Nicholas seldom was one to confess his ignorance and therefore had to make some retort in order to save face. So he said:
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is. We just learned about it in Humanities last week. Just because I use the same word to describe you and Mr. Voce doesn’t mean that I think of you in the same way. That’s like saying that the Eiffel Tower is tall, and Tom is tall, so therefore Tom must be the Eiffel Tower.”
Nicholas couldn’t speak. He felt defeated.
As if prompted by a temperature gauge hidden in Nicholas’ collar, their waiter reappeared to take the bill. But the waiter, who performed a small bow as he lifted the billfold from the table, was stopped by Lacey Allon. “You don’t have my card,” she said and, reaching into her bag, pulled out a credit card and handed it to the waiter. “Just split it, please.”
----
To someone watching, Lacey Allon and her boyfriend Nicholas Pocard would have looked like a typical – not exceptionally happy – couple as they made their way through the parking lot of Pepino’s Italian Dining. Talking at a low, inflectionless volume, they held hands until Nicholas opened the passenger door for Lacey and closed it gently behind her.
Inside the car was different. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, Lace. I don’t get what the hell that was back there.” Lacey was silent and pouty. She stared at Pepino’s restaurant in the rear view mirror on her right, her arms crossed, her knees together. “Good. Now you don’t want to talk. Perfect.”
“Just what the hell do you want to talk about? You said something, and you were wrong and I’m right, and that’s it,” said Lacey, surprising Nicholas by speaking. Nicholas, rather than reply, turned on the radio.
Music and traffic were the only sounds in the car for several minutes. When Nicholas sensed the atmosphere lighten, he turned the radio down so he could speak over it. “My only point, Lacey, was that it’s just awful funny how two guys, who are as different as Mr. Voce and I are, could be described with a single word, and I was trying to figure that out is all.”
“That’s stupid,” said Lacey, and then, after only a tiny hesitation, “What I don’t get is how two people, as different as you and I are, could ever have been in a relationship for so long.”
“Opposites attract, Lace. You said it yourself when we first started dating.”
“I did,” said Lacey, contemplating the fact. “I think I was wrong, though. Opposites don’t attract. Opposites just stay together for a while.”
----
When Nicholas Pocard was driving to his house later that night, staying in the rightmost lane and keeping the radio low, a desert hare darted in front of his car and fell victim to the Dodge’s tires and undercarriage. After pulling the Dodge over, Nicholas eventually found the hare in a stretch of gravel between the road and sidewalk. Squatting, he stared silently at the flattened vermin and after a while, letting his head fall forward into his hands, he wept.
An automated bank teller’s “Thank you,” came through the earpiece and then, as Nicholas was taking the phone away from his ear, “Please stay on the line for our brief customer survey.” Nicholas, not one to bend to corporate interests beyond what was needed, hung up the phone, buttoned his shirt, slapped on a scent and left to pick up Lacey.
----
Lacey Allon looked like a teenaged angel when she opened the door for Nicholas Pocard. Like always, she was wearing a more-than-a-little formal gown for their Friday evening out. Nicholas noticed that her outfit and hair, together with the shape of her body, made her appearance not unlike that of a giant-sized bishop from a chess set, with the bottom two-thirds painted a rich blue by a player more interested in aesthetics than strategy.
Lacey skipped down the stairs of her front porch ahead of Nicholas. “Where to, darling?” she smiled, turning to face her boyfriend at the bottom of the stairs. Nicholas, hands in his slacks (which were only a bit too small for him) walked down the stairs two at a time, but slowly.
“I was thinking Pepino’s,” he said, taking his right hand from his pocket and placing it on Lacey’s cheek. After a kiss, the two turned hand-in-hand towards Nicholas’ Dodge.
“I like that,” said Lacey. “Anything else?”
“I just thought of Pepino’s,” said Nicholas.
“You only thought of one idea?” said Lacey, who, like the lady she was, waited for her door to be opened.
“Just the one,” said Nicholas. Opening Lacey’s door, Nicholas gasped at a nearly-empty package of cigarettes lying on Lacey’s seat. Lacey picked up the cigarettes without a word and, straightening her skirt against the backs of her thighs, sat down calmly, her knees hardly separating throughout the whole motion.
Nicholas sat down on something small which gave way. “You’re sitting on something,” said Lacey.
“I’m sorry. I left them on your seat,” said Nicholas almost dismissively, trying to steer the controversy towards chivalry – clearing the lady’s seat – rather than the more troublesome issue of Lacey’s hatred of tobacco products.
“You left what.”
“Smokes.”
“Do you smoke?”
“They’re Trace’s.”
“Trace’s,” said Lacey, with mock epiphany.
“They are. How could I smoke? You know how much I run.”
“When was the 10K again?”
“I don’t know when the 10K was, Lacey. Two months ago, maybe,” said Nicholas, trying to be peeved at Lacey as much as she was at him.
“Well, keep up the running there,” said Lacey, putting her hand on his thigh. “Don’t get mad, Nick. We’re not fighting.”
Nicholas took a second or two to speak. “I know we’re not. Lean over and kiss the driver, please.” She did. “So, Pepino’s? Or something else?”
“Let’s do Pepino’s. I like their shrimp,” said Lacey, leaning over to kiss Nicholas again.
“Pepino’s it is, then.”
----
Pepino Voce was a thin, one might say gaunt, Italian man not over five and one-half feet tall. An exceptionally polite host, he greeted diners as if they were entering an art gallery filled with paintings by his late father. Each man was greeted with a warm, firm handshake that made him reconsider Pepino’s size, as if he had mistaken a contrabassoon for a piccolo. This handshake between host and gentleman, it must be noted, naturally only came once each lady in the party had been embraced, kissed, and relieved of her coat.
Mr. Voce’s restaurant was like a projection of the man into dining room format. Pepino’s, at once small and spacious, hummed like a harmonica with its popping corks, an attentive wait staff, and carefree conversation without there ever being a moment when one did not have a secure sense of quietude. Pepino’s restaurant was as inviting, and as full of charming contradictions, as Pepino Voce himself.
But even the best of hosts cannot be equally hospitable to all, and Pepino Voce quite preferred pretty girls. So that when Lacey Allon and Nicholas Pocard entered his restaurant, the smile and handshake which Nicholas received were as cryptically, almost imperceptibly, cold and jealous as Lacey’s welcome was mildly tinged with sex. A distant observer with great vision could never have failed to notice Mr. Voce’s lecherous scowl as Lacey and Nicholas were ushered to their table.
Lacey ordered shrimp and Nicholas had the veal. Nicholas tried to order a bottle of wine, but the waiter asked for identification. So they both had iced tea.
----
“This was a good idea,” said Lacey, signaling she was finished eating by taking her napkin out of her lap and folding it next to her plate. “I always forget how much I like Pepino’s until I come back again.”
“Agreed,” said Nicholas, still eating.
Lacey sat, faintly smiling with her hands in her lap, and looked about the room for a moment before she spoke again, as if counting diamonds in a jewelry store. “You know what half of it is? I mean what’s great about this place, you know what half of it is? It’s Mr. Voce. I just love him. Isn’t he the nicest little man?”
“I like him.”
“He’s the cutest thing,” said Lacey, shaking her head at Pepino Voce, who looked up, found Lacey’s face like a walnut among almonds, and gave a quick finger-wave.
Just then, the waiter walked over and asked Nicholas if they needed anything. “I think we can do the check, please,” said Nicholas. Then, to Lacey: “I thought I was cute.”
Lacey reached her hand across and laid it on Nick’s. “Oh Nick, you know I think you’re cute,” she said. Nicholas stood up to kiss her across the table.
“And you, my darling, are ravishing,” said Nicholas, emphasizing the last word in a hauty accent.
“Don’t! Don’t talk sexy in my mother’s voice,” giggled Lacey.
“Talk dirty to me.”
“Stop,” said Lacey, and slapped Nicholas’ hand.
They looked at eachother until Nicholas continued. “I’m serious though, Lace. Let’s talk about this. I mean, I really wonder. What makes two people as different as Mr. Voce and I are both ‘cute’?”
“Why is that so hard?”
“Well, for example. I mean…Okay, I got it. I mean, when girls say ‘cute’ – and I’m making an assumption here – I think when girls say the word ‘cute’ they don’t exactly mean it like the dictionary says. Like, you could say that a bear cub is cute but that doesn’t mean the same as ‘Pepino Voce is cute.’ When you say it about a person – a male person – it’s something else.”
“That’s quite an assumption.”
“I think I’m onto something. You’re nervous.”
“Am not. You’re just over-analyzing everything I say. What exactly do you mean by ‘something else,’ anyway?”
“I don’t know really. But I almost want to say it’s sexual,” Nicholas said, looking to the ceiling for confimation. “Yeah, I’d say it’s sexual.”
Lacey was more baffled than offended. “You think it’s sexual.”
“I really do,” said Nicholas, putting his own napkin on the table. Just then the check came;
Nicholas slipped a Visa card into the black leather folder and balanced it on the edge of the table.
“Even if you don’t Lace, just go with it for a second. I’m onto something.”
“How much money do you have anyway? Seems like it’s been forever since you had a job,” said Lacey. “Before the 10K, even, and we both know how long ago that was.”
“Don’t be mad, Lace. I’m just trying to make a point.”
“That women are sex fiends.”
“Only some,” said Nicholas, who lightly kicked Lacey’s shin beneath the table in a failed attempt to resurrect some sense of levity. Coughing, he went on: “I’m not saying you want to have sex with Pepino Voce.” Lacey stuck out her tongue and Nicholas grinned. “But I do think that, if a girl finds one guy sexy, and she uses a single word to describe both him and another guy, then she must think the other guy is sexy, too.”
“That’s silly,” said Lacey, and thought for a moment. “I know what that is. It’s…a syllogism. A bad syllogism.”
At times like these, Nicholas became filled up with anger, all due to Lacey mentioning a subject which she had more familiarity with than he did. In this case, it was Lacey identifying Nicholas’ argument as a syllogism, a term not quite in his vocabulary, which sent Nicholas into such a hidden, embarrassed fury. Nevertheless, Nicholas seldom was one to confess his ignorance and therefore had to make some retort in order to save face. So he said:
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is. We just learned about it in Humanities last week. Just because I use the same word to describe you and Mr. Voce doesn’t mean that I think of you in the same way. That’s like saying that the Eiffel Tower is tall, and Tom is tall, so therefore Tom must be the Eiffel Tower.”
Nicholas couldn’t speak. He felt defeated.
As if prompted by a temperature gauge hidden in Nicholas’ collar, their waiter reappeared to take the bill. But the waiter, who performed a small bow as he lifted the billfold from the table, was stopped by Lacey Allon. “You don’t have my card,” she said and, reaching into her bag, pulled out a credit card and handed it to the waiter. “Just split it, please.”
----
To someone watching, Lacey Allon and her boyfriend Nicholas Pocard would have looked like a typical – not exceptionally happy – couple as they made their way through the parking lot of Pepino’s Italian Dining. Talking at a low, inflectionless volume, they held hands until Nicholas opened the passenger door for Lacey and closed it gently behind her.
Inside the car was different. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, Lace. I don’t get what the hell that was back there.” Lacey was silent and pouty. She stared at Pepino’s restaurant in the rear view mirror on her right, her arms crossed, her knees together. “Good. Now you don’t want to talk. Perfect.”
“Just what the hell do you want to talk about? You said something, and you were wrong and I’m right, and that’s it,” said Lacey, surprising Nicholas by speaking. Nicholas, rather than reply, turned on the radio.
Music and traffic were the only sounds in the car for several minutes. When Nicholas sensed the atmosphere lighten, he turned the radio down so he could speak over it. “My only point, Lacey, was that it’s just awful funny how two guys, who are as different as Mr. Voce and I are, could be described with a single word, and I was trying to figure that out is all.”
“That’s stupid,” said Lacey, and then, after only a tiny hesitation, “What I don’t get is how two people, as different as you and I are, could ever have been in a relationship for so long.”
“Opposites attract, Lace. You said it yourself when we first started dating.”
“I did,” said Lacey, contemplating the fact. “I think I was wrong, though. Opposites don’t attract. Opposites just stay together for a while.”
----
When Nicholas Pocard was driving to his house later that night, staying in the rightmost lane and keeping the radio low, a desert hare darted in front of his car and fell victim to the Dodge’s tires and undercarriage. After pulling the Dodge over, Nicholas eventually found the hare in a stretch of gravel between the road and sidewalk. Squatting, he stared silently at the flattened vermin and after a while, letting his head fall forward into his hands, he wept.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Ameliorate
I’ve been staring at my cell phone for the last forty-five minutes.
It has not stirred—not one iota. Yet, here I sit… occasionally pacing over to pick it up, then instantly set the damn thing right back down. I’m a vibration away from a cataclysmic event. I’m just trying to stay calm. Practice in futility, anyone?
It’s just a phone call. Yes, my hand is shaking like a Parkinson’s patient- my heart is a speed bag being ceaselessly pummeled in my chest… but it’s just a phone call.
The trouble is that I can’t really convince myself of that. The phone call is a conduit to untapped pain and horror beyond the comprehension of my rational mind. Or, at least, that’s what I presume it will be… the harbinger of some emotional apocalypse that I’ll be coping with for the next 3 to 4 years until I’m dead or able to delude myself into pseudo-satisfaction with lesser circumstances.
How do you leave someone for her own benefit? Can you rationally justify that? How do you assert reasonable doubt about your sanity without seeming depraved?
Or lethal for that matter?
Oh, I’m sorry dear… I love you so much that I’ll probably end up doing you some irreparable harm. I don’t have anything specific in mind… I just know that you probably won’t be breathing when I’m finished. I’ve never been one for half-measures.
I’m beyond obsession at this point. I’m not sure if there’s a clinical name for it, but I’m damn-skippy that it warrants one. The night of our first fight I tried on a refreshing drunken rancor that made De Niro at the end of Taxi Driver look like Donny Osmond. I also rambled down random hallways screaming her name like Brando in Streetcar. The problem was that I was in my apartment complex, not hers.
I say this, and yet I know I can’t extricate myself from this affair without having a minor meltdown. It’s impossible. It’s like trying to quit heroin cold-turkey because you’re afraid of what you will do to the drug… Does that make any sense? And will that sort of justification actually dissuade me when that first overwhelming urge hits? Not-fucking-likely.
I’m still face-fucking the girl, for God’s sake. And no, not the bored porn-star her throat is more amusing than her vagina because the soundtrack is more colorful brand of face-fucking… I mean that I literally cannot take my eyes off the girl’s face from the moment of penetration to the final trembling spasm of climax. The fastest orgasm I’ve achieved on record occurred on our first official date—and I live in mortal fear of topping it. Thirty seconds in and she issues this fevered moan while biting the right corner of her lower lip and immediately my dick is frothing like a fire-hose spewing full bore at a blazing inferno. Tell me that doesn’t cast an ominous pall over the relationship…
I guess I’m saying that I just can’t handle her. Or, that is what I’ll tell myself to justify it all in my head later. It’s because of her that I had to ruin the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. The truth is that she’s driving me insane by not being as overwhelmed by me as I obviously am by her. You can’t love a woman this much without a measure of self-control. It’s perilous—and for the both of us. For her, it’s like having an alcoholic as your designated driver… you’re depending on someone who’s absolutely incapable of controlling themselves normally to watch you behaving erratically and somehow deny their every natural urge that arises in the interim. It’s absurd.
Perfect example of her ambivalence and my inability to show restraint: We were walking back to my car after an average Friday night at the Denny’s when I lurched into the “L” word. I was holding her hand, desperately fighting to keep my Moons Over My Hammy from resurging into my esophagus, and I just managed to catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye. Her hair is the goth-girl cheap-o dyed crimson I adore on women… thus, when suffused in the amber glow of a streetlight it tends to radiate a slight halo. Due to this, she caught fire in my periphery like a transfigured angel— her lips curled into a smile like burning paper, and that blaze spread from her face into my chest and forced the words out of my mouth as a fireman pushes a child through the window of a burning building.
“It’s ridiculous how much I love you, Layla.”
Her lips parted gently, moist as a dew laden flower at dawn, as she turned to look me in the eye. I stood breathless as a man before a firing squad, and in place of the words of reciprocity I was so desperate to hear she uttered:
“Awww… thank you.”
A retort like that will deflate a libido faster than a balloon that’s been penetrated with a pin. It’s telling enough that I was the first one to say the word, but to be met with such a patronizing retort… It scarred me.
Can you stay in a relationship where the love is so preternaturally one-sided? It’s like a pimple on the tip of your nose that you hesitate to pop because you’re afraid of the scar—yet you just can’t shake the feeling that everyone is staring at it, judging you… It completely offsets any confidence you may display to the contrary: inside, you’re coming apart at the seams.
Fifty minutes.
I have been engaged in this deliberate little dance with my cell phone for nearly an hour, and nothing has been accomplished.
I mean, typically I call her the minute I leave work. She’s bound to suspect something at this point. Maybe she’ll think that I’m seeing someone else… or that I’ve been in some tragic car-accident. At the very least she’ll be wondering if something is up—there’s no way that she couldn’t at this point.
And yet… she … hasn’t… called… me… either.
That’s strange… You’d think that the one time your boyfriend (who dutifully checks in the instant he’s fulfilled his daily obligation to his employers) doesn’t call, you might express a little interest in discovering the motivation for the deviation. I could be lying in a ditch somewhere, desperately clinging to life—cell phone just beyond my outstretched fingers... Does she care?
Apparently, she does not.
My phone has been lying dormant on that damned kitchen counter for nearly one hour. I left work nearly two hours ago, and my silence hasn’t so much as elicited a concerned text message. Do I mean so little to her? Here I am ensconced in an effusive rant about over-indulging in my passion for the woman and I don’t even warrant a fucking phone call! My God… maybe she’s the one screwing around on me. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility. I mean, considering how we started this relationship, how can I not expect the worst?
Who sends nude pictures of themselves via cell-phone as a means to garner interest from the opposite sex? Honestly? Granted, it absolutely worked, but still… I suppose that it says something about me in that I was not only ensnared by the pornographic flash cards, but I also reciprocated. And let me tell you—getting a flattering shot of one’s penis with a camera-phone is not the easiest task imaginable… You’ve gotta get decent lighting, proper framing so that it’s impressive, but not intimidating… I digress.
I suppose we’re two beasts feasting from the same trough. However, she was the one that initiated the short, sharp dive into the gutter. I just followed her down… Yes, her conversations bored me… so I stopped texting. That doesn’t mean I need a one-way ticket to tit-town just to get me to come back around… I wasn’t so overwhelmingly engaging that she just had to keep me interested at all costs. There are plenty of fish in the sea—especially when you’re using stink bait. So, it’s not irrational that I presume she’s out lubricating every piston on the east side of Detroit for the fuck of it.
Two years ago I got into a relationship with a girl because she spilled beer on my corduroys at a frat party and offered to help clean me up. That’s all it took. One spill, a little flirtation and ten minutes later I’m pouring club soda on an undulating mass of flesh, blood and bullshit that was siphoning my cock like a fugitive with an empty gas-tank. Is it serendipity? Is it temporary insanity? No, we pass it off as some contrived ambiguous state of intoxication that we label as love.
Love is just one giant con segueing into another… a river of deceit that we have to ford sans paddle. We sell ourselves with our aesthetic, or our personality—and yet, in spite of it all, we’re like a used car salesmen peddling a lemon. We know we’re hurling damaged goods back into the market, but we don’t care. You just have to get the person off the lot with it… Then it’s their problem. If it breaks down: “Sorry, we made no guarantees about the quality of our product.” We’ve got to make a living, or die trying.
Perhaps I’m being used to facilitate daily activities that she would otherwise be ill-equipped to perform. Need a ride to work? Fuck the boyfriend. Looking for a hot meal free of charge? Fuck the boyfriend. Who’s to say that every relationship isn’t, in essence, a bartering system in which sex is exchanged for goods and services?
At the end of the day perhaps we’re all just using each other just to get by… She’s using me physically, and I’m using her emotionally. She gives me a definition: at the end of the day, Layla loves me. I’m the man Layla loves; Or the man Layla cares enough about to lie about loving; Or the man Layla won’t even take the time to call in order to lie to him about loving him. Fuck…
Sixty minutes.
Two hours of tedious deconstruction under the bridge and I’m not once centimeter removed from the spot I inhabited at the outset. So much for evolution. Maybe I ought to eat the danger-end of a twelve-gauge and decorate my walls with what’s left of my sanity—at least then I’d have connected with another human being on a primal level. I’d ruin someone’s Friday night and cause them to get slightly nauseous at the sight of Cherry Jell-O forevermore.
I guess I feel like I’m driving at full speed past a dead-end sign without any care or concern for my well-being. She’s just the cul-de-sac where my careening little death-trip will end. I just can’t be that irresponsible for my own actions anymore.
I can’t shake the image that she’s out there pining for someone else in the way I’m longing for her. I wish I could. It would be nice not to presume every word that escapes her lips is a lie. It would be nice to feel as though you can get what you give in this life.
And thus we reach the inexorable conclusion that set me on this chaotic carousel to begin with: Maybe I should just address the white elephant in the room... Perhaps it's best to get it straight from the horse's mouth, as the saying goes. Just ask her, "Was I nothing more than a one-night-stand that overstayed my welcome?" and be done with it. The emotional equivalent of tearing off a band-aid… It will damn near destroy me, but better to hear it from her lips and try to move on than to agonize over it every time I look at the fucking phone.
All of this is conjecture is condemned to be moot, though.
Sure, it’s just a phone call. Static transfer between two points of reference… It shouldn’t be this complicated…
However, saying it should be easy to make a phone call is like saying it should be easy to pull the trigger on a gun. You have to realize that the impediment has very little to do with the mechanics… and everything to do with the trajectory.
It has not stirred—not one iota. Yet, here I sit… occasionally pacing over to pick it up, then instantly set the damn thing right back down. I’m a vibration away from a cataclysmic event. I’m just trying to stay calm. Practice in futility, anyone?
It’s just a phone call. Yes, my hand is shaking like a Parkinson’s patient- my heart is a speed bag being ceaselessly pummeled in my chest… but it’s just a phone call.
The trouble is that I can’t really convince myself of that. The phone call is a conduit to untapped pain and horror beyond the comprehension of my rational mind. Or, at least, that’s what I presume it will be… the harbinger of some emotional apocalypse that I’ll be coping with for the next 3 to 4 years until I’m dead or able to delude myself into pseudo-satisfaction with lesser circumstances.
How do you leave someone for her own benefit? Can you rationally justify that? How do you assert reasonable doubt about your sanity without seeming depraved?
Or lethal for that matter?
Oh, I’m sorry dear… I love you so much that I’ll probably end up doing you some irreparable harm. I don’t have anything specific in mind… I just know that you probably won’t be breathing when I’m finished. I’ve never been one for half-measures.
I’m beyond obsession at this point. I’m not sure if there’s a clinical name for it, but I’m damn-skippy that it warrants one. The night of our first fight I tried on a refreshing drunken rancor that made De Niro at the end of Taxi Driver look like Donny Osmond. I also rambled down random hallways screaming her name like Brando in Streetcar. The problem was that I was in my apartment complex, not hers.
I say this, and yet I know I can’t extricate myself from this affair without having a minor meltdown. It’s impossible. It’s like trying to quit heroin cold-turkey because you’re afraid of what you will do to the drug… Does that make any sense? And will that sort of justification actually dissuade me when that first overwhelming urge hits? Not-fucking-likely.
I’m still face-fucking the girl, for God’s sake. And no, not the bored porn-star her throat is more amusing than her vagina because the soundtrack is more colorful brand of face-fucking… I mean that I literally cannot take my eyes off the girl’s face from the moment of penetration to the final trembling spasm of climax. The fastest orgasm I’ve achieved on record occurred on our first official date—and I live in mortal fear of topping it. Thirty seconds in and she issues this fevered moan while biting the right corner of her lower lip and immediately my dick is frothing like a fire-hose spewing full bore at a blazing inferno. Tell me that doesn’t cast an ominous pall over the relationship…
I guess I’m saying that I just can’t handle her. Or, that is what I’ll tell myself to justify it all in my head later. It’s because of her that I had to ruin the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. The truth is that she’s driving me insane by not being as overwhelmed by me as I obviously am by her. You can’t love a woman this much without a measure of self-control. It’s perilous—and for the both of us. For her, it’s like having an alcoholic as your designated driver… you’re depending on someone who’s absolutely incapable of controlling themselves normally to watch you behaving erratically and somehow deny their every natural urge that arises in the interim. It’s absurd.
Perfect example of her ambivalence and my inability to show restraint: We were walking back to my car after an average Friday night at the Denny’s when I lurched into the “L” word. I was holding her hand, desperately fighting to keep my Moons Over My Hammy from resurging into my esophagus, and I just managed to catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye. Her hair is the goth-girl cheap-o dyed crimson I adore on women… thus, when suffused in the amber glow of a streetlight it tends to radiate a slight halo. Due to this, she caught fire in my periphery like a transfigured angel— her lips curled into a smile like burning paper, and that blaze spread from her face into my chest and forced the words out of my mouth as a fireman pushes a child through the window of a burning building.
“It’s ridiculous how much I love you, Layla.”
Her lips parted gently, moist as a dew laden flower at dawn, as she turned to look me in the eye. I stood breathless as a man before a firing squad, and in place of the words of reciprocity I was so desperate to hear she uttered:
“Awww… thank you.”
A retort like that will deflate a libido faster than a balloon that’s been penetrated with a pin. It’s telling enough that I was the first one to say the word, but to be met with such a patronizing retort… It scarred me.
Can you stay in a relationship where the love is so preternaturally one-sided? It’s like a pimple on the tip of your nose that you hesitate to pop because you’re afraid of the scar—yet you just can’t shake the feeling that everyone is staring at it, judging you… It completely offsets any confidence you may display to the contrary: inside, you’re coming apart at the seams.
Fifty minutes.
I have been engaged in this deliberate little dance with my cell phone for nearly an hour, and nothing has been accomplished.
I mean, typically I call her the minute I leave work. She’s bound to suspect something at this point. Maybe she’ll think that I’m seeing someone else… or that I’ve been in some tragic car-accident. At the very least she’ll be wondering if something is up—there’s no way that she couldn’t at this point.
And yet… she … hasn’t… called… me… either.
That’s strange… You’d think that the one time your boyfriend (who dutifully checks in the instant he’s fulfilled his daily obligation to his employers) doesn’t call, you might express a little interest in discovering the motivation for the deviation. I could be lying in a ditch somewhere, desperately clinging to life—cell phone just beyond my outstretched fingers... Does she care?
Apparently, she does not.
My phone has been lying dormant on that damned kitchen counter for nearly one hour. I left work nearly two hours ago, and my silence hasn’t so much as elicited a concerned text message. Do I mean so little to her? Here I am ensconced in an effusive rant about over-indulging in my passion for the woman and I don’t even warrant a fucking phone call! My God… maybe she’s the one screwing around on me. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility. I mean, considering how we started this relationship, how can I not expect the worst?
Who sends nude pictures of themselves via cell-phone as a means to garner interest from the opposite sex? Honestly? Granted, it absolutely worked, but still… I suppose that it says something about me in that I was not only ensnared by the pornographic flash cards, but I also reciprocated. And let me tell you—getting a flattering shot of one’s penis with a camera-phone is not the easiest task imaginable… You’ve gotta get decent lighting, proper framing so that it’s impressive, but not intimidating… I digress.
I suppose we’re two beasts feasting from the same trough. However, she was the one that initiated the short, sharp dive into the gutter. I just followed her down… Yes, her conversations bored me… so I stopped texting. That doesn’t mean I need a one-way ticket to tit-town just to get me to come back around… I wasn’t so overwhelmingly engaging that she just had to keep me interested at all costs. There are plenty of fish in the sea—especially when you’re using stink bait. So, it’s not irrational that I presume she’s out lubricating every piston on the east side of Detroit for the fuck of it.
Two years ago I got into a relationship with a girl because she spilled beer on my corduroys at a frat party and offered to help clean me up. That’s all it took. One spill, a little flirtation and ten minutes later I’m pouring club soda on an undulating mass of flesh, blood and bullshit that was siphoning my cock like a fugitive with an empty gas-tank. Is it serendipity? Is it temporary insanity? No, we pass it off as some contrived ambiguous state of intoxication that we label as love.
Love is just one giant con segueing into another… a river of deceit that we have to ford sans paddle. We sell ourselves with our aesthetic, or our personality—and yet, in spite of it all, we’re like a used car salesmen peddling a lemon. We know we’re hurling damaged goods back into the market, but we don’t care. You just have to get the person off the lot with it… Then it’s their problem. If it breaks down: “Sorry, we made no guarantees about the quality of our product.” We’ve got to make a living, or die trying.
Perhaps I’m being used to facilitate daily activities that she would otherwise be ill-equipped to perform. Need a ride to work? Fuck the boyfriend. Looking for a hot meal free of charge? Fuck the boyfriend. Who’s to say that every relationship isn’t, in essence, a bartering system in which sex is exchanged for goods and services?
At the end of the day perhaps we’re all just using each other just to get by… She’s using me physically, and I’m using her emotionally. She gives me a definition: at the end of the day, Layla loves me. I’m the man Layla loves; Or the man Layla cares enough about to lie about loving; Or the man Layla won’t even take the time to call in order to lie to him about loving him. Fuck…
Sixty minutes.
Two hours of tedious deconstruction under the bridge and I’m not once centimeter removed from the spot I inhabited at the outset. So much for evolution. Maybe I ought to eat the danger-end of a twelve-gauge and decorate my walls with what’s left of my sanity—at least then I’d have connected with another human being on a primal level. I’d ruin someone’s Friday night and cause them to get slightly nauseous at the sight of Cherry Jell-O forevermore.
I guess I feel like I’m driving at full speed past a dead-end sign without any care or concern for my well-being. She’s just the cul-de-sac where my careening little death-trip will end. I just can’t be that irresponsible for my own actions anymore.
I can’t shake the image that she’s out there pining for someone else in the way I’m longing for her. I wish I could. It would be nice not to presume every word that escapes her lips is a lie. It would be nice to feel as though you can get what you give in this life.
And thus we reach the inexorable conclusion that set me on this chaotic carousel to begin with: Maybe I should just address the white elephant in the room... Perhaps it's best to get it straight from the horse's mouth, as the saying goes. Just ask her, "Was I nothing more than a one-night-stand that overstayed my welcome?" and be done with it. The emotional equivalent of tearing off a band-aid… It will damn near destroy me, but better to hear it from her lips and try to move on than to agonize over it every time I look at the fucking phone.
All of this is conjecture is condemned to be moot, though.
Sure, it’s just a phone call. Static transfer between two points of reference… It shouldn’t be this complicated…
However, saying it should be easy to make a phone call is like saying it should be easy to pull the trigger on a gun. You have to realize that the impediment has very little to do with the mechanics… and everything to do with the trajectory.
God's Lightning
For me it didn’t quite happen that way…
it happened gradually at first
and then all at once,
but no brightness.
I woke and found out that someone had
cut a hole in my vision
where the world should have been, and
I know there’s nothing behind it --
because if there was I would have seen it.
I’ve heard of ghost pains, but I never thought
they’d happen to me.
When I sleep, I can sometimes
feel my eyesight itching-
so I reach for my pencil and
scratch at it with the tip,
trying to write on my brain
what the world used to look like.
Buying Bodega Sold Dreams
Not even Piñiero got his for free.
But is that what I’m doing now?
Buying the dreams
shelved in lost corners
on coffee shop stages?
No cash in my pockets,
Just my Visa.
Sorry.
Only Discover.
Discover? The brightest, the best,
the most originally unoriginal.
Not the dreamer who can’t
put one and one together,
let alone two
with the almost-right word. The one
whose ideas
generate one-liners in the wrong place
at the right time to
buy bodega sold dreams.
They Give Us the Ghetto
The shingles are discolored.
Did they do that on purpose?
Their sheet --
Pink and white blowing in the wind.
Like its own little nation.
Walking down the street becomes an endless dance with the cars.
Stop or go.
Stop or go.
Stop.
Roll.
Go.
Glad you made up your mind.
I always like to walk with one foot on Private Property.
The ground is still squishy.
I always knew the ground moved under my feet, and today I can feel it.
It smells like watermelon by the sign of the missing girl.
Weird. I pass that sign everyday.
What’s the girl’s name?
Ariel, I think.
Hey it’s the abandoned lot where we play football.
Smile.
Don’t they realize its all luck.
Zeroes.
I’m not philosophical.
I’m not logical.
I’m not emotional.
Everyone can lie to us, but what’s the truth?
I’m ignorant.
I’ll be here forever.
I wonder the odds.
I’ve always hated my own possibilities.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
More Fun With Legal Penetration: or Balloons Are For Parties, Not For My Privates
… her flesh glistened beneath the steam of his breath like glinting abalone. Gazing deeply into crystalline pools of opalescence masquerading as eyes, Marco felt his soul quiver beneath his glimmering pectorals. His pulse sambaed with the vigor of an African war party, his loins aching with a bittersweet longing at the sight of her heaving, corseted breasts as they rebelled against their restraints—hounds fighting the leash when the game is afoot. He lavished kisses upon the undulating flesh of her stomach, slowly winding upwards over her pillowy bosom until reaching her neck, whispering lightly into her ear…
Leverle Federton, Lev to kith and kin, surveyed the transparent coffee table like a hardened general whose men had been found wanting for courage. In the company of the Boston Medical Group’s brochure on male impotence and US Weekly, the scandalous exploits of the “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” spokesman were, sadly, a welcome respite. The phrase, “ Any port in the storm,” springs to mind. Reluctantly, Lev slumped back into his chair-shaped plastic Bastille and sulked.
After another five minutes of libidinous literature, Lev was near combustion. His surroundings certainly didn’t add to the atmosphere of the story, either. The irony of reading a romance novel in a urologist’s office was certainly not lost on him. Soon he was unable to quell the insurgent thoughts that had been amassing behind his clenched teeth.
The room had frozen around them. At least 8 pairs of eyes had fixed on Lev, awaiting the impending nuclear meltdown. However, our hero was cowed. The woman hadn’t employed his full name since he’d toppled two dozen suppository boxes in the Walgreen’s while reeling at the phrase Ribbed for Her Pleasure a month ago. Judith was markedly displeased. Perhaps, Lev mused, discretion was the better form of valor. He ceased his squawking, and the nomadic eyes had returned to their respective reading materials.
In the mean-time, Judith’s index finger had apprehended a refugee from her Aqua-Net blasted hair-hive and nestled it back into place along with her composure. Be damned if the woman couldn’t conceal an Abrams tank if she thought someone would find it offensive Lev chuckled to himself. Judith’s frustration had frightened away his trepidation temporarily, but with equilibrium on the rise unquiet seeped back into his subconscious. Fear, it seems, is akin to adolescent hormones: it can only be distracted, never subdued.
“Well…” Lev stuttered in a tone that longed to salvage some dignity in the face of his surrender, “I’m just saying…” He continued, his mutterings trailing off under his breath as he lowered his gaze to the tawdry tale in his lap.
Lev is, notably, Alabama’s answer to the Six-Million Dollar Man. He has been the recipient of a full hip replacement, a balloon angioplasty for a collapsed aorta (he’d also considered a pig-valve transplant as an ironic allusion to the attribution of his ailments to his fondness for bacon…) and, to date, 24 and one quarter dental implants to spare him the shame of removable molars. Needless to say, he needs no coaxing into the doctor’s office for the treatment of any minor infraction of Henry Gray’s code of biological conduct. However, this trip was an entirely different animal to tranquilize. The urologist was the undiscovered country. It also bears stating that many of man’s more profound anxieties center on the prospect of the malfunction of his nether regions. In point of fact, Freud’s constructed volumes on the matter… As such Lev was, quite literally, adrift in a vast sea of anxiety.
Firstly, there was the pain; and it was considerable. At this point he felt as though someone were attempting to repeatedly pass a pipe cleaner through his urethra. This was further exacerbated by a persistent testicular throbbing and rather acute lower back pain. All were symptoms of a prostate infection, prostatitis according to the available online dysfunction databases (a point discovered by Judith, whom the cough suppressant ads would have referred to as doctor mom).
Second, there was the locale. Surrounding Lev was a cavalcade of medical oddities: one muttering German who purported to the desk nurse that he completes nightly urination in roughly seven separate attempts, a red-haired Scotsman whose ability to stay erect had collapsed with the soviet block, a wild-eyed teen who believes his phallic swelling to be the result of a less-than gentile inspection by space aliens, a disheveled vet who could feasibly be the only seventy-two year-old concerned with herpes this side of the San Andreas fault, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. The office itself was filled with a heady aroma derived from lubricants, bleach and cotton swabs. For Lev, this was strangely reminiscent of a gypsy bandwagon he’d encountered during the greater Tuscaloosa entertainment crisis of 1929. There was an assortment of jars in the gypsy rattletrap containing reclaimed fetuses, and the shock to his naive mind made a lasting impression.
Ultimately, however, it was Lev’s absolute aversion to the methods of diagnosing his malady that was the main cause of his persistent trepidation. Lev was not a fan of anal penetration… He’d been administered to by his mother during instances of childhood illness with what was, at the time, a modern medical standby: the rectal thermometer. As the concept of lubricating the device had never occurred to Lev’s sainted mother, the incursions were always very uncomfortable. At one point, he’d become so tense during a diagnostic that he’d managed to break the cylinder of the thermometer, causing a roiling amalgam of blood and mercury to ascend into his colon. This, coupled with the tissue damage (resulting in turbulent bouts with evacuation and subsequent cleanup), the removal of broken glass and the mythical quest to recover the wayward mercurial material from his bowels left him irrevocably averse to future anal exploration.
His anxieties mounting to a fever pitch, Lev had begun to entertain the thought of self-sterilization with his trusty Zippo when he heard his name resound above the riotous din of apprehension.
“GOOD GOD JUDITH, what kinda filth are you foppin’ off on me???”Blushing in embarrassment, Judith lightly craned her chin towards Leverle, pinching his elbow near the arm of the chair as though the subtlety of the move would somehow override the bellowing of her counterpart.
“It’s the only other book I have,” she whispered, “And I only brought two because I was fixin’ to finish that one. So you just consider yourself lucky to have it and pipe down, or you can read what they’ve got here.”
Leverle Federton, Lev to kith and kin, surveyed the transparent coffee table like a hardened general whose men had been found wanting for courage. In the company of the Boston Medical Group’s brochure on male impotence and US Weekly, the scandalous exploits of the “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” spokesman were, sadly, a welcome respite. The phrase, “ Any port in the storm,” springs to mind. Reluctantly, Lev slumped back into his chair-shaped plastic Bastille and sulked.
After another five minutes of libidinous literature, Lev was near combustion. His surroundings certainly didn’t add to the atmosphere of the story, either. The irony of reading a romance novel in a urologist’s office was certainly not lost on him. Soon he was unable to quell the insurgent thoughts that had been amassing behind his clenched teeth.
“You know, I wouldn’t need a damn book if they didn’t sit my ass out in a waiting room for all eternity…”
“Honey, please…”
“And you know why they make you wait out here, don’t ya? They want to heighten yer anxiety, that’s why! Raise yer heart rate, peak yer blood pressure and tighten yer bowels in one fell swoop so….”
“Lev,”
“… they can fop off whatever silly sugar pills they’ve concocted in some back room to extort the wages of a working man…”
“Lev, dear….”
“…Charge ya ninety gawdamn dollars for their crazy pree-scriptions, like they’re selling snake oil that could reanimate Kennedy, God rest his soul, if they’d only kept the sumbitch on ice…”
“Leverle Monroe Federton, you just hush up THIS INSTANT!”
The room had frozen around them. At least 8 pairs of eyes had fixed on Lev, awaiting the impending nuclear meltdown. However, our hero was cowed. The woman hadn’t employed his full name since he’d toppled two dozen suppository boxes in the Walgreen’s while reeling at the phrase Ribbed for Her Pleasure a month ago. Judith was markedly displeased. Perhaps, Lev mused, discretion was the better form of valor. He ceased his squawking, and the nomadic eyes had returned to their respective reading materials.
In the mean-time, Judith’s index finger had apprehended a refugee from her Aqua-Net blasted hair-hive and nestled it back into place along with her composure. Be damned if the woman couldn’t conceal an Abrams tank if she thought someone would find it offensive Lev chuckled to himself. Judith’s frustration had frightened away his trepidation temporarily, but with equilibrium on the rise unquiet seeped back into his subconscious. Fear, it seems, is akin to adolescent hormones: it can only be distracted, never subdued.
“Well…” Lev stuttered in a tone that longed to salvage some dignity in the face of his surrender, “I’m just saying…” He continued, his mutterings trailing off under his breath as he lowered his gaze to the tawdry tale in his lap.
Lev is, notably, Alabama’s answer to the Six-Million Dollar Man. He has been the recipient of a full hip replacement, a balloon angioplasty for a collapsed aorta (he’d also considered a pig-valve transplant as an ironic allusion to the attribution of his ailments to his fondness for bacon…) and, to date, 24 and one quarter dental implants to spare him the shame of removable molars. Needless to say, he needs no coaxing into the doctor’s office for the treatment of any minor infraction of Henry Gray’s code of biological conduct. However, this trip was an entirely different animal to tranquilize. The urologist was the undiscovered country. It also bears stating that many of man’s more profound anxieties center on the prospect of the malfunction of his nether regions. In point of fact, Freud’s constructed volumes on the matter… As such Lev was, quite literally, adrift in a vast sea of anxiety.
Firstly, there was the pain; and it was considerable. At this point he felt as though someone were attempting to repeatedly pass a pipe cleaner through his urethra. This was further exacerbated by a persistent testicular throbbing and rather acute lower back pain. All were symptoms of a prostate infection, prostatitis according to the available online dysfunction databases (a point discovered by Judith, whom the cough suppressant ads would have referred to as doctor mom).
Second, there was the locale. Surrounding Lev was a cavalcade of medical oddities: one muttering German who purported to the desk nurse that he completes nightly urination in roughly seven separate attempts, a red-haired Scotsman whose ability to stay erect had collapsed with the soviet block, a wild-eyed teen who believes his phallic swelling to be the result of a less-than gentile inspection by space aliens, a disheveled vet who could feasibly be the only seventy-two year-old concerned with herpes this side of the San Andreas fault, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. The office itself was filled with a heady aroma derived from lubricants, bleach and cotton swabs. For Lev, this was strangely reminiscent of a gypsy bandwagon he’d encountered during the greater Tuscaloosa entertainment crisis of 1929. There was an assortment of jars in the gypsy rattletrap containing reclaimed fetuses, and the shock to his naive mind made a lasting impression.
Ultimately, however, it was Lev’s absolute aversion to the methods of diagnosing his malady that was the main cause of his persistent trepidation. Lev was not a fan of anal penetration… He’d been administered to by his mother during instances of childhood illness with what was, at the time, a modern medical standby: the rectal thermometer. As the concept of lubricating the device had never occurred to Lev’s sainted mother, the incursions were always very uncomfortable. At one point, he’d become so tense during a diagnostic that he’d managed to break the cylinder of the thermometer, causing a roiling amalgam of blood and mercury to ascend into his colon. This, coupled with the tissue damage (resulting in turbulent bouts with evacuation and subsequent cleanup), the removal of broken glass and the mythical quest to recover the wayward mercurial material from his bowels left him irrevocably averse to future anal exploration.
His anxieties mounting to a fever pitch, Lev had begun to entertain the thought of self-sterilization with his trusty Zippo when he heard his name resound above the riotous din of apprehension.
“Mista Levy Earl Federton???”Mispronunciation aside, his name came as the sound of shattering glass immerging through the murky fog of a dream. He looked up from the dime-store trash novel to see a bulbous nurse that bore a striking resemblance to a pear perched atop two drinking straws standing at the office door bemusedly gazing at him. Lev’s entire being was petrified, minus the area that he came here to fix, and thus he sat frozen in his chair for several seconds before a gentle pat from Judith prompted him out of it. Stepping towards the door, Lev was suddenly burdened with the notion that if he hadn’t had trouble urinating before coming into this office, he would certainly have difficulties after leaving it.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Candor
Dreaming
I awoke to the sound of
dissolving walls--
ceiling surrendering to sky.
Seeing the stars,
I foolishly fought to touch them;
realizing
(too late)
they are closer to me
than you ever were.
I awoke to the sound of
dissolving walls--
ceiling surrendering to sky.
Seeing the stars,
I foolishly fought to touch them;
realizing
(too late)
they are closer to me
than you ever were.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Post Modern Romeo and Juliet
“For never was a story of more woe than this…”
She was reading from the Bible when she met her boyfriend Michael. Sitting with her best girlfriends, Misty, Tru and Viv, Tasia glanced up as he swaggered into the Christian Youth Center, looking lethal in his tight, white Tee, baggy denim jeans and hair down to there. Michael was the given name of the young girls dream and parent’s nightmare. If flags were raised and alarms sounded, as well they should have been, she was deliriously oblivious, obscured as they were by phalange flailings and the peals of giggles from her chorus of classmates. The little lamb, ripe for slaughter, willed him to take notice, and in doing so, did bid forth her own demise.
In the flesh and fresh out of reform school, probation papers still poking out his back pocket, Michael played it all cool and cocky. Like hunter seeking prey, he strutted, sniffed the air and assessed the room with his buddy Paulie. But when he spied her sitting on the bleachers on the far side of the gymnasium, so coy, forestalling inhibition, t’was Michael who became the quarry. It was at that exact moment that their peril was set in motion.
He turned to his chum, impetuously certain though helplessly smitten, and pointed her out. “Did my heart love ‘til now? Can I believe my own eyes? I never saw true beauty until I looked at her”. Paulie merely shrugged and tugged at his Dickies.
Like the tide, moved as it is by an envious moon, Michael was drawn to Tasia, pulled by her. Insanely hopeful, madly enrapt, he approached. She closed the Book in her lap with a snap to silence her glee club associates and offered a most inviting smile. Magnetic. Electric. Kinetic.
It might have continued on like that had she not broken the silence first. “Hey.” She said. “Hey.” He replied. Her chorus sniggered. “I’m Tasia.” Hypnotized and paralyzed, he closed his eyes. “Michael” he rasped. Another peal of giggles brought him back around again. “Tonight there’ll be a party over at my cousin Artie’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.” As Paulie dragged him away, Tasia thought she had died and gone to Heaven.
Later that very night, from opposite ends of town two households quite unalike in dignity, young lovers unwittingly prepared for their precarious destiny. The pastor’s daughter living in a ranch style house on a tree lined cul de sac and the beautician’s boy living in a mud and stucco hovel near the railway track, primped and posed in front of their respective bedroom mirrors. One sat primly, brushing out her hair. One hundred strokes, no more, no less. Her gaze transfixed by her own image while a Crystals’ song played in her head. The other stood shirtless and lean, bulging and flexing to strike imposing reflections. He was James Cagney, Public Enemy Number One, brandishing imaginary guns and a lethal snarl. “You’ll never take me alive, Coppers”, he mugged.
Oh so much time spent in front of their looking glasses. It only begs the question; forsooth, to whom were fortune’s fools, these lovers two, whom were they most enamored with? You reader, know the truth. It was they themselves enchanted them most. If the swain and his beloved both lived another 50 years times 50 years or perhaps 20 years or 2 years even, he likely wouldn’t remember her name and all that she would recall of her time with him would be embarrassment and shame. But for tonight, they were heady with carnal longing and expectation. Their love was mythic, epic, classic. Their desire would not be denied.
Michael was as good as his word, albeit late. But when he arrived at her door at half past seven to pick up his date, her father was not impressed. The Misfits t-shirt, eyebrow piercing and fleshy odor all offended. He refused to let the boy see his daughter. The door closed in his face, sent away, dejected. Michael thought that this was entirely unexpected.
When she discovered what her Daddy had done, the girl heart-broken and miserable ran through the house screaming, “You have no right! You don’t even know him! I hate you!” and threw herself on her bed, crying inconsolably.
“That one is trouble”, he said to his wife as he watched the hoodlum backing down the street. “No good can come of this”. Perhaps, it might be argued, he was too harsh, too quick to judge. Unlikely though. He was her father, her king and sire. He wanted only to protect his little princess. And he also knew a truth about that boy; that he was like all boys of an age. Having been a boy once himself, he understood that young men’s lurid urges were ungovernable. “My child is yet a stranger in the world” and he meant to keep it that way. He shouted back down the hallway that it was all for her own good. A door slammed. Just as likely, the father’s denial was as much for his own peace of mind.
Divine decree be damned, Michael would not so easily be deprived. To reach her by phone he tried and tried, only to be answered with, “She can’t come to the phone” and “don’t call here again!” and SLAM! His own mother, stinking of peroxide and Lambrusco, said, “Forget about that girl, she’s too good for you anyway and have you been taking your pills?” Still he believed that what must be shall be. So he opted for a different play.
Under shadowy cloak of night, he risked all to tap at her window. Rising from her bed, ethereal and waiflike, Tasia went to him. “You shouldn’t be here, it isn’t safe”, she warned. “This will be your place of death if my father finds you at my sill”. But Michael was not afraid, emboldened as he was by his desire. He would rather die than fail in it. He begged her out. She did not hesitate.
They slipped away together into the midnight murk. Under star-crossed skies, they professed sensual desires, their true love grown to excess. And they bemoaned their lot, cursing both their houses with plague. “We can never go back”, she warned. “They’ll never let us be together.”
“I dreamed a dream”, he told her. “A portent that you and I, we two alone, must make our escape together or die trying.” In haste, they agreed. It was decided. That very night, tonight, they would run. The plan they made was a desperate one.
Is love a tender thing? No. Love is amoral. You know this. Love is a violent, frantic and overwhelming force. And violent delights have violent ends. When her father discovered the empty bed and empty garage, he put his fist through a wall and vowed that he would catch those kids and the hooligan would pay. “I’m gonna kill that little SOB!” he shrieked as he dialed the police number.
The open road tempted them, called to them and coaxed them on, while The Animals blared on the radio of her father’s stolen truck. Just one last stop at the 7-Eleven for supplies before they hit out North on highway 87 to begin their time without end. “Get me a box of Chicklets, and a Cherry Coke Big Gulp, oh and a pack of Lucky’s”, she asked as she put a tongue in his ear. He smiled his big toothy smile and said, “Keep the engine running, Baby”
He was only gone a minute, back in a flash, and ready to roll. But first, one last embrace. They were too tangled in each other to notice the arrival of five Black & Whites. When they finally tore themselves apart and looked up, Michael and Tasia found themselves surrounded by an assembly of officers with guns drawn. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands up” Time stopped. A murder of crows overhead froze in mid-flight. The cashier in the convenience store held his breath and ducked behind the counter. The air, sweet with orange blossoms, became still. Michael turned to Tasia. She looked back at him. They communicated their compact and their commitment through words implied but unspoken. If all else fails, they knew that they still had the power to die. He revved the engine and slipped the vehicle into gear.
* * * * * *
Red and White lights strobe on the cab of the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was a private tomb inside which they lay in their eternal embrace, no warmth, no breath. Parting smoke and dust reveal two, mortally wounded from the bullet barrage, the hail of gunfire. Blood pools with motor oil on the asphalt beneath the truck. Behind yellow tape, an Action5 newscaster in her tight blue blazer checks the shot. The silvery haired reporter, always first on the scene, ever comfortable with tragedy and giddy at the scent of death, shoves her microphone in the face of the grieving parents to pose her question; “Who’s to blame in this tragedy, the police, Ritalin, popular media or video games?”
While there could be no agreement on fault, everyone granted that Officer Bellow’s MP5 submachine gun use was excessive. “They were good kids,” wept the girl’s father. “They didn’t deserve this”. A wreath was placed at the scene, memorial to young love, between the ice machine and the video vending booth.
She was reading from the Bible when she met her boyfriend Michael. Sitting with her best girlfriends, Misty, Tru and Viv, Tasia glanced up as he swaggered into the Christian Youth Center, looking lethal in his tight, white Tee, baggy denim jeans and hair down to there. Michael was the given name of the young girls dream and parent’s nightmare. If flags were raised and alarms sounded, as well they should have been, she was deliriously oblivious, obscured as they were by phalange flailings and the peals of giggles from her chorus of classmates. The little lamb, ripe for slaughter, willed him to take notice, and in doing so, did bid forth her own demise.
In the flesh and fresh out of reform school, probation papers still poking out his back pocket, Michael played it all cool and cocky. Like hunter seeking prey, he strutted, sniffed the air and assessed the room with his buddy Paulie. But when he spied her sitting on the bleachers on the far side of the gymnasium, so coy, forestalling inhibition, t’was Michael who became the quarry. It was at that exact moment that their peril was set in motion.
He turned to his chum, impetuously certain though helplessly smitten, and pointed her out. “Did my heart love ‘til now? Can I believe my own eyes? I never saw true beauty until I looked at her”. Paulie merely shrugged and tugged at his Dickies.
Like the tide, moved as it is by an envious moon, Michael was drawn to Tasia, pulled by her. Insanely hopeful, madly enrapt, he approached. She closed the Book in her lap with a snap to silence her glee club associates and offered a most inviting smile. Magnetic. Electric. Kinetic.
It might have continued on like that had she not broken the silence first. “Hey.” She said. “Hey.” He replied. Her chorus sniggered. “I’m Tasia.” Hypnotized and paralyzed, he closed his eyes. “Michael” he rasped. Another peal of giggles brought him back around again. “Tonight there’ll be a party over at my cousin Artie’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.” As Paulie dragged him away, Tasia thought she had died and gone to Heaven.
Later that very night, from opposite ends of town two households quite unalike in dignity, young lovers unwittingly prepared for their precarious destiny. The pastor’s daughter living in a ranch style house on a tree lined cul de sac and the beautician’s boy living in a mud and stucco hovel near the railway track, primped and posed in front of their respective bedroom mirrors. One sat primly, brushing out her hair. One hundred strokes, no more, no less. Her gaze transfixed by her own image while a Crystals’ song played in her head. The other stood shirtless and lean, bulging and flexing to strike imposing reflections. He was James Cagney, Public Enemy Number One, brandishing imaginary guns and a lethal snarl. “You’ll never take me alive, Coppers”, he mugged.
Oh so much time spent in front of their looking glasses. It only begs the question; forsooth, to whom were fortune’s fools, these lovers two, whom were they most enamored with? You reader, know the truth. It was they themselves enchanted them most. If the swain and his beloved both lived another 50 years times 50 years or perhaps 20 years or 2 years even, he likely wouldn’t remember her name and all that she would recall of her time with him would be embarrassment and shame. But for tonight, they were heady with carnal longing and expectation. Their love was mythic, epic, classic. Their desire would not be denied.
Michael was as good as his word, albeit late. But when he arrived at her door at half past seven to pick up his date, her father was not impressed. The Misfits t-shirt, eyebrow piercing and fleshy odor all offended. He refused to let the boy see his daughter. The door closed in his face, sent away, dejected. Michael thought that this was entirely unexpected.
When she discovered what her Daddy had done, the girl heart-broken and miserable ran through the house screaming, “You have no right! You don’t even know him! I hate you!” and threw herself on her bed, crying inconsolably.
“That one is trouble”, he said to his wife as he watched the hoodlum backing down the street. “No good can come of this”. Perhaps, it might be argued, he was too harsh, too quick to judge. Unlikely though. He was her father, her king and sire. He wanted only to protect his little princess. And he also knew a truth about that boy; that he was like all boys of an age. Having been a boy once himself, he understood that young men’s lurid urges were ungovernable. “My child is yet a stranger in the world” and he meant to keep it that way. He shouted back down the hallway that it was all for her own good. A door slammed. Just as likely, the father’s denial was as much for his own peace of mind.
Divine decree be damned, Michael would not so easily be deprived. To reach her by phone he tried and tried, only to be answered with, “She can’t come to the phone” and “don’t call here again!” and SLAM! His own mother, stinking of peroxide and Lambrusco, said, “Forget about that girl, she’s too good for you anyway and have you been taking your pills?” Still he believed that what must be shall be. So he opted for a different play.
Under shadowy cloak of night, he risked all to tap at her window. Rising from her bed, ethereal and waiflike, Tasia went to him. “You shouldn’t be here, it isn’t safe”, she warned. “This will be your place of death if my father finds you at my sill”. But Michael was not afraid, emboldened as he was by his desire. He would rather die than fail in it. He begged her out. She did not hesitate.
They slipped away together into the midnight murk. Under star-crossed skies, they professed sensual desires, their true love grown to excess. And they bemoaned their lot, cursing both their houses with plague. “We can never go back”, she warned. “They’ll never let us be together.”
“I dreamed a dream”, he told her. “A portent that you and I, we two alone, must make our escape together or die trying.” In haste, they agreed. It was decided. That very night, tonight, they would run. The plan they made was a desperate one.
Is love a tender thing? No. Love is amoral. You know this. Love is a violent, frantic and overwhelming force. And violent delights have violent ends. When her father discovered the empty bed and empty garage, he put his fist through a wall and vowed that he would catch those kids and the hooligan would pay. “I’m gonna kill that little SOB!” he shrieked as he dialed the police number.
The open road tempted them, called to them and coaxed them on, while The Animals blared on the radio of her father’s stolen truck. Just one last stop at the 7-Eleven for supplies before they hit out North on highway 87 to begin their time without end. “Get me a box of Chicklets, and a Cherry Coke Big Gulp, oh and a pack of Lucky’s”, she asked as she put a tongue in his ear. He smiled his big toothy smile and said, “Keep the engine running, Baby”
He was only gone a minute, back in a flash, and ready to roll. But first, one last embrace. They were too tangled in each other to notice the arrival of five Black & Whites. When they finally tore themselves apart and looked up, Michael and Tasia found themselves surrounded by an assembly of officers with guns drawn. “Step out of the vehicle with your hands up” Time stopped. A murder of crows overhead froze in mid-flight. The cashier in the convenience store held his breath and ducked behind the counter. The air, sweet with orange blossoms, became still. Michael turned to Tasia. She looked back at him. They communicated their compact and their commitment through words implied but unspoken. If all else fails, they knew that they still had the power to die. He revved the engine and slipped the vehicle into gear.
* * * * * *
Red and White lights strobe on the cab of the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was a private tomb inside which they lay in their eternal embrace, no warmth, no breath. Parting smoke and dust reveal two, mortally wounded from the bullet barrage, the hail of gunfire. Blood pools with motor oil on the asphalt beneath the truck. Behind yellow tape, an Action5 newscaster in her tight blue blazer checks the shot. The silvery haired reporter, always first on the scene, ever comfortable with tragedy and giddy at the scent of death, shoves her microphone in the face of the grieving parents to pose her question; “Who’s to blame in this tragedy, the police, Ritalin, popular media or video games?”
While there could be no agreement on fault, everyone granted that Officer Bellow’s MP5 submachine gun use was excessive. “They were good kids,” wept the girl’s father. “They didn’t deserve this”. A wreath was placed at the scene, memorial to young love, between the ice machine and the video vending booth.
Fatter Tuesday: AKA Fat Tuesday? What happened to the rest of the week?
*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***
Memories are an odd looking glass to utilize while bringing ones' life into perspective. They distort and focus at a whim. Thus, they are rather fickle accomplices in the matter of seeking clarity. As such, the old phrase, "If memory serves me" will have to be employed as a preface to the tales that will unfold here. Point of fact, I'm sure this can't be how my life really happened. It even feels distorted to me at this point. However, it's what I remember, and that's all that I can provide in good conscience.
From the start, I don't intend to give you the impression that my life is all rain and no sunshine, either. That is nowhere near the truth. The fact of the matter is I've had a better life than most in all of the important ways. I had a family that loved me, parents that were always supportive and a home where I always felt at peace. Socially, I was awkward at best. But that's neither here nor there. For the most part, I live a rather normal existence.
Contrary to that statement, I will say that I don't consider my romantic entanglements to be in any way normal. At least, they aren't in keeping with the fashionable dating habits of the average American male. I can count on one hand the number of women I've been with sexually, I've never had a one-night stand (and for an artist, that's a feat) and I have yet to be in a relationship that I would consider having the capacity for longevity. I simply cannot find a sane woman that would love me, or an insane woman who wouldn't.
Sexually speaking, my forays into bedroom affairs have not been steamy-- to date I have no stories that end with, "and then she rended my clothing from my feverish flesh in an enraptured ecstasy." Mostly, my encounters with women involve a lot of giggling, fumbling and occasional cranial collisions which leave all involved either bleeding or laughing riotously. Not exactly something that I can imagine being committed to celluloid, unless it was being utilized for some teen-flick exposing awkward adolescent exploration. There aren't even a wide variety of positions being employed, come to think of it. The one time I considered attempting a new, wild configuration I misappropriated my weight and managed to flip my futon over on top of my partner and I. Thus, the giggling.
Given that I was sired into a culture absolutely permeated with sex, I grew up under the impression that my planet was a hedonic cesspool wherein one is encouraged to indulge every hormonal whim that should arise at any given instant. I pictured the whole of society humping like hopped-up rabbits and loving every minute of it. At least, that was what MTV wanted me to think, right? It was only with age and experience with actual intimacy that I came to realize that our porn-star paradigms are actually gross exaggerations of a particular facet of the human condition, like superheroes. They do things that, for reasons either physical or psychological, the common man never thought possible. So, just think of it as cheap entertainment. In my estimation, pornography beats solitaire hands down.
At this point, I can't help but reflect on these things. It isn't as though there is any stimulus available to keep me from diving into my subconscious at any given interval. No-- unfortunately, I have to earn a living. I am paid predominantly to cope with the joys of transcribing medical examiner's tape-recorded notes. Thus, I get to exist transfixed by a computer screen, letting my time sift through the system like sand through the hourglass for 40 interminable hours a week. The position provides obvious medical coverage, a decent retirement package and ample opportunity for reflection. At my age, that simply cannot be healthy. Thank God for the life insurance policy.
Its 3:37 on a Tuesday and my ass is completely numb from inhabiting this ergonomic brick-red bastard chair all day. The incline is steep enough that you are constantly assuming a speed-skier posture. How this is beneficial to office conduct, I will never grasp. What this means is I've been ruminating my current relationship woes with Emily for nearly 8 hours, and I'm about to blow a gasket.
It isn't that the situation is that desperate. It's not even that it's complicated, either. I simply have a preternatural need for a romantic connection with a woman. It's a pressure that I'm only exerting on myself, and yet I can't seem to turn it off. I'm not exactly ready for marriage, per-say, but I'm certainly sick of dating all together. And given the sordid history I have with emotional attachment, you can imagine why. Well, perhaps you can't. No matter. You'll get it eventually; but this is where the story starts to get complicated
________________________________________________________________
Yesterday evening, I had finally conned Emily into a dinner date. It was our first in nearly three months. However, given the nature of our conversation, I believe it will be our last for quite some time. If I can state the obvious, I don't believe asking someone if they think it best that you'd never met them is a good way to create a sense of unity. Her reaction was understandable.
"What exactly brought this on?"
Her intonation wasn't one of sarcastic comprehension. It was one of absolute annoyed confusion. My timing wasn't exactly impeccable, either. We were in the middle of discussing the wedding of one of her close friends, and at that exact moment she was searching for the straw in her Diet Coke with her mouth rather than her eyes. It was one of a million things that had me absolutely taken with her, thus completely disabling my logic meter and spurring me into an affectionate cooing mode.
"You're terribly cute when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to find your straw on instinct. It's adorable... and it's one of the things that make me wish I didn't know you."
"If that was intended to be a compliment, your dismount needs a little work."
"I met the ghost of romance-past last night... you know, contemplated where you and I would be right now had we never crossed paths..."
Pause inserted for dramatic effect. Why can't I just take my life seriously? Why am I always acting as though I'm being filmed at any given interval? Yes, I sit around rehearsing these speeches. Who doesn't? You don't want to have to shoot from the hip when you're explaining yourself to a woman who's a hairs breadth away from never speaking to you again... and yet I contrive something that I am fully aware she will be offended by as a way to push her over the edge. If you love someone-- set them free, right? It serves me right for counting on the merit of pop music.
"Upon reflection, I can't say that it would be a terrible thing, Em. You'd be a great deal happier, I'm sure. You wouldn't have to worry about constantly evading my advances... you would have settled down with that nice, muscular boy you've grown so fond of. It would make things a bit easier, wouldn't it?"
Her frustration began to show as she shook her head at me, and launched into what I refer to as "Em-speak." Thoughts begin to generate faster than her mouth can feasibly move, and she attempts to counterbalance by following these thoughts rather than articulating anything.
"Are you completely... I mean... What do his muscles have to do with any...? And I do not EVADE you... and you certainly haven't complained about the... And how do you... Where do you get off? I mean, I come out... And why do we have to do this in a restaurant? What's wrong with... and what do you WANT me to say to you? I can't even... You always... WHAT IS YOUR DEAL???"
Obviously, you can't answer any of this. At least, I can't. Every time I try, she cuts me off with another question. I find it's best to ride out the wave, but that usually ends badly.
She ended the tirade and simply stared daggers into me while taking long drags from her Coke. If looks could kill, I'd be in critical condition...I'm not sure why I entered into this with the intention of making her angry. Maybe that was the best way to let her rid herself of me guilt-free. If I were an asshole, she could walk out that door with the same righteous indignation which I used to justify my anxieties. She knows I love her, and I suppose it's just pitiable enough to keep her from severing contact with me completely. Perhaps making her view me as insane as opposed to pitiful made an easier transition in my mind. I always assumed that she really wanted nothing to do with me. However, as I had on so many occasions, I misjudged her heart.
I was staring at the table now, because I didn't see any suitable way to either explain my intentions or to back out gracefully from the conversation. I'd written myself into an inexorable conclusion, and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. Her voice broke the silence like a razor through skin.
"And how would it be for you, Andrew? Would everything be easier for you if you'd never met me?"
Her voice quivered a bit, and she bit her lip as though trying to contain a tsunami in her head. As the first tear shed it's cover and tumbled down the bridge of her nose--trying in some small way to soothe the wound I'd just inflicted-- I woke up enough to grasp my ignorance. It was too little-- too late, I fear. As such, resigned as I was to hammering the final nail into my coffin lid, I completed the speech as written.
"The way I see it, I'd be blissful in my ignorance. I could live each day without the knowledge that my soul-mate was out pandering to the bar-and-party set for the sake of accruing life experience... I'd never know that she was kissing strangers and taking names because she simply can't admit to herself that she deserves to be treated with love and kindness by someone who knows and understands her... and I certainly wouldn't have to relive the moment of my 'I love you' being met with a resounding silence and an apologetic gaze. So, at this point, I think I'd be pretty well-off."
I've never seen anyone leave a table that quickly. She was a marvel of motor-skill. In one deft move she'd collected her purse, wiped the tear from her eye and slid out of the booth. She was at the door before I'd even had a chance to breathe again. My head slipped into my hands as though struggling with the weight of what had just occurred, and I explored the thread-count of the table cloth for a moment. The waiter's voice sounded like a horn through the fog of my bereavement.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
I didn't respond. All I could contemplate was how ironic it was that Queen was playing on the restaurant musak.
"Another one bites the dust..."
Memories are an odd looking glass to utilize while bringing ones' life into perspective. They distort and focus at a whim. Thus, they are rather fickle accomplices in the matter of seeking clarity. As such, the old phrase, "If memory serves me" will have to be employed as a preface to the tales that will unfold here. Point of fact, I'm sure this can't be how my life really happened. It even feels distorted to me at this point. However, it's what I remember, and that's all that I can provide in good conscience.
From the start, I don't intend to give you the impression that my life is all rain and no sunshine, either. That is nowhere near the truth. The fact of the matter is I've had a better life than most in all of the important ways. I had a family that loved me, parents that were always supportive and a home where I always felt at peace. Socially, I was awkward at best. But that's neither here nor there. For the most part, I live a rather normal existence.
Contrary to that statement, I will say that I don't consider my romantic entanglements to be in any way normal. At least, they aren't in keeping with the fashionable dating habits of the average American male. I can count on one hand the number of women I've been with sexually, I've never had a one-night stand (and for an artist, that's a feat) and I have yet to be in a relationship that I would consider having the capacity for longevity. I simply cannot find a sane woman that would love me, or an insane woman who wouldn't.
Sexually speaking, my forays into bedroom affairs have not been steamy-- to date I have no stories that end with, "and then she rended my clothing from my feverish flesh in an enraptured ecstasy." Mostly, my encounters with women involve a lot of giggling, fumbling and occasional cranial collisions which leave all involved either bleeding or laughing riotously. Not exactly something that I can imagine being committed to celluloid, unless it was being utilized for some teen-flick exposing awkward adolescent exploration. There aren't even a wide variety of positions being employed, come to think of it. The one time I considered attempting a new, wild configuration I misappropriated my weight and managed to flip my futon over on top of my partner and I. Thus, the giggling.
Given that I was sired into a culture absolutely permeated with sex, I grew up under the impression that my planet was a hedonic cesspool wherein one is encouraged to indulge every hormonal whim that should arise at any given instant. I pictured the whole of society humping like hopped-up rabbits and loving every minute of it. At least, that was what MTV wanted me to think, right? It was only with age and experience with actual intimacy that I came to realize that our porn-star paradigms are actually gross exaggerations of a particular facet of the human condition, like superheroes. They do things that, for reasons either physical or psychological, the common man never thought possible. So, just think of it as cheap entertainment. In my estimation, pornography beats solitaire hands down.
At this point, I can't help but reflect on these things. It isn't as though there is any stimulus available to keep me from diving into my subconscious at any given interval. No-- unfortunately, I have to earn a living. I am paid predominantly to cope with the joys of transcribing medical examiner's tape-recorded notes. Thus, I get to exist transfixed by a computer screen, letting my time sift through the system like sand through the hourglass for 40 interminable hours a week. The position provides obvious medical coverage, a decent retirement package and ample opportunity for reflection. At my age, that simply cannot be healthy. Thank God for the life insurance policy.
Its 3:37 on a Tuesday and my ass is completely numb from inhabiting this ergonomic brick-red bastard chair all day. The incline is steep enough that you are constantly assuming a speed-skier posture. How this is beneficial to office conduct, I will never grasp. What this means is I've been ruminating my current relationship woes with Emily for nearly 8 hours, and I'm about to blow a gasket.
It isn't that the situation is that desperate. It's not even that it's complicated, either. I simply have a preternatural need for a romantic connection with a woman. It's a pressure that I'm only exerting on myself, and yet I can't seem to turn it off. I'm not exactly ready for marriage, per-say, but I'm certainly sick of dating all together. And given the sordid history I have with emotional attachment, you can imagine why. Well, perhaps you can't. No matter. You'll get it eventually; but this is where the story starts to get complicated
________________________________________________________________
Yesterday evening, I had finally conned Emily into a dinner date. It was our first in nearly three months. However, given the nature of our conversation, I believe it will be our last for quite some time. If I can state the obvious, I don't believe asking someone if they think it best that you'd never met them is a good way to create a sense of unity. Her reaction was understandable.
"What exactly brought this on?"
Her intonation wasn't one of sarcastic comprehension. It was one of absolute annoyed confusion. My timing wasn't exactly impeccable, either. We were in the middle of discussing the wedding of one of her close friends, and at that exact moment she was searching for the straw in her Diet Coke with her mouth rather than her eyes. It was one of a million things that had me absolutely taken with her, thus completely disabling my logic meter and spurring me into an affectionate cooing mode.
"You're terribly cute when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to find your straw on instinct. It's adorable... and it's one of the things that make me wish I didn't know you."
"If that was intended to be a compliment, your dismount needs a little work."
"I met the ghost of romance-past last night... you know, contemplated where you and I would be right now had we never crossed paths..."
Pause inserted for dramatic effect. Why can't I just take my life seriously? Why am I always acting as though I'm being filmed at any given interval? Yes, I sit around rehearsing these speeches. Who doesn't? You don't want to have to shoot from the hip when you're explaining yourself to a woman who's a hairs breadth away from never speaking to you again... and yet I contrive something that I am fully aware she will be offended by as a way to push her over the edge. If you love someone-- set them free, right? It serves me right for counting on the merit of pop music.
"Upon reflection, I can't say that it would be a terrible thing, Em. You'd be a great deal happier, I'm sure. You wouldn't have to worry about constantly evading my advances... you would have settled down with that nice, muscular boy you've grown so fond of. It would make things a bit easier, wouldn't it?"
Her frustration began to show as she shook her head at me, and launched into what I refer to as "Em-speak." Thoughts begin to generate faster than her mouth can feasibly move, and she attempts to counterbalance by following these thoughts rather than articulating anything.
"Are you completely... I mean... What do his muscles have to do with any...? And I do not EVADE you... and you certainly haven't complained about the... And how do you... Where do you get off? I mean, I come out... And why do we have to do this in a restaurant? What's wrong with... and what do you WANT me to say to you? I can't even... You always... WHAT IS YOUR DEAL???"
Obviously, you can't answer any of this. At least, I can't. Every time I try, she cuts me off with another question. I find it's best to ride out the wave, but that usually ends badly.
She ended the tirade and simply stared daggers into me while taking long drags from her Coke. If looks could kill, I'd be in critical condition...I'm not sure why I entered into this with the intention of making her angry. Maybe that was the best way to let her rid herself of me guilt-free. If I were an asshole, she could walk out that door with the same righteous indignation which I used to justify my anxieties. She knows I love her, and I suppose it's just pitiable enough to keep her from severing contact with me completely. Perhaps making her view me as insane as opposed to pitiful made an easier transition in my mind. I always assumed that she really wanted nothing to do with me. However, as I had on so many occasions, I misjudged her heart.
I was staring at the table now, because I didn't see any suitable way to either explain my intentions or to back out gracefully from the conversation. I'd written myself into an inexorable conclusion, and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. Her voice broke the silence like a razor through skin.
"And how would it be for you, Andrew? Would everything be easier for you if you'd never met me?"
Her voice quivered a bit, and she bit her lip as though trying to contain a tsunami in her head. As the first tear shed it's cover and tumbled down the bridge of her nose--trying in some small way to soothe the wound I'd just inflicted-- I woke up enough to grasp my ignorance. It was too little-- too late, I fear. As such, resigned as I was to hammering the final nail into my coffin lid, I completed the speech as written.
"The way I see it, I'd be blissful in my ignorance. I could live each day without the knowledge that my soul-mate was out pandering to the bar-and-party set for the sake of accruing life experience... I'd never know that she was kissing strangers and taking names because she simply can't admit to herself that she deserves to be treated with love and kindness by someone who knows and understands her... and I certainly wouldn't have to relive the moment of my 'I love you' being met with a resounding silence and an apologetic gaze. So, at this point, I think I'd be pretty well-off."
I've never seen anyone leave a table that quickly. She was a marvel of motor-skill. In one deft move she'd collected her purse, wiped the tear from her eye and slid out of the booth. She was at the door before I'd even had a chance to breathe again. My head slipped into my hands as though struggling with the weight of what had just occurred, and I explored the thread-count of the table cloth for a moment. The waiter's voice sounded like a horn through the fog of my bereavement.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
I didn't respond. All I could contemplate was how ironic it was that Queen was playing on the restaurant musak.
"Another one bites the dust..."
The Trouble With Love Is...
*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***
Three Dog Night said it best... "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." Truer words were never spoken. And how does one advance beyond the singular state? I couldn't tell you. My forays into that masochistic realm have been nothing if not painful and embarrassing. Need convincing? All right...
The easiest way to put you in my shoes is to give you a little basis for comparison. My version of Bill Cosby's "The same thing happens every night." It's the sort of situation one prays to never be in. To be honest, I've wished it on others from time to time, but in reality couldn't fathom that such an incident would occur in my own life. Karma simply couldn't be that cruel. However, it's become a normal Saturday night scenario for me. Boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl files restraining order. Or at least, some sick derivation of that basic premise. It's not a normal existence, that's what I'm driving at. Thus, there I was, coping with one of life's little side-swipes sans preparation yet again. Truly operating on the fly. As such, grace was far from a possibility. The doe-eyed optimist in me stood on the road to oblivion, and God decided to cue the headlights.
Of course it involves a young woman. How could it not, right? Age is supposed to prevent all of this insanity. Well, we'll get around to how preposterous that notion is later... Who was she, you may ask? That doesn't really matter at this point... Neither of us will be seeing any more of her. This oh-so-brief appearance is merely to acquaint you with the discourse I've dealt with ad-nauseam since I developed an interest in the opposite sex... which, given the fact that I developed an unhealthy attraction to women in kindergarten, means I've accrued enough angst at this point in my life to spontaneously combust vital organs.
For the sake of context, her name was Chrissy... not Christine, as that sounded far too rigid for her. (At this point, if the woman's name is too confining for her, you can imagine the layers of inhibition she's shed in her lifetime) We met at one of my shows, and got along so swimmingly that we began to hang out frequently. We ran the ordinary routine of getting to know one another, and we clicked in all the important ways (when you're young and oblivious to actuality, that is). We listened to the same music, we knew the same films, we shared favorite authors. We were uber-compatible. Soon, we were inseparable.
When I wasn't busy pouring my heart out with my sappy little tunes about loss and rejection to endear myself to her, we were involved in gross physical entanglements in the cab of my Suzuki Sidekick (which, for the size of said cab, firmly established a permanent jerky nerve in my lower-back). We were a young couple in love, or so I thought... This was even in spite of the fact that she was nearly 7 years my senior, and a divorcee. That alone should have illuminated the rocky road we were bound for... However, as has been proven over the ages time and again, love is apparently blind.
As evidence of this woman's disdain for restraint, the first intimate detail she shared with me when we met was a rather lurid tale about engaging in a sexual act with a bartender on the bar during business hours. She then proceeded to describe in excessive detail every instance wherein either she or her partner were sexually gratified during the span of her entire life. Needless to say, this sent up warning flares... however, we were young. These exploits are expected in today's do-what-you feel culture. Also of note, she had her hands on my thighs while she was recounting these stories. As such, she could have told me she killed Kennedy, and I would have nodded approvingly and smiled that sexpot-ensnaring grin I've developed in the hopes of escalating the mood.
So, with that in mind, one fine evening she arrived at my apartment effervescing, so charged with positive energy that she could barely contain herself. I was of course intrigued.
"So, what's got you all a-flutter? Did you finally meet a man who will mix you as well as he mixes drinks?"
The tragic thing was, she said yes.
She said it as though it were the most naturalistic thing in the world. She'd met someone three days ago at a bar-- and they were having a wonderful time indulging their sexual appetites together. She only seemed disturbed by my apparent lack of enthusiasm.
"What's wrong?" she said, "Aren't you happy for me?"
Her coital involvement with a stranger and total disregard for my feelings aside, I couldn't quite grasp that she was being serious. I felt as though it were some cruel joke I was misunderstanding. As such, I replied with similar candor.
"Oh, yeah, my girlfriend has found someone else to dissolve his cinnamon stick in her coffee... I'm ELATED, hon! Let's go get drinks to celebrate!"
The sarcasm wasn't lost on her, and yet a look of confusion invaded her face for a moment. She then paused, and plaintively gazed into my eyes.
"You think I'm your girlfriend?"
Enter the awkward silence. Perhaps she was being serious. Yet, I still replied with all the cute-n-cuddly I could muster.
"Oh, of course not. I like to make-out and hold hands with everyone I meet. I find it's the easiest way of getting acquainted."
I don't know why she took my hand to say this next bit. This kind of stab is normally administered from behind. However, it seems she preferred to try and register my reaction as the words spilled, awkward and tentative as a gynecologist on a maiden voyage.
"Andrew, you're the coolest guy I know. I really wish that I could be attracted to you in that way, but I think of you as more of a brother than a boyfriend. You're far too nice a guy for me to be in a relationship with-- You understand, right?"
Houston: we've officially lost cabin pressure. Of COURSE I understood... I'd completely forgotten that incest was chic these days. It's as natural to tongue-kiss someone you view as your brother as it is to have sex with your cousins and run off to join the Future Carnival Workers of America. How could I have possibly not grasped the intricacies of that logic?
Is there really any dignified way to react to such a statement? Really... Because my half-hearted attempt at grace was to simply stand dumbfounded and glaring, half-hoping that a teleprompter scroll would appear at any moment in her eyes. There was no hope, however, of coaxing dialogue from this foreign matter that suddenly took up residence in my mouth. I believe it was my pride: and I was choking it down to the best of my ability.
I'm not sure how it was possible for her to interpret the look on my face as understanding in any form, but she ploughed on.
"I mean, you're such a great guy. I love spending time with you. I don't want to spoil all that by making this a physical thing. It would be such a waste."
Needle and thread, please. I think we have a bleeder.
I kept tonguing the inside of my cheek, the way one would when being plagued by a nasty cold-sore. It was the closest thing to speech I could muster. The paralysis was not total however-- I could make a fist: and I promptly did so. I squeezed as though my entire life was slipping through my fingers, and I had to try and salvage what I could before relinquishing it to the breeze. She then ventured to continue with the inevitable imbecilic question that begs to be inserted in every conversation of this kind.
"Are you mad?"
I distinctly recall at least feeling a snap. It may not have been visible, but something slid either into or out of alignment in my head shifting the blockage on the bile that was steadily accumulating in my esophagus. The torrent of verbal-vomit that followed was akin to the disgorging of a frat-party attendee. It was necessary for survival, no matter how messy it made things. The exact phraseology is a blur, as my lips were moving so fast that I doubt I was forming syllables.
However, I specifically recall ending the rant with, "Causing an erection can not be considered growth in a relationship, so your measure of what constitutes a commitment can't have a very broad scope, but PLEASE wake up and realize that making men who respect you your friends and making men who use you as a talking toilet your lovers is not a bright idea. I hope at some point you evolve beyond that limited perspective, but I'm not holding my breath... My sincerest apologies for actually seeing you as something other than a cum repository."
After this orgasm of fury erupted, my knees were shaking and her eyes were slightly glossed. This must be what sex with her is like, I thought. You take every bit of dignity she has to make yourself feel better, and leave while she's cleaning up. However, I believe she was used to men spewing filth on her... just not in the psychological sense. Perhaps I generalized. Maybe I didn't necessarily fully assess the situation and attempt to truly grasp what had motivated her to quickly quell what I had taken to be our ceaselessly budding romance.
In any case, as the door slammed shut behind her I realized that I had actually answered her question...
Three Dog Night said it best... "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." Truer words were never spoken. And how does one advance beyond the singular state? I couldn't tell you. My forays into that masochistic realm have been nothing if not painful and embarrassing. Need convincing? All right...
The easiest way to put you in my shoes is to give you a little basis for comparison. My version of Bill Cosby's "The same thing happens every night." It's the sort of situation one prays to never be in. To be honest, I've wished it on others from time to time, but in reality couldn't fathom that such an incident would occur in my own life. Karma simply couldn't be that cruel. However, it's become a normal Saturday night scenario for me. Boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl files restraining order. Or at least, some sick derivation of that basic premise. It's not a normal existence, that's what I'm driving at. Thus, there I was, coping with one of life's little side-swipes sans preparation yet again. Truly operating on the fly. As such, grace was far from a possibility. The doe-eyed optimist in me stood on the road to oblivion, and God decided to cue the headlights.
Of course it involves a young woman. How could it not, right? Age is supposed to prevent all of this insanity. Well, we'll get around to how preposterous that notion is later... Who was she, you may ask? That doesn't really matter at this point... Neither of us will be seeing any more of her. This oh-so-brief appearance is merely to acquaint you with the discourse I've dealt with ad-nauseam since I developed an interest in the opposite sex... which, given the fact that I developed an unhealthy attraction to women in kindergarten, means I've accrued enough angst at this point in my life to spontaneously combust vital organs.
For the sake of context, her name was Chrissy... not Christine, as that sounded far too rigid for her. (At this point, if the woman's name is too confining for her, you can imagine the layers of inhibition she's shed in her lifetime) We met at one of my shows, and got along so swimmingly that we began to hang out frequently. We ran the ordinary routine of getting to know one another, and we clicked in all the important ways (when you're young and oblivious to actuality, that is). We listened to the same music, we knew the same films, we shared favorite authors. We were uber-compatible. Soon, we were inseparable.
When I wasn't busy pouring my heart out with my sappy little tunes about loss and rejection to endear myself to her, we were involved in gross physical entanglements in the cab of my Suzuki Sidekick (which, for the size of said cab, firmly established a permanent jerky nerve in my lower-back). We were a young couple in love, or so I thought... This was even in spite of the fact that she was nearly 7 years my senior, and a divorcee. That alone should have illuminated the rocky road we were bound for... However, as has been proven over the ages time and again, love is apparently blind.
As evidence of this woman's disdain for restraint, the first intimate detail she shared with me when we met was a rather lurid tale about engaging in a sexual act with a bartender on the bar during business hours. She then proceeded to describe in excessive detail every instance wherein either she or her partner were sexually gratified during the span of her entire life. Needless to say, this sent up warning flares... however, we were young. These exploits are expected in today's do-what-you feel culture. Also of note, she had her hands on my thighs while she was recounting these stories. As such, she could have told me she killed Kennedy, and I would have nodded approvingly and smiled that sexpot-ensnaring grin I've developed in the hopes of escalating the mood.
So, with that in mind, one fine evening she arrived at my apartment effervescing, so charged with positive energy that she could barely contain herself. I was of course intrigued.
"So, what's got you all a-flutter? Did you finally meet a man who will mix you as well as he mixes drinks?"
The tragic thing was, she said yes.
She said it as though it were the most naturalistic thing in the world. She'd met someone three days ago at a bar-- and they were having a wonderful time indulging their sexual appetites together. She only seemed disturbed by my apparent lack of enthusiasm.
"What's wrong?" she said, "Aren't you happy for me?"
Her coital involvement with a stranger and total disregard for my feelings aside, I couldn't quite grasp that she was being serious. I felt as though it were some cruel joke I was misunderstanding. As such, I replied with similar candor.
"Oh, yeah, my girlfriend has found someone else to dissolve his cinnamon stick in her coffee... I'm ELATED, hon! Let's go get drinks to celebrate!"
The sarcasm wasn't lost on her, and yet a look of confusion invaded her face for a moment. She then paused, and plaintively gazed into my eyes.
"You think I'm your girlfriend?"
Enter the awkward silence. Perhaps she was being serious. Yet, I still replied with all the cute-n-cuddly I could muster.
"Oh, of course not. I like to make-out and hold hands with everyone I meet. I find it's the easiest way of getting acquainted."
I don't know why she took my hand to say this next bit. This kind of stab is normally administered from behind. However, it seems she preferred to try and register my reaction as the words spilled, awkward and tentative as a gynecologist on a maiden voyage.
"Andrew, you're the coolest guy I know. I really wish that I could be attracted to you in that way, but I think of you as more of a brother than a boyfriend. You're far too nice a guy for me to be in a relationship with-- You understand, right?"
Houston: we've officially lost cabin pressure. Of COURSE I understood... I'd completely forgotten that incest was chic these days. It's as natural to tongue-kiss someone you view as your brother as it is to have sex with your cousins and run off to join the Future Carnival Workers of America. How could I have possibly not grasped the intricacies of that logic?
Is there really any dignified way to react to such a statement? Really... Because my half-hearted attempt at grace was to simply stand dumbfounded and glaring, half-hoping that a teleprompter scroll would appear at any moment in her eyes. There was no hope, however, of coaxing dialogue from this foreign matter that suddenly took up residence in my mouth. I believe it was my pride: and I was choking it down to the best of my ability.
I'm not sure how it was possible for her to interpret the look on my face as understanding in any form, but she ploughed on.
"I mean, you're such a great guy. I love spending time with you. I don't want to spoil all that by making this a physical thing. It would be such a waste."
Needle and thread, please. I think we have a bleeder.
I kept tonguing the inside of my cheek, the way one would when being plagued by a nasty cold-sore. It was the closest thing to speech I could muster. The paralysis was not total however-- I could make a fist: and I promptly did so. I squeezed as though my entire life was slipping through my fingers, and I had to try and salvage what I could before relinquishing it to the breeze. She then ventured to continue with the inevitable imbecilic question that begs to be inserted in every conversation of this kind.
"Are you mad?"
I distinctly recall at least feeling a snap. It may not have been visible, but something slid either into or out of alignment in my head shifting the blockage on the bile that was steadily accumulating in my esophagus. The torrent of verbal-vomit that followed was akin to the disgorging of a frat-party attendee. It was necessary for survival, no matter how messy it made things. The exact phraseology is a blur, as my lips were moving so fast that I doubt I was forming syllables.
However, I specifically recall ending the rant with, "Causing an erection can not be considered growth in a relationship, so your measure of what constitutes a commitment can't have a very broad scope, but PLEASE wake up and realize that making men who respect you your friends and making men who use you as a talking toilet your lovers is not a bright idea. I hope at some point you evolve beyond that limited perspective, but I'm not holding my breath... My sincerest apologies for actually seeing you as something other than a cum repository."
After this orgasm of fury erupted, my knees were shaking and her eyes were slightly glossed. This must be what sex with her is like, I thought. You take every bit of dignity she has to make yourself feel better, and leave while she's cleaning up. However, I believe she was used to men spewing filth on her... just not in the psychological sense. Perhaps I generalized. Maybe I didn't necessarily fully assess the situation and attempt to truly grasp what had motivated her to quickly quell what I had taken to be our ceaselessly budding romance.
In any case, as the door slammed shut behind her I realized that I had actually answered her question...
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