A Stranger's Smile

I found myself beside the sea, or as close as I could come. The clouds veiled the sun, turning it lunar; casting an eerie gray light. The wind was blowing bitter and slapped against my exposed porcelain. I panted and heaved as I raced toward the water's edge. I kept running for something that I couldn't quite catch. I wasn't getting the desperate high I so fervently sought. It had worked the night previous...My mind spun its vaudevillian plates in a thousand different directions, each one wobbly and teetering in taunting anticipation of crashing to the ground. Sometimes I just need to hear that smashing sound. It's so satisfying. But I broke down, the tears streamed and undulated with the waves. I stood there looking out at the sea, atop a bench, staring into some imagined fork-in-the-road; the air icy and callous barring much else than trembling. I couldn't tell whether it was the chill or not. All I could think to do was run, so I took off once again. On the way I saw an older man, someone's grandfather, running the other direction. He had the warmest eyes, despite the cold. He was waving at everyone that passed him by; in cars, on foot. He looked straight at me, and waved with a bright smile. I don't know why, but I couldn't bring myself to wave back; all I could do was grin this ridiculous, sincere smile. Maybe that's when I got the idea, I don't really know. Soon I was heading out, and before I could realize, I had missed my turn miles back. That's when the idea struck, seemingly out of nowhere. I literally had no way of finding the place, which meant I would have to make a call to get directions. Which meant I would have to divulge my intentions. I know the second I placed the call I was to go through with it. It was like I wasn't moving of my own volition. I didn't stop to think for even a paltry second, I just kept rolling forward, how I realize I do anything. I knew it was going to raise some eyebrows and even more questions, but thankfully, they didn't get posed until later. I was oddly nearby. I was there within minutes. I stopped at the corner florist to pluck a single red rose. I felt silly only spending a dollar and half, but it's not like they could say anything. I was clearly distraught, like the few other morose sad-sacks that I'm sure wander in there from time to time. They must grow immune to it after a time. I turned into the huge expanse. The place was rather bustling, which seemed odd. It gave it a rather incongruent energy. I find it without much incident, despite the labyrinthic maze. It was like I was somewhere else. Someone else. I didn't know what I was going to say once I got there, I hadn't planned that far ahead. I also forget about the neighbor. I'd never been there since. But before the inevitable deluge, I did happen to manage a little chuckle when I saw "Whip" on the stone. I had often wondered if it was on there, and was glad to see it. It didn't take long for me to break into hysterics, releasing years and years of pent-up anger, resentment, and abandonment issues. It was so good to just be there, close to him. It's funny but I really don't recall what I said. I know I said I missed him, that's all I can remember. I sat there on my haunches, sobbing uncontrollably, for maybe a full five minutes, I don't know, time was meaningless; the cold unaffecting. It was almost warm curled up into that little ball. I delicately and meticulously draped the rose over the stone, as not to cover up any letters, and so it wouldn't blow into the abyss. I drew my hand to my lips and then to the stone. The last time I was there, I buried Pez. Twenty years coming. Twenty years. I couldn't quite believe it. He would have been a hundred this year. But then again he was always a hundred to me. He is my Platonic ideal of masculinity of what a man is supposed to be. My earliest and most significant role model. He saw the light in my eyes and the sincerity in my heart. I could do no wrong, even when I was turning off his ball game, just so he would chase me around the house. It's no wonder that my favorite meal is still just bread, cheese and salami. It satisfies that deep, swarthy part of my soul, the soul of the child that still radiates within me, that child that would never let anyone else sit in his chair or took comfort in sleeping in the room he died in every night. It all seems very hazy, like I was watching it from afar, not actually experiencing it. I had already left before I had time to even think about it.

Holidays kind of blow anyway. It's a lot of hassle and pomp for what reason? Everyday should be lived like a holiday. Otherwise, what's the point. Any sliver of happiness should be celebrated with that kind of vigor. They come so few and far between. Twenty five years, and I'm still thinking about him. I'm still feeling about him. I'll never be able to forget. Only children are that open to love, in that pure, undiluted form. Opening your heart to anyone guarantees pain at some point, as we are, but finite. But that which makes us finite makes us yearn to be all the more significant. There would be no real significance or consequence to life if we got all the do-overs we wanted. You have to make what little you have count. But knowing and doing are, what was once described to me as, "two sides of a grand canyon." They set you up with an old nag mule, wish you God speed and with a slap of his ass, you're off, provided you're iron-willed enough to even embark on the journey.

It's funny, turns of kindness never come from where you would expect them to. But every once in a while, someone will take one look at me, and get my number, just like that. It's an incredibly comforting feeling. I am usually quite suspicious of the kindness of strangers, as most people always want at least a little something for their generosity. But, I didn't get that feeling this time. And under normal circumstances, I would never accept, as I would find it impolite, and way too much, but this one, this one is tempting. I could barely hold back tears, even though I had an inkling that's what was going to be offered. I am always surprised when people talk about me at all, but really shocked when all they say are good things. That would have to be one hell of a reputation that preceded me to make that kind of impact. It still floors me every time. Not too often people are willing to give you something with literally nothing wanted in return. Everyone always has some self-serving purpose. It's those incredibly rare moments that just flip my whole cynical world upside down. It only begins to slowly mend the the thread-bare tatters that are my views on humanity, but at least it's something.

Appaloosas and Tumblin' Dice: A Playlist for the Wild-at-heart Gambler

In a world where everybody just wants a piece, it doesn't pay to be an all-or-nothing kind of girl. But you have to bet high to win big, no matter how wild and free.

Woody Guthrie- Gambling Man


Ray Charles- Blackjack


Johnny Cash- Tennessee Stud


Townes Van Zandt- Mr. Mud and Mr. Gold


Sticks McGhee- Whiskey, Women, and Loaded Dice


The Flying Burrito Brothers- Wild Horses


Tom T. Hall- Deal


Dolly Parton- Kentucky Gambler


Marty Robbins- Strawberry Roan


Blood Sweat and Tears- Go Down Gamblin'


Wilco & The Black Crowes- Casino Queen


The Byrds- Chestnut Mare


Steely Dan- Deacon Blues


Kenny Rogers- The Gambler (Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. I had to do it. The video is worth the price of admission right there.)


Bill Monroe- Six White Horses


Blind Lemon Jefferson- Jack O Diamond Blues


Memphis Minnie- Georgia Skin Blues


John Lee Hooker- Two White Horses


Townes Van Zandt- Dollar Bill Blues


Bob Dylan- Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts


Willie Nelson- A Horse Called Music


Rolling Stones- Tumbling Dice


The Black Crowes- Appaloosa


Tom Waits- Mr. Siegal


Hank Williams- Lost Highway

Bursting the Dam or Going For Broke

Hank Williams- Lost Highway

I have remarkably fitful dreams for such deep sleep. It was if I hadn't slept in a hundred years. It was the first exhalation in months of breaths. I keep dreaming these vivid visages of my exact whereabouts. Everything exactly as it is, only clouded. A shuffling pair of boots on the hardwood, a door creaking open, then shut. A roar of an engine or muffled whispers. The hazy act of awakening over and over. Reality bleeding into the nocturne until one cannot be discerned. There are no clocks, my concept of time completely obliterated. There is an alarm clock on the nightstand, but it is menacing in its blackness. I don't want to get up just yet, but feel as though I should. I roll around in the sheets for a bit as my Id often wins. I keep inhaling as deeply as I can. There is this intoxicating scent to the sheets that I can't quite tear myself away from. I spot the crumpled black t-shirt on the floor; my only real motivation to arise. I reach for it and casually slip it over my head. It smells of him. I breathe it in, recording the memory as best I can in my vaporous state. My mind swirls and eddies with a million heart-pounding ideas. I feel overwhelmed, welcomingly so. It becomes too much for me and I finally let go.

There I was, staring back at these crimsoned features, in the harsh bathroom light, with bloodshot eyes streaming gossamer saline. It looked oddly beautiful for a moment. And it felt even better. I guess my supposed stone-cold heart hasn't quite calcified yet, I think flippantly to the mirror. A wave of terror crashes over the rocks of my mind. I begin to tremble. I steady myself on the vanity. Those deep breaths catch in my throat. I can feel it constrict. It tingles and strains in its attempt to take in oxygen. As calescent as my face feels; it burns with acid and pressure, my spine is dancing with cascading chills. My grip tightens on the sink. The tears are surging now, no demure solitary droplets tastefully rolling down my flushed cheek. Rivers of precipitation deluge in avalanchic falls. Shit, shit , shit. I know what this is. Oh, do I ever know what this is. The dam burst. This whole thing, us, this, him. He burst the god dam. The dam the tireless beavers of my calloused heart and jaded mind were so diligently rebuilding with all their buck-toothed fervor. It held pretty solid for a while there; steady and strong throughout a few seasons. Only shaking a few branches loose, briefly, one low-slung full moon night during a particularly tempestuous summer storm. The dam taking a few months to repair; insurance claims, union laborers, and all that bureaucracy. Scores of red tape, but there it was, more leaden than ever. It always uses the damned side door, doesn't it.

As much as she tried to keep composed, waiting for the other shoe to drop, completely tensed with her breath bated. It was already too late. She should have known at midnight in the kitchen of good and evil, when she couldn't meet his eyes. She wanted to, Jesus, did she want to, but she couldn't. Apprehensive. Nervous. Goddammit. She doesn't get nervous. Fuck. She invented the game. Why can't she seem to breathe? Fuck. Her heart races; her mind blanks as she leans against the wall in a feeble attempt at sedation. They lock eyes for the briefest of seconds, but the intensity is choking. Fuck. She is nervous. What is this bullshit? W.C. has long since headed for the hills, leaving just her to deal with this. She always effing bails when any modicum of illegal emotion sneaks its way across the Rio Grande in the dead of night. But you can't blame an Appaloosa for its nature. That which makes her wild makes her beautiful, that which makes her untamed; makes her pure. Callous and Jade are no match for the charm of a fair-skinned true spirit. Quixotic is the only soldier left to fight, but Quixotic has been behind a desk for quite some time, she's rusted and weary; the scars and burns thinly veiled. It wasn't bashfulness; it was fear. Wicked seduction is W.C.'s field. Connection and romance are left to the more sentimental humours. W.C. never makes love. She only lusts for herself, really. But not Quixotic, not the real heart. She only makes love with the purest of emotions; those handful of times. All she can do is feel. There are so many bound-up emotions to untangle. That's why she can't meet his eyes in that moment.

I look at my ruined eyes in the mirror. God damn it. I did it, as much as I tried to thwart it. I left the side door open. I don't want to move from this delicate, morose moment. The balance between emotion and facade finally apparent. The iron jacket that so entombed her Cor had been surreptitiously swung open with a few swift chisels to the keystone hinge. The dam was becoming increasingly unstable, the rapids of sentiment building up the pressure until the dam was wrenched and bowed. The rush of the water is deafening as her breath quickens and her hips desperately try to keep time. It's exquisite in its intensity, but the pleasure is weakening her muscles. All of the feeling has pooled inside; the rhythm in perfect dynamism. It mercifully reaches its crescendo, as she has lost all control of her musculature. But her breath refuses to return to its normal pace. It sounds like thunder, her heart beating like a drum line. Her legs are trembling, and she shivers with excited relief. She collapses on top of him, not wishing to move. She wants to bask in it as long as politely possible, but much longer than that. The only real impetus to move comes from the feeling returning to her thighs. They burn and sear with the strain of tendons. She lets the fire accrue until the swelter is impossible before she finally releases him. The air roils with the most delicious smoke.

I don't want to take off the well-worn onyx cotton awash in the scent of foreign laundry soap and possibility. I think about wearing it out, but neatly fold and replace it. For the first time, in a long time, I am feeling almost in the holiday spirit, with ideas of Christmas playlists. What a weird thing to think. I am simultaneously frightened and delighted with a stupid smile. Every tune on the radio is better than the last.


Post Script: Too old to be broken-in, too young to be tamed, someone with a steady hand need be driving the reins. All in, going for broke through tumult and drought, the purse; someone in her corner to hold her hand, to share a few laughs.

The Misinformation of Langston Hughes or Sweet, Vengeful Immortalization

A flash six years ago; tall gilded go-go boots towering above me, shaggy dark hair haphazardly veiling black-lined eyes, nothing more than a quick introduction...

Halloween night; no go-go boots, but the same overgrown hair, perhaps thinned a bit over the years, and those same obsidian-circumscribed mahogany eyes, the pronouncement of a charmingly fucked-up nose and chipped glittery burnt sienna polish. He seemed frailer, more accessible; a touch of sadness even, no longer the glamorous monolith of my youth. A prolonged conversation, a casual touch of fingers; a number scribbled on a jagged scrap of yellow legal pad, the suggestion of a creative lunch some nonexistent afternoon...

The day after Thanksgiving is unseasonably warm and bathed in sunlight; a perfect afternoon for a dwindling run. The ex stops by to pick up some leftover knickknacks from a far-away life. It ends in me crying, ruining my buzz, as usual; he stoic and cold. Meanwhile, my phone is set a-jangling, but I refuse to peer into it's mystique until The Shell leaves. I dry my puffy, bloodshot eyes. It's curious how immediately my salty humors dam when he goes. I head toward my bedroom to grab the Sword of Damocles that seems to perpetually hang over my head. Well, that's funny... Go-go Boots invited me to his show tonight. In a journalist capacity or something else? I didn't know grown men used AIM-style short-hand anymore, or ever..."Luv 2 C U there," like a 14-year old girl, ten years ago. Like I fucking care though, I'm practically jumping out of my skin. I decide immediately to blow off my prior plans and go to the show, fully intending the direction of the evening.

I take an indulgently long time getting ready, luxuriating under the cascading falls of the shower head for close to an hour; the steam of which starts to make my stomach ache. Carefully and deliberately selecting a 70's era one-shoulder, black satin disco dress that I've hemmed to a decidedly slutty length. I bound my braid with a twisted cording of gold to set off the Disco-Grecian notion; my favorite saddle-hued riding boots and sixties cat-eyes of mutual ebony eyeliner. I want to smolder that mother fucker. I invite a friend to accompany me; lining up all my black ducks.

The air is already palpable with that universal sexual energy. I can feel what is going to happen; it's coursing through me. We climb the stairs to the spartan concert hall. A couple of too-slick dudes are taking the cover and writing "DP" with Sharpies on hands. I make the obvious joke. It seems funny now, but that marcation lasts longer, by days, than the excitement at this once-impossible prospect.

He's there, of course, chatting with the two dickheads that almost crashed into my car with their Yuppie Audi or Volvo or some other bullshit mid-size sedan. Yeah, you're real cool for 40, coke-bottled glasses dipshit. I get caught up in a conversation I care absolutely nothing about with two largish fellas with inaudible names I wouldn't have gave a shit to remember anyway. I keep stealing glances over my shoulder at him, his back to me, draped head to toe in black. He looks like a waiter at P.F. Chang's with his buttoned up Oxford and black, non-offensive slacks. He turns slightly to reveal a bright red patterned tie. All he is missing is a tray of egg foo young and a phonier smile, plastered across his brow-beaten face. I get sick of waiting and the Jerky Boys dissipate, so I lightly graze his shoulder with the back of my wrist. He turns around immediately, excusing himself from Yuppie Scum and Scumette, to give me an extended hug. He had clearly seen me walk in, but pretends like it's some grand surprise that I showed. Again, I don't care, I am eating it up. He thanks me for coming; I thank him for inviting me. Aren't we the polite pair?! He compliments me on how "amazing" I look. He asks me who I came with...Glad I invited him now; God it's so easy. He makes the most bizarre and inane chit-chat, about Thanksgiving mostly. How the floor, a puke-tastic pattern of dried-blood red, seventies pimp orange, and decay brown squares evoke the high holiday as does my Hunter style Houndstooth coat, draped over my arm...like I was keeping that show-stopper of a dress sheathed for long. It seems almost incoherent gibberish, but I am in too sexually-taut spirits to realize or care. Some asshole interrupts our insipid pretense, that I'm quite relishing, to tell him to get started. He apologizes for having to go (how gallant!) to which I gush understandingly. He hugs me again, even longer this time. Two embraces in less than six minutes...oh yeah, that solidifies every dirty idea in my depraved head. I say I'll talk to him after the show.

The show is a free-form jazz odyssey a la Spinal Tap meets Steely Dan. It actually is kind of cool, but I honestly couldn't care less. I just want him to get off the stage so I can work my coquettish charms. It mercifully ends and I feign needing to go to the bathroom so I could make my way over to him. He's leaning into the bar, so I pass him unnoticed, maybe. But there is a line for the bathroom, another universal nudge in the lascivious direction, so I grab his arm ever so slightly to get him to spin round once again. He immediately wraps his arm around my waist pulling me close to him. I don't know what to do with my hand so I just rest it on the curve of his back. Oh you were so great! What a cool sound! He compliments me again. The music is thankfully loud so we have to lean in ridiculously close and whisper in the others ear to hear anything. It's like some hazy dream-world full of smoke and seed. The words hardly matter; we are practically inside one another. He hastily sets up some coffee date on Tuesday and tells me he was a journalism major in college. I assume this is supposed to endear me to him in some way, but he doesn't know I loathe journalists. Only fuckheads who can't write go into journalism. Journalists are writers without opinion or emotion. Anyone confusing me with a journalist will be surely first upon the gallows. Fuck journalism.

Again, not that any of this matters. He could have told me he hunts pregnant teens of the Solomons for meat and sport and I would have kept right on letting him paw at me with the same school-girlish, glazed-over twinkle. He seems drunk or crazy or both. He asks me if I want another drink, but I decline as I am already sky high on this interaction. He yell-whispers that he has some Hennessy in his guitar case if I want some of that, but he queerly raises his finger to his lips in a "shh" motion. I half-mockingly follow suit. This charade goes on for ten minutes or so, until we begrudgingly get interrupted again for some other bullshit reason. We part and I wander back to my seat, satisfied in the exchange. The next band is good, Tom Waits-inspired, really Tom Waits-ripped-off, but I don't mind. I do want the white bimbo back-up singer howling into the microphone to just shut the fuck up already as I am getting an irascible headache from her dying cat-like tone, wailing over every lyric as she holds one of her skeletal hands over her ear canal as if to signify her farce of a talent. Maybe if she could actually hear the music she wouldn't sound like a fiendish ghoul burning in the depths of Hell. I search desperately for a cord to cut or a freshly-sharped pencil to shove into my own ear canal. I look over my shoulder for Scatter Brain, but he is not there. I am instantaneously pissed off and dejected. I silently pray he is just outside smoking a cigarette, but he is gone a while. My rage continues to build. I want to shoot this pixie-haired bitch in the fucking larynx to shut her up. My friend keeps talking to me to which I simulate interest. I keep nodding and "yeah"-ing. Who gives a shit, pal, about your thoughts on urinals? Not me, definitely; not anyone. Fifteen or twenty minutes of this Chinese water torture go by like years. I look back half-heartedly over my shoulder and there is Mr. P. F. Chang's, he's slipped quietly back in the crowd, like he had been there all along. A paltry tingle of calm trickles down my spine. I excuse myself once more to the rouse of the washroom. This time he comes up to greet me. We are practically fucking right there. God, it's so damned patent to anyone with half a brain. Our foreheads are literally touching and our arms are wrapped around each other. He gratefully asks what's on the tip of my tongue, something about hanging out after the show. Of course! I'm totally down for doing something. What a novel idea! He just needs to pack up his equipment and then he will text me. This slightly irritates me as I would like to hammer out the details now, but there is nothing I can do. We hug again, he kissed me on the cheek, I think, it is all a blur of intertwined parts.

I head back to my table, the show ends; the mastermind behind the Tom Waits rip-off band, in full Waitsian costume, no less, walks over. I tell him I liked the set, especially since I am a Tom Waits fanatic to which he stone-facely replies in mock thought, "Hmm, Tom Waits," like it's this vague idea to him. "I've always been more of a Motown fan." You lying, plagiaristic bastard. You can't lift someone's entire act from distinct voice, lyrics, attire, sound down to instrumentation and then act like they are some foggy recollection because you added some shrill-ass sounding back-up singers. Who do you think you are fooling with that bullshit, Clyde? Go hop a bus down to the Bowery, bum. I glance at my pink portal and see a text from him, but we had already talked so I dismiss it or misread it, stupidly. "Can you & I meet with a friend?" which I take as, "Do you want to meet up with some friends?" I thought we were doing that anyway.

I awkwardly get caught up in an unwanted conversation with Clearly Wants to Fuck Me, Mini Tom Waits, and Friend. I just want to fucking leave already so I can drop off Friend and meet up with Guy-liner.

I float all the way to the car, one sex-hug richer. I can't get Friend home fast enough. I pull into his driveway, hoping he gets out instead of blathering on and on, incessantly. Ugh. No dice. But I hear my phone go off. I am not above responding right in front of Friend. He barely notices; he just keeps droning on like I'm not trying to rush him and his man-bag out of my car. The text reads, "So where do you wanna meet? Do you wanna ditch your car? It's just us if you wanna chilla somewhere..." Even fucking better I think. Three "wanna's" in three sentences aside. Now just to get Friend out of my hair. Alright I better get going...still fucking talking. Okay, I guess I'm gonna hit the road now...gathering up his weird amount of belongings in slow...fucking...motion. Get the fuck out! I want to scream. Awkward hug...reaching for the handle...stepping the long way down...Okay, bye...shut the fucking door, you prick. I peel out of there so fast. I call him once at the end of the street. "Yeah, I was just thinking about calling you." He seems fucking jittery and high. Nerves, I guess. We plan on meeting at his house, but insists I stay on the phone with him to chat and give periodic updates of my progress down Eight Mile.

I finally pull into his driveway after passing it by once. He's outside getting something out of his tore-up mid-90's maroon station wagon. There is already music emanating out of a substantial sound stystem deep from some unknown room in the house. He hugs/kisses me again and ushers me inside. He remarks, "I hope you like kitties because I have two of them," in this child-like way. Creepy for a near-40 year old man to talk in "baby-talk" about his cats. I totally lie and say I love animals or some bullshit, not wanting to reveal how fucking disgusting and weird I find cats. "Mr. Fluffy is really friendly, aren't you?" as he pets the cat sitting in the god-damned kitchen sink. I want to vomit. "And Pancake, (or whatever bullshit cat name it had) well, he is antisocial." Great, this cat is going to claw off half my face in the night. Fucking super. His house is positively frigid. I reluctantly take off my coat and he remarks on my dress, again. He then mentions how cold he keeps his house. Yeah, no shit, pal. Maybe you should pay your gas bill, deadbeat. He says he built a fire in the living room if I want to warm up. I say alright, as if I had any choice; it was sub-arctic and I joke about the lack of fabric I have on. He pours a couple of rocks glasses worth of Hennessy with two skull-and-crossbones ice cubes, stingily floating in each. I follow him into the staged fire and old-school R & B blasting room. Is that Aaliyah? He has a couch (white leather, maybe?), but we stand by the fireplace, which is the only light, instead. It is welcomingly warm. We make more ludicrous banter. I ask him if he actually remembers me from six years ago or if he was just politely bullshitting. He scrambles to lie and says he does. It's ambiguous. "You're hair was shorter than, but yeah." I don't believe him in any event. He says something complimentary about my height (don't they all?) which leads us to the riding boots I am wearing, which he digs. I mention the gold go-go boots he was wearing when I met him. He says he still has them upstairs and could go get them if I want, less jokingly. He says again how sexy I look in that boyish tone of his. He asks if I want to smoke. I really don't, but agree anyway. He quickly comes back with a baggy and some ceramic pipe like looks like an actual cigarette. He loads 'er on up and rudely takes the first hit, but then lights it for me. He starts dancing to the old-school jams, with one arm around me, to which I also succumb. He stupidly asks, "Oh, you wanna dance?" Clearly, we are already doing that. He asks if I like R & B to which I spout my stock quip about R. Kelly, "It doesn't matter how many girls R. Kelly pees on, I will still get down to him." He laughs and brings up Chuck Berry, which I find funny since I usually tout out that little gem. We haughtily laugh at the far-removed depravity of taping female restaurant patrons going to the bathroom, but it would stick in my mind. Like maybe he wasn't laughing at ol' Chuck...

It doesn't take long for him to stick his tongue down my throat or more accurately to stick his tongue out and just leave it swirling there for me to come to. To his credit, the kiss at first is hot and perfect. Just the right amount of mutual kissing and porno-tonguing, but then it just hangs on porno-tonguing for far too long. His hands are all over me; I'm in a heightened state of wanton titillation. This goes on for five or ten minutes, until he apparently decides that's enough pretense making-out and abruptly grabs our drinks to lead me into what is clearly a guest bedroom, like I'm not going to be able to fucking tell. It's tiny with bare, unvarnished walls, only a bed and a small dresser with already lit, well-melted candles atop it. The weirdest part being the open closet door in this perfectly choreographed scene. Instead of clothes, it has a strange locked cabinet, much like a gun safe, but he doesn't strike me as the sportsman type, and a series of black bags and cases hanging from the rod above. My mind immediately harkens back to the Chuck Berry legend. I am kind of creeped out, but in too deep now. In a house where everything is so premeditatively staged; the bump-and-grind R & B, the fire, the chill, the pre-lit candles, why would you leave the closet door open? Maybe the weed, alcohol and unbelievable vibe are making me paranoid, I rationalize. I don't have much time to ponder things as we are furiously making out and he is already trying to pull my barely-existent dress up over my head. I take off my gold braided belt to help him in his quest. I fling it to the floor. He slips the black satin easily over my near-trembling body. I loosen his tie in between face-sucking. I pull it over his head and toss it to the abyss. I start unbuttoning his still-tucked shirt while he grabs at my ass. At some point his shirt comes off without my assistance. He pushes me on the bed, of which we are at the foot of. He weirdly tries to shimmy my strapless leopard-print bra over my head instead of unhooking it, which I assume he is inept at. So I lean back and do him the favor. His pants somehow disappear without my notice. I am left in boots and panties. He only in blue and white striped boxer briefs. He has the perfect amount of chest hair trailing down to his stomach to the unknown. He is a little on the scrawny side so I worry if he has a small dick. I silently pray for average, any more than that is pushing it. At this point he weirdly asks if I'm okay, as if he thought I was suddenly apprehensive or something. Like maybe he thought he was coming on too strong or something, or protecting himself from some future liability...I say I'm good because I want it just as much. I reach down to unzip my boots, but he sort of half-stops me, which prompts me to ask if he wants me to leave them on. "You can leave them on if you want." I obviously don't, fuckface, so off they come. More reckless making-out and groping. He then oddly asks what I am doing on Sunday. This seems like a strange time to make plans. I say, "Nothing, really," as Sunday is usually my self-indulgent day where I listen to schmaltzy music and feel bad for myself. He says he told a friend about me and she wants to meet me. He says he told her how hot I was and so on. What the fuck? At what point in the fray of music playing and virtual humping did he have to time to discuss me with some chick? This decidedly catches me off-guard, so I just moronically agree, thinking it's just some whacky, but extemporaneous dirty talk. But then he hammers out a time and everything. Noon on Sunday. I realize I just acquiesced to a undesirable threesome with a broad I've never met. My mind races with salacious and worrisome thoughts of this mystery bimbo and the inevitable fighting over his dick. The thought of being with a woman holds absolutely no appeal for me. Actually it kind of boils my blood; having to annoyingly compete with some harlot I automatically don't respect on principle of agreeing to this nonsense. I don't particularly like being gone down on, so going down on another girl seems like a thankless chore. Plus, I'd just be wishing I was sucking his cock the whole time. And who wants that kind of competitive pressure during sex? I want to be the center of attention. Fuck this. I decide to go along with it for now and just bail when the oddly specific time comes. He keeps repeating how how pretty/sexy I am, almost to the point of obsessive gushing. Like he can't quite believe it's real or something. Meanwhile, I am thinking the same thing, but keeping it to my damn self. I'm not here to stroke his ego. And it's not like this is the first time a guy exclaimed that shit to me in bed, par for the fucking course, comrade. Guys really get a kick out of blurting, "You're so hot!" as they unload. Strangest thing. I wonder if they even realize they are doing it.

Anyway...He's on top of me now, his hands reaching to pull down my soaked panties. He's touching me now, so I feel like now is the time to see what I'm going to be working with. I slide down his body to find his granite cock sheathed in micro-ribbed cotton. A wave of relief runs down my tensed back. Slightly bigger than I anticipated, but average none-the-less. I rub his hard-on through his boxers in excitement and relief. He gathers up my hair into a low pony-tail and pulls down on it hard. By doing this he had control of my entire body as I leaned my head back reflexively. This is my first real indication of his roughness. He ends up on his back with his underwear mysteriously dissolved into the night. He starts pulling on my nipples incredibly fiercely, and then practically biting them to which I actually cry out in pain. I want to go down on him; as he is in prime position for my best work. But I think he thinks it's just a ploy for reciprocation, which it is definitely not. He flat out asks me if I want my pussy licked, just like that, and since he gave me the choice I decline. I tell him I prefer his hand instead. Now it is his turn to be caught off-guard. I can't tell if this pleases him or not. I don't care, really. I tongue my way down his body, licking at his nipples all the way down his sides, across the fur of his stomach. I linger where his waistband would have been; a patented move that really sets them in a furor. Fuck, I should teach a class...I am really on fire, doing some of my best work in ages. Twisting my mouth and hands over his cock, drenched in saliva and desire. It has the desired effect as he moans for me to get on top of him. There wasn't even a hint of hesitation on either part. So I straddle him and position myself accordingly above his rigid cock. It's really tight, so it takes a second to ease him in. His eyes widen with jejune delight as he fully enters me. It's still quite tight, but the slickness is allowing for a good combination of rhythms, hard and fast or slow and melodic. He keeps dirty talking in these hushed, low tones, making it hard for me to comprehend him. He actually never shuts up, he just keeps going on and on about my "tight pussy" this or "his hard cock" that, in a Rain Man-esque manner that's kind of unnerving and I like dirty talk. I keep finding myself whispering, "What?" or "Huh?" in his ear. He is hitting my G-Spot well enough while I'm on top, but I want more intensity. I pull him on top of me with my legs almost behind my head. God, he's right on it now. I rock my hips back and forth to meet his cock which apparently he can't handle much of because a few minutes later he is coming, which he announces more audibly. He pulls out quickly and completely empties what seems like quarts dangerously close to my pussy, with most of it shooting onto my lower stomach. "Uhh, you just made me fucking explode." He collapses down on top of me, not minding the pool of come sticking us together, which I find incredibly sexy for some reason. We hold each other in our post-sex haze and it's actually really satisfying. He eventually gets up for some water and to use the bathroom. I quickly wipe off what's left of the drying come on the sheets. He comes back in and snuggles next to me. He asks what I want to do now. I ask what his recoil time is. He lets out a slightly bemused chuckle and before I know it we are fucking again.

We end up in all sorts of crazy positions. At one acrobatic point my legs are wrapped around his neck, while he is on his knees and the only thing keeping me up are my hands and his cock. We were fucking standing up, him standing, me laying on the edge of the bed, the inevitable doggy-style, but he was positioned too high or something, so he was at an odd angle. Sometime in the middle we stopped because he wanted me to go down on him, which I happily oblige. I could use the break from the marathon fucking anyway. The whole thing was incredibly erotic in every sense, right down to the idea of being secretly filmed, but I was getting kind of sore and didn't know how much more I could honestly take. He kept repeating that I was "fucking him dry," I guess because he was still rock-hard but couldn't come. I was upside down, hanging off the edge of the bed at another point, and I knew I had to stop. It was becoming painful to continue. He said he was just about to come though, so like a true sadomasochist, I kept letting him drill away. Finally, he threw in the towel too and said, "I am going to fuck you so good in the morning. But now it's nap time." I was so drunk and exhausted from fucking that's all I wanted to do. We snuggled naked and close, in the best way after sex; both on our sides turned towards one another, wrapped up in each others arms, legs entwined. We lay there talking nonsense and running our hands down each others bodies for fifteen minutes or so until he dozes off. I am tired too and think that I will actually be able to get some sleep, even though I am usually pretty wired after fucking. But his creepy cats somehow make their way into the bedroom. Where they were during the sex, I couldn't speculate. The kitchen sink one hurls his fat gray body onto the bed, with his tiny little paws kneading into my legs, unpleasantly. He settles pretty quickly at the foot of the bed, so I don't freak out too much. But then the super sinister, "anti-social" one jumps on the bed. He starts pawing at Making Up For Lost Time's face, batting him around like a ball of yarn. This disturbs me, as he is not waking up, not even stirring. I try to muster the courage to nudge this fuzzy demon off the bed, but that only seems to make it more mad. I decide my only option is pulling the blanket over my head and silently willing it to jump down on its own accord. It finally tires of the fleshy scratching post and leaves. I am too frightened to sleep for sometime after this, but finally drift off near five am.

I wake up to a ferocious dog bark coming from his phone, somewhere around eight. This goes on for another hour or so. He says it's debt collectors and shows me the phone as if I didn't believe him or something. He wakes up just enough to realize his morning hard-on and slips off my panties after fingering me a bit. He quickly mounts me, it's tight again though. We kiss in that strange porno way once more, for almost the entire time. I actually let myself look into his eyes a bit more this time. He doesn't last long at all. "You're going to make me come!" he says in time with the thrusting. "So come, baby." "You're going to make me come right now!" and he pulls out again, coming even closer to my pussy this time. He collapses again on top of me, even more fully this time. We lay this way for ten minutes, just snuggling and touching. He rolls off and draws me to his side. We hold hands and he falls off to sleep again. Finally, it is time for him to go work, which I am almost positive now is a serving job. He tells me I can stay in bed while he gets ready, but I immediately start dressing as soon as he is out of the room. I meet him in the kitchen where he grabs me and kissed me again. He tells me what a great time he has last night. I reciprocate. We leave together; we kiss again in the cold autumn air, and then hug one final time. He waves from his station wagon, as do I. I get a text a bit later, "Have a happy day ;)"

Fuck a dream deferred. What happens to a fantasy fulfilled? Where does it go after its checked off the list of once-thought sincerely impossible? Does it burrow and embed itself into deep-seeded resentment? Does it lie like a deflated balloon, sad and slumped over after the birthday party; nothing but a useless favor soon headed to the landfill? Does it fall off the cliff of exaltation into the valley of cynicism and jade? Or is it just another spent piece of pseudo-meaningful, cerebral trash to toss on the pile for languid incineration?

A Seasonal Study in La Douleur Exquise

Putrefaction of Passion

La Douleur Exquise rotting in the August swelter: the pungent stench of freshly decomposing chimera, so irreversibly close.

Love Under Glass

La Douleur Exquise expertly caged under a floe of diaphanous ice, neatly displayed for the moronic gawking masses, P. T. Barnum style.

Romance Buried In Perpetuum

La Douleur Exquise entombed eternal; the hazy, far-away memory of which barely elicits the firing of a lone axon; it too falls victim to the ever-deepening glacial abyss of eventual existential malaise. Languor and jade are all that remain.

I find myself much tougher than I ever imagined, but far more fragile than anyone else has yet to realize. Is callousness the only emotion left for the chewed-up and spit-out set? When does inevitable torpor take over? Evil sucks a lot of energy, eventually the caloric intake can't match the output, like an "I Love Lucy" episode of malevolence, leaving only barely-breathing lassitude and a belly full of cheap candy.

La Douleur Exquise Revisited: But a Bittersweet Memory

The oxidation of a heart, blistering; crumbling, flaking away.  Painfully slow.  Each beggarly stratum sloughing away under the threat of the feeblest breeze.  Like a dying serpent, pitifully shedding its scaled and long-ago used up skin in effort to wring a whisper more life out of its forlorn circumstance.  The nidorous stench of rotting romance long gone with the algid freeze of winter; all that remains is the red-brown stain of crestfallen hopes.  Leapt to their deaths off a vertiginous widow's cliff unto the shards of jagged earth and stinging saline hundreds of feet below.  Into the depths of an oceanic Hell,  no longer brilliant cerulean, but an acrid and matte stone-grey.  As moribund and cadaverous as can be afforded to a scarcely palpitating heart.

The Chokin' Kind: A Listening Project to Strangle the Senses

For those who have ever felt those imposing, warm, powerful hands of love start to tighten around the throat. Take a few deep breaths and have a listen.

Joe Simon's definitive classic.


The most ubiquitous and most recent version by Joss Stone.


A little reggae vibe compliments of Ken Parker on the very coolly named Bamboo Records.


The little-known and long-forgotten Johnny Darrel does a solid country version with his thick, but smooth vocals.


A blues-y version by Roy Buchanan and Delbert McClinton. It must be noted that I am not a fan of that sort of rainy-night-sometime-in-the-80's blues sound. It grates at me in some unexplainable way. So enjoy.


A better blues version by Walter Wolfman Washington.


An instrumental jazz take by the Billy Mitchell Group.


A similar riff by Kiko and his Coconut Groove Orchestra with a soulful vocal by Jimmy Ingram.


Tanya Tucker's country stab.


Joe Harris & the Stone Foundation's funked-up version.


Mavis Staples does the song justice. I think my favorite version.


Waylon Jenning's venerable rendition. (And damn, that is one hell of a citron suit.)

You Can Have Her: A Slightly More Upbeat Listening Project

Most of the time, I seek music out, follow it around, hunt it down. But sometimes, on those rare occasions, it seems to seek me out; a particular song will follow me. It could be a song I had never heard, or one I hadn't heard in a while, or just one that I had quite appreciated before. It strikes you at a very deliberate moment, at least, seemingly so. And when emotion is tied to music, it is elevated to a place of veneration in my soul, and is then inextricably linked forever. For whatever reason, the song, "You Can Have Her," of which I had two versions already in my collection, that I never really thought much of, or even put the two of them together; but it was upon hearing Roy Hamilton's gospel-inspired version that the song clicked for me. What follows is a considerably less morose listening project than my past attempts, but the subject matter is not exactly jubilant, albeit the tunes are markedly more sanguine, there is a slight incongruence between the lyrics and music. The celebratory aspects of the song, I suspect, come from the realization of their partner's true nature, and the subsequent washing-of-hands that follow those kind of revelations. There is a certain burst of adrenaline that only comes from that kind of mental freedom. Succinctly put, "Good riddance," or coarsely put, "Fuck off, you lousy, low-down, two-bit dick-face." It's one hell of a release. So, throw your hands up to the heavens and let your soul be released of its demons; if only for a mere moment.

You can't really go wrong with ol' Satchmo.


Jerry Lee Louis- The yodels and ad-libs (Old Blue Eyes' swingin' 60's, lounge-y ad-libs immediately come to mind) Jerry injects along with a bit of that white-washed gospel feel makes this version a worthwhile listen.


I hate to keep using poor Johnny Rivers as my prime example of watered-down black music for white people, I mean he's no Pat Boone or anything, but I have a strange compulsion to. Plus, he seems to have covered every God-damned standard and not-so-standard ever recorded, so it kind of opens the door for that. His sound is distinct though, and I keep coming back, even though I find it for the most part, unremarkable. There must be something to that, some innate appeal...


The Righteous Brothers attempt at "You Can Have Her." No real surprises here; typical Righteous Brothers arrangement and sound. If you only heard this version, you would most likely be moved by the soulful voices, but my subjectivity is tainted on this one.


A kitschy 60's-pop version with a faint rock-a-billy tinge, by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates


I was looking for a full-on rock-a-billy version of this song of the era, to no avail. I did, however, come across a neo-rock-a-billy, punk-ish, honkey-tonkin' version by the Frantic Flintstones, which will leave you to want for naught.


This is a sort of over-produced, cheese-tastic 70's-era Elvis impersonator by the name of Orion doing the song. My preference is the Vegas, lounge-y Elvis anyway, and supposedly he did actually record an acoustic version of this song in the 70's but it only exists on hard-to-find bootlegs, and in memories. There is something about the kitsch factor of Elvis impersonators still in existence, that I just kind of dig, too.


A country version by Charlie Rich, with what I might classify as a slight Elvis undertone, actually. A good segue, in any event. And that picture is fucking priceless...What is always over to the left?


A campy recording by George Jones and Johnny Paycheck. If I close my eyes I do feel like I am in a dive honky-tonk somewhere deep in Texas, though. You can almost hear the rowdy crowd, "Woo-hoo-ing" and a-whistlin' along with the sound of beer bottles smashing in the background.


In my opinion, the definitive country version is done by Waylon Jennings. But I am partial to him anyway. This was one of the versions that sat neglected in my library before the epiphany. And may I just say, Sweet Jesus, I may be a fan of beards in general, but Waylon is damned handsome under all that scraggle.


One of a few bluegrass versions I discovered by the Canucky Bluegrass Boys.


This is a 60's Swedish cover and the only female version I could find, that I just stumbled upon. It is pretty f-ing cherry.


Dickey Bett's and Great Sourthern's concert version from the late 70's. I like it's smooth southern rock groove, and obviously his guitar-playing is enviable. The studio recording of this was the other half of the over-looked song in my archives. It is a solid rock version.


Roy Hamiliton's "You Can Have Her" is the most soulful and definitive of the lot. Not only due to the gospel arrangement, but his voice has so much power and raw emotion. It's slightly reminiscent of Jackie Wilson. Plus I am a sucker for a sexy, deep, bass voice. I just can't help it.

Put Your Little Hand in Mine: A Playlist for the Last Breed of Quixotics

As I contemplate the idea of romance being dead in America society at large, I am reminded of the zenith of sweet and sentimental love; holding of hands. Hands have always been a bit of an obsession of mine. I am immediately drawn to a man's hands when I first meet him. Are they over-sized and calloused, from years of work, or are they soft and delicate; adroit and manipulative? What would they feel like running across my porcelain surface? Would they just barely graze over or would they grasp firmly, almost to the point of pain? I have always been fanatical about my own hands, as well. I need them to be perfectly clean and dry, lotioned up, with my nails painted. I get squeamish about touching door-handles and shaking people's hands. I do have a perfect handshake, so I've been told. There is much to be gleaned from a person's handshake. Those limp, dead fish ones are the worst; they show disinterest and inefficacy. While the crush-crush-your-fingers-into-a-fine-powder handshake immediately reveals insecurity; overcompensation for perceived inadequacies. I have this bad habit, of picking and biting the side of my thumb, though. It is an anxiotic barometer. The more nervous, worried or non-nihilistic I am, the worse my thumb will look. I am fooling with it right now.

I wrote a bit on the power of hands a few blogs ago; on their ability to caress just as easily as to strangle. The ultimate symbol and last line of defense of good versus evil. So, I wanted to create a playlist that interprets some of these esoteric concepts of the mightiest of extremities. As a young girl, to me the epitome of my fantasies on love were always walking hand in hand somewhere with my imagined lover. I don't know why that so often flashed in my mind, but that's what I would dream about. Not kissing or hugging or sex, but holding hands. I guess I've never really let go of that fantasy. It's only grown more revered and monolithic the further it seems to get from actualization. Is holding hands the last dying symbol of romance? A musical attempt at an answer.

I Want to Hold Your Hand- The Beatles


Clap Hands- Tom Waits


What a Little Bit of Love Can Do- Jeff Bridges "Put your little hand in mine..."


Cherry Bomb-John Cougar Mellancamp Just for the one line, "Holdin' hands meant something, baby."


Hold My Hand, Hold My Heart- That Thing You Do! Soundtrack Here's that wall of sound scmaltz you were waiting with bated breath for...


With These Hands- Clint Walker (Jesus, who wouldn't let that sexy hunk of man let them do whatever he wanted to them? Good gravy.)


Put Your Hand in the Hand- Loretta Lynn


Will Jesus Wash the Bloodstains From Your Hands-


Take My Hand, Precious Lord- Elvis Presley


I Washed My Hands in Muddy Water- Charlie Rich


Touch the Hand- Conway Twitty


Who's Gonna Hold Her Hand- Cumberland Trio


These Hands- Johnny Cash


Daddy's Hands- Holly Dunn and Dolly Parton


Grandma's Hands- Bill Withers


Mojo Hand- Lightnin' Hopkins


Hold Your Hand in Mine- Tom Lehrer


Raise Your Hand- Janis Joplin


Hand of Fate- The Rolling Stones


Devil's Right Hand- Steve Earle


Left Hand Black- Danzig


Hand That Feeds-Nine Inch Nails


Red Right Hand- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds


Hand of Kindness- Richard Thompson


Hand in Hand- Dire Straits


Never Let Go- Tom Waits

Toast and Jam:Maybe I can actually make a living at this

Good evening and bienvenidos. For the 3/4 of the room that don't know me and would like to refer to me as something other than "that tall one," I'm Francesca, the bride's self-deprecating cousin and forever-indebted friend. I'm going to try and stumble my way through this toast without turning on the waterworks, but chances are, I'm going to look like Alice Cooper by the end of this, with mascara running in obsidian streaks down my blubbering face. I've written a few humble words to try to venerate this beautiful bride. I say humble because the succeeding flowery adjectives and schmaltzy lines, though heart-felt and firmly mounted in the highest esteem, are, but mere shadows compared to actuality. I found it hard to articulate just how wonderful and meaningful Amber is, not just to me, but to anyone that knows her. To know her, truly is, to love her. So it is with deference and modesty that I attempt to do her justice here tonight.

Am is one of the kindest, warmest and most caring people you could ever be lucky enough to come across in this jaded and dizzying world. She is empathetic and sweet; bubbly and vivacious. She has the most fabulously infectious laugh that makes you want to laugh right along with her. She has this remarkable way about her, you just can't help, but be happy around her. She is so positive and full of life that it just radiates and flickers like a glinting column of white hot sun cutting through the tempestuous, iron-grey storm clouds of a dreary and mirthless afternoon. The juxtaposition of which is so brilliantly effulgent, you almost have to avert your eyes. I've always envied her endearing, subtle innocence. It has been the ideal temper to my pervasive cynicism.

We've not only grown up together, but have shared more experiences that I can possibly recount in a hefty volume, let alone a toast, however garrulous or rambling. But there are definitely some particular memories that shine like beacons in the dark recesses of my mind. I'll never forget the trips up north in those scorching July summers of our youth. I definitely will never forget the putrid smell of milk rotting in the noon-day sun as it soaked into the thirsty polyester fibers of the mini-van's thick carpeting, that you mistakenly got blamed for, even though it was totally Grandma. I just happened to be listening to "Georgie Boy" by Rod Stewart the other day. I was immediately transported back to those rose-tinted north bound trips and found that I had tears in my eyes. Those are still some of the best memories I have on record. The countless sleepovers, where we would stay up to watch Saturday Night Live back in its prime, singing the "Turkey in a Shoe" song over and over. I don't know how many times we rewound the "lay by the bay" scene in Happy Gilmore and laughed our asses off until two in the morning. As it turns out, "Grizzly Adams did have a beard." Or the time in middle school where we sat in my basement eating raw fund-raiser cookie dough out of a three pound tub and contemplated life. God, we were just kids then, but, of course, we thought we had it all figured out. I still maintain that some of those afternoon sugar-high induced revelations were pretty spot-on, though. We've contemplated life many times since and no matter how far away we were or how busy our separate lives seemed to be, whenever we got together, it was like no time had passed at all, like nothing had changed. We were still those two goofy kids fighting over Barbies and playing Mall Madness. It was like coming home.

Whether she knows it or not, this girl saved my life once. She unknowingly pulled me back from the brink of a gripping, despondent melancholy just by sharing a box of Golden Grahams and a few laughs with me one cold, wintry afternoon, not so long ago. It was her simple kind gesture and thought that finally cracked my icy catatonia. Her warmth and compassion were the much-needed tonic to my morose stupor. But that's just Amber. Like I said, she just has that way about her, that hard-to-define luminescence that makes you feel good and immediately at ease whilst in her aura.

I absolutely believe it's those little nuances that define the content of one's character. And Amber, honestly, has more character and heart pouring out of her than anyone I've ever known. I don't know how to vehemently express just how much you mean to me. I can say with conviction, that I am a better person for knowing you, though. With your sparking copper eyes, your olive-tanned skin and the aforementioned attributes, you truly are a beautiful person both inside and out. You are undeniably an all-weather friend, there for both the good times and bad, through feast and famine; sun or sleet. You've helped me more than you will ever know. Moreover, I just have had so much God-damned fun with you throughout the years. You are so much more than my cousin, more than my friend, you are my sister; my sister-in-arms. I'm so glad you've found that one person you can spend the rest of your life with, that fulfills you, that makes you soul-satisfyingly happy. I'm so honored to be a part of this day and in some small way share in this future memory with you.

And to the groom, a little advice: always check for bones in her pizza, keep on eye out for big, fat, slimy toads in the road and most importantly, take damn good care of her because she really is one-in-a-million. I love ya, Am. I wish you both all the happiness of five lifetimes, because God knows you deserve it. So let's raise a glass to these lovebirds and to the most potent of all elixirs, love itself. May love's fire burn eternal in the attics of your heart and the cellars of your soul. With the being said, let's fiesta. Bottoms up!

At the Hand of Humanity's Decency or Descent

I just wanted your arms around me so desperately; vehemently. It felt like an anvil crushing me beneath the weight of pure desire bound by inhibition and convention. I choked and sputtered to breathe as my throat tightened as if a maniacal madman had cinched a delicate, but murderous swath of silk around my taut, porcelain neck. My stomach churned and mixed like cement, each revolution getting more laborious as the bone-dry dust of sand and sediment combined with the acid and bile, forming a thickish sludge of slate agitation, schmaltz, and excitement.

I am conflicted to know that you shatter my composure. I try to play the game, banter and bat my eyelashes; coquettishness is my trademark. But I can't deny that you fluster me. I want someone that finally makes me weak in the knees, and everywhere else. It's been a long time since I've relinquished control. Always holding the upper-hand in the eternal power struggle of men versus women. Only once, as a young girl, a fledgling bloom, not yet in on life's great motivator, did I feel so helpless and overwhelmed. A young girl has every right to feel that purity of heart, even if I still had a touch of jade. I was cavalier, I thought I knew what I was embarking on. I couldn't yet fathom how sex could wield such incredible power. It changed me though. I didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to be that naive child that fell in love with the first person that felt her from the inside, that took her innocence. Not that I ever felt particularly innocent. I knew the taste of carnal sinew, it had always been lurking somewhere just beneath the surface, even as a precocious youth. I simply hadn't fully realized it yet. I guess I am what you would call a "natural."

I had already been in love. That first all-encompassing, can't-live-without-you, white-hot, burning, unobstructed, pellucid, so-this-is-what-everybody's-singing-about, nuclear reactor kind of love. I had already been chewed up and spit out by love. It was time for sex, unadulterated, lascivious, dirty, back-room kind of sex. There is the exact moment when my compartmentalization began. What a revelation. Jesus. I started compartmentalizing love and sex before I was yet to taste it. It fulfilled my dual nature, the one that was lurking in the shadows and alleyways of my being all along. The Superego versus the Id, morality versus impulse, the age-old match-up of good versus evil. No matter what I thought I knew, it changed me; it awakened me. It drew the curtain on the wide-eyed underworld of lechery, sin and delight. My thoughts a perpetual Heronymous Bosch painting. I became aware of the power I possessed. The power to make men fall to their knees with pleasure and longing, the power to extract my needs from their desires, to manipulate and lord over them. It made me feel strong and in control for the first time in my eighteen years. But my school-girl mentality never quite retreated, it just took a backseat. It's never as bound-and-gagged in the trunk as I would sometimes like to think. Passion remains my greatest motivator. Lady Love has a strangle-hold on me which drives me to seek out that fire at all costs. But I don't succumb to the flames too quickly, my instinctual gut knowing what's real and what's imagined or forced. Always searching for "that feeling." That undefinable, indescribable, hard-to-finger, even harder to find feeling.

I can only liken it to a dark, cavernous, austere monastery, ancient in it's stone walls and labyrinthic halls. It is bathed in absolute darkness, it's Gothic architecture all the more frightening in its obsidian void. Frantically searching for some tiny scrap of light, you come upon another identical narrow hallway, but press on anyway. In the very farthest room on left, the arched, armored door of prehistoric wooden planks and cast iron is slightly and eerily ajar. Fear and trepidation halts you from immediately throwing the looming portal open, but you muster up some kind of courage or morbid curiosity to slowly push open the intimidatingly weighty egress. The archaic hinges creaks and echoes throughout the barren chamber. Your heart pounds, your hands begin to clam, you become all too aware of your intermittent breathing, it's hard to decipher if you are even alive in the swarth. A flash of soothing ochre and incandescent burnt-orange brilliantly greets your unaccustomed eye. The paltry stone-lined alcove is all awash in hues of tawny ambers, saffron and titian. The flickering candle-light simultaneously comforts and excites you in it's subtle luster and romance. It draws you in with a motion of it's seductive and cabalistic finger. A tribal rhythm is penetrating your thoughts. The scene is overwhelming, a nagging sense of foreboding tells you to run as far and fast as your spindly gams can carry you, but a curious titillation and a quixotic chimera roots you to the spot. You can't recall ever feeling this rush of exhilaration before, but it feels hauntingly familiar. Like it was ever-present in the cellar of your existence; just needing to be unearthed. There is no mistaking your vitality now. A pair of wide, round, dark eyes peer into you through the hazy, burnished umber. He holds out a chiaroscuro-ed hand to you, instinctively, you slip your trembling hand into his, despite the buried notion that pain must surely accompany this amount of pleasure. You lose all sense of yourself, you let your viscerations reign and finally relinquish control to the dubious arms of your lover. You're in his alchemistic hands now.

I have a strange obsession with hands. They are dripping with symbolism. They can bring such pleasure and comfort. They can make the most beautiful music, plucking and manipulating the taut strings of a tawny-brown, hollow-body, retro guitar. They can soothe and satisfy; help or guide. But hands also commit nefarious deeds; they being the last defense against evil-doing. They can bring immeasurable death and destruction unto humanity with the hastiest touch of a button or the knee-jerk pull of a trigger. They can push one just as easily away as draw one in. They can choke or strangle just as they can caress or embrace. They are the hinge of humanity's decency or descent. Good and evil, physically manifested.

Those soft and talented hands, with their bitten-down nails, and lightly calloused fingers, holding my hand to lead me to your bedroom or grasping my hand throughout the night as we sleep. You're arms wrapped tight around me, feeling like you'll never let me go, surrounding me, keeping me safe. I realize I look for my grandfather is every man I date; I'm not that out of touch. Someone strong, intimidating even, driven, busy, but still chooses me above all others. Someone enamored with my spirit and being, not just my sex appeal and body. Someone to protect me from the coldness of life's wintry nights and the harshness of reality; from evil. Someone funny and adventurous. Someone who will play my silly, childish games, who will indulge me, but also take charge and be the lead when needed. Someone confident and masculine, without misogyny and contempt. Someone I can take care of just as much as they take care of me. It's probably unfair to measure all men against my grandfather, as his memory lives on in great rose-tinted, romanticized infamy in my head, but it is automatic and instinctual.

I have a hard time keeping my naturalistic impulses at bay with him. My Id is running rampant, blocking all sense of form, not that I was ever much for convention or rules, but I don't want to tip my hand so early. My school-girl mentality mixed with my throbbing sexual desire for him makes for a lethal cocktail.

Hungry or the Closest I Get to Hemingway

Sitting on the couch, he extracts the braid from my tangle of tobacco locks and softly plays with it while we talk. My mind can only focus on that one thing. I've always loved having my hair played with in that sweet and slow way. I begin to ramble and trail off, but it doesn't matter. We snuggle close to one another, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, mine flopped over his belly. I rest my head on his chest and breathe in deeply.
He was so patient while teaching me the guitar. I was completely flustered exposing my Achilles heel so quickly to someone. All of my vulnerability lying in each strum and painfully slow chord change.
He has this fantastic obsession with lighting. There are always various candles burning and antique Tiffany lamps casting a burnt orange moody glow. A net of twinkling Christmas lights hang in the window, like a fisherman's trawl, drawing me into his midst.

When I first walk up the creaky, steep wooden stairs to reach the landing, I hear hushed whispers of female voices. For a split second I think I have the wrong house, but then I realize it's probably just some friends or something. I knock softly and push open the door, half- expecting some freaky scene to unfold in front of my eyes as the door creaks open like a curtain commencing a play. Two middle-aged black women are revealed, perched insidiously on the couch. I don't see him at first, but I hear him. I am immediately and viscerally annoyed. I stride in cautiously, all smiles. "Hey," I manage to call out to the women. He introduces me, but doesn't know their names. He just says they are his neighbors that stopped by. I notice he is sweating. They say their names, but I am hardly listening. I hear one say to the other, "She is beautiful." She asks if my name is Italian. They say they should go so we can be alone. I am silently pleased. I don't feign dissent. I just quietly smile. I want them to leave. The whole scene quickly reminds me of an erotic story I read once where a man and his wife move into a new house and two black girls come to welcome them to the neighborhood. They are both big-titted strippers, of course, and they decide right then and there they are going to seduce him the second his wife's back is turned. It is quite an evil story, as they succeed in seducing the white husband and the story ends with the wife in he hospital from shock when she finds out and they fuck right in front of her until she signs divorce papers. It's really quite ridiculous, but I remember being very turned on by it, and I just couldn't shake it from my mind.
They chat a bit more, before finally leaving. I'm not sure how many times he said they just popped by . I wanted to open the wine I brought immediately, to wash the bad taste that whole scene had left in my mouth. He pours our glasses and kisses me, finally. We take our respective seats on the couch. We chat about everything from music to vintage store finds. He shows me this paisley 60's suitcase he got in Memphis. He does a great southern accent. He shows me this gorgeous tawny brown, hollow-body guitar he has from the 70's. He hands it to me to play, but I am far too shy to do much more than strum it and finger it's shiny length in awe. I ask him to play something for me on it or teach me a few things. He proceeds to give me a very sweet guitar lesson. He shows me how to hold the guitar and places my fingers on the right frets. We play together for a good 15-20 minutes; I am keeping time, but all my chords just mysteriously float right out of my head. He softly brushes the hair out of my face while I strum; as it is blocking the sound. He is so good it is intimidating me. Music is so personal to me. I feel like I am baring my soul right before his eyes. I feel more naked and exposed than while in bed with him. My face is getting flushed; I can feel it. I have to stop or I feel like I might cry. I am overwhelmed. He keeps playing. He starts to sing "Cabaret" as his hand moves expertly across the fretboard and his fingers pluck so adroitly at the strings. I ask him to play Twilight Time, as I see it's amongst his scattered notations and papers on his music stand. He softly sings and I even fill in the parts he doesn't know. I dance along to the beat, now feeling wholly uninhibited, everything paling in comparison to the raw emotion of playing in front of him. He then plays an original composition that floors me. I am so impressed that my face goes blank. His talent simultaneously endears, intimidates, and turns me on.
We retake our seats on his mid-century modern couch; he all the way to the far left and I next to him, my legs crossed in his direction. He smokes a cigarette; I find it incredibly sexy when he does. He's so casual, so sensual, drawing the fiery paper to his lips. The smoke billowing all around us, like a realized sexual aura. It churns and swirls in the air between us, filling the evening with an arcane and fervid undercurrent.
He asks me what my last name is. It seems like it was bothering him for sometime, for when I tell him he says he feels much better. We talk about our families, he wants to take me downstairs to meet his dad, but the hour is late. I ask him if he has any scars, he shows me one above his left eyebrow and a fencing scar from a friend's rapier. He draws up his pant leg to reveal a long scar on his right foot from a surgery he had as a child. I contemplate the thought of having a scar that grows with you for that long. It seems significant, but I can't determine why. We talk about how both of our second toes are longer than the big toes and I remark how my friends always made fun of this fact. He puts his foot on top of mine as if to say 'it's okay' and show we are bonded by freakishness. I turn to a more serious subject, as I want him to know these things about me. I tell him about my grandfather, best friend and how I found him dead when I was four years old He seemed genuinely concerned as he soothed me with his hand stroking my head as he drew me nearer. He emits that empathetic "Ahh-ta" sound; it makes me feel good. A rare, tender moment for me. I talk a bit more about it as he continues to stroke my hair and shoulders, alternately. I am lying on his chest, I feel close to him. It's been sometime since I let someone get that close to me. He tells me about watching his mother die. He almost stops himself, but continues with the story. It obviously affected him, but he tries to seem stoic about it. At one point, he looks like he is tearing up. His voice becomes strained, but he composes himself, quickly, almost imperceptibly. I feel esteemed to be there listening to it. I rub his stomach and just let him talk. He says he's glad he doesn't need to explain his feelings about death to me because I already know. And I do. He tries to be callous about it, but I can tell it pains him, much the way I am. We oddly realize that about each other in that moment. It feels good to not have to say it aloud. As we revealed, I stopped to make note of this in my head. We were pouring out some deep and significantly morose experiences to each other and each of us knew it. Weirdly, or maybe not so weirdly, the sexual tension rose up a few notches on the dial. We half-heartedly talked about cooking, while he smoothed my braid between his fore and ring fingers.
He reaches over for the lamp's pull chain. He turns off two of the bulbs and then says, "Fuck it," and pulls down on the third, leaving only the sparkle of lights that drape the window and a few Medieval-looking candles burning on the far right end table. I knew if I looked up at him he would kiss me. So I did. My leg draped over his lap, our toes touching. We start kissing deeper and he whispers in my ear, "I wanted to rip that dress off you the second you walked in the door." I whisper back in my coquettish insolence, "So why didn't you?" I think this catches him off-guard a bit. He reiterates his neighbors just stopping by unannounced. I wonder if he is trying to gauge my jealously, but I don't think it showed. He uses that word I don't like, "friend." "Yeah, my friend Francesca is coming over." I do like the way my name sounds in his deep tone, though. We start kissing again. He smacks my ass and then apologizes. I say, "Don't be sorry, just go wherever the mood takes you." He smacks my ass again.
He pushes me down on the couch beneath him. He tells me that I'm beautiful while he kisses and licks my neck. All I can squeak out is a sincere "Thank you," because my breath catches in my throat. It's not long before he asks if I want to go to his bedroom. He leads me by the hand, like last time, into his candle and lamp-lit room. He says he'll be right back so I wait for him, mounted on my knees, on the bed. I think he is grabbing condoms, but he comes back with his phone. We start kissing and intertwining our bodies at the bottom of his bed. Pretty quickly, he slides my panties off, but leaves my dress on. He kneels over me and throws my leg on his shoulder. He kisses it all the way down. He lies on his back and says he wants to watch me take off my dress. So I instinctively get up on my knees and untie the back. It slips easy over my head and I cast it to the floor. I realize I am perched there with a bra and no panties on. I quickly unhook my black polka-dot bra and fling that to the floor. He begins to undo his pants, but I say, "No. I want to do it." I unbuckle his belt and in my signature move, pull it from it's loops and send it sailing across the wooden floor in one fluid motion. I undo his fly, which is already halfway down, and rip the jeans off his legs. I start tonguing his belly and sides. I run my mouth along the outline of his cock, still trapped in his plaid cotton boxers. I slide them down off him. He motions for me to come there. I straddle him knowing his hard cock is dangerously close to me. We start kissing again. He flips me onto my back and asks me what I want. I answer honestly, "What I really want is for you to fuck my brains out." He let's out an agreeable moan, but then says, "This might be a bad time to say this, but I don't have any condoms." He then says, "Next time, I promise." I immediately just blurt out, "Isn't there a store close by?" He replies that there certainly is. I say we need to go to the store like, right now. I couldn't take it, I just wanted him inside me so badly; I was too overcome to care about sounding wanton. He starts playing with me. He asks me if I like his fingers in my pussy. I respond with an emphatic purr and lift my hips up to meet his hand. He then asks, "Did I really make you this wet?" His throaty voice voice hangs on the word 'this'. I purr even louder, "Mm-hm." He says he wants to get me off before we go to the store and that we might need to go two rounds because I turn him on so much that he wants to come right then. He goes down on me and I move his hand into me. I ask him to fuck me faster and he makes me come rather quickly. I want to go down on him fervently, but I know we have to go to the store at some point because I'm not going to be satisfied unless he fucks me. He whispers in my ear, "When we go to the store, I just want you to wear your dress and no panties." To which I can only reply a breathless, "Okay," because it turned me on so much; I couldn't even think. I haven't been with someone in ages that can mindfuck me like that. I really lost all sense of control. Right around this point, WC would be coming out to play, but she is mysteriously absent. It's all me. I'm not compartmentalizing as I always do. So much so, that after, he even commented that it was just me the whole time. He didn't see any change because there wasn't any.
I tell him I want his cock in my mouth, to which he replies, "So put it in there," almost automatically. I can't resist, so I take him right into my mouth, no teasing or trailing to it with my tongue. I can't help it. I slide down his thigh and start at his balls with my tongue, licking all the way up. I deep-throat him until I gag and let the spit ooze down on his rock-hard cock. I do my signature twist and take him into my mouth again. He confesses, "I masturbated to you doing this when I was sick over the weekend." This makes me fucking hot and content. I say, "Good. I didn't let myself masturbate. I wanted to build up the tension so I could unleash on you. I almost couldn't take it." I keep blowing him. I feel like he is close. He pulls me up to his mouth and kisses me hard. I can feel his cock creep dangerously close to my pussy. We rock back and forth as we make out, playing with fire. I tell him we better go to the store soon because I have like zero self-control right now. I knew by saying that it would have the desired effect; we would either go to the store and then fuck each other's brains out or what I wanted, deep down, and had a funny feeling he wanted too, was for him to just slide it in. I keep teasing him, running my pussy along the tip of his cock and sliding up and down across it's length. He says we better go because he is just going to slip it in pretty soon. "Fucking teasing me with your wet pussy," in feigned frustration. "I know, you make me want to be so bad," I reply in my pouty, childish cadence. "I know, me too..."
At this point, I kind of knew what was going to happen. I wonder if he does too. I kept trying to wiggle myself right above his cock so with one upward thrust he would be inside me. I lusted for him to just reach down and guide it in. So overcome by this notion; I grab his cock and start running it up and down my pussy. It glides easily. I reach behind me and finger his balls to which he moans. Finally his cock is positioned just right, so that if either one of us moved there would be no turning back. He would slide right in. It was only a mere moment, but it felt like time was frozen and just hung there; taunting us to decide. We had the choice to be good and do what convention says and go to the store for condoms or we could be bad and give in to our incredibly strong, animalistic impulses. There wasn't much of a question at that point about which we were going to choose. I saw his eyes widen as he knew the position he was in. I was leaving it up to him. He looked up at me and thrust forward just a split-second before I sank down on him. That was it, just that quick upward motion and the matter was settled. We started fucking, so naturally, so fluid. He felt so good inside of me. We fucked furiously in this synchronized rhythm. He flipped me over on my back and threw my legs up over his shoulder and began pounding. He was nailing my G-spot, perfectly. He pulled me back on top of him and I rode up and down more slowly; deliberately. I lean back and circle his cock with my hips. The look in his big bright, round eyes fascinates me. His long, smoke-colored hair draped in his face, the subtlest of curls bounced on either side of his cheeks while I pirouette. He pushes me back underneath him and I ask him to fuck me hard. It feels amazing. I call out for him to make me come. At this point I was so wrapped up in pleasure that I realize I don't know if he's enjoying it. He would emit a few low moans here and there, but he wasn't saying much. I wonder if he's trying to concentrate on not coming. He finally moans, "You feel so good wrapped around my cock." He pushes my legs almost clean behind my head and drills me as I cry out for him to keep fucking me harder as he is going to make me come. This must send him over the edge because in the next instant he sputters, "I'm gonna come. I'm going to pull out." Before I even had time to respond, even though my initial thought was quite a devious one, he pulls out his rigid cock. I reach for it as he shoots hard and sudden across my stomach. He collapses down on top of me in exhausted satisfaction while I stroke his abundance of hair. We lie there and just soak in the release. He grabs his t-shirt from the floor and thoughtfully cleans his come from my belly and hip. He slides in next to me and we wrap our limbs around each other; our bodies touching at every possible contact. We make silly little after-sex chit-chat. He says his arms feel like Jell-o; my body is abuzz with electric energy. Not before too long he is asleep. I am far too excited to sleep. I feel like I am going to lay there, fully awake, in his arms until morning. But inevitably, my racing mind calms, drowsiness sets in and sleep eventually overtakes. It's hot in his room that night, but I instinctively reach for the blanket. We stay wrapped up in each other the entire night. He even holds my hand as we sleep. It feels damn good. I have this vivid dream where we are snorkeling in this incandescently-lit, tropical cave with all these dolphins swimming around us. For whatever reason, I am frightened by them in the dream, but he comforts me and tells me to look at them underwater and I won't be afraid anymore. He helps me put on my diving mask and holds onto me while I plunge under the surface. Fear is replaced with exhilaration and I feel close to him. I don't realize the symbolism until later.
I am awakened by the sound of a rooster crowing out of his phone. This intermittent crowing along with NPR blaring from his clock radio goes on for an hour, which he sleeps right through. It doesn't bother me nearly as much as it should because I am so contented to be wrapped up in his arms. But I can feel myself getting excited. I want to fuck again, but I think I had better not make him late for work. I have a ridiculous and childish fantasy where he calls in to work and we spend the day together making love and lounging around. We make some lunch and find our way to the DIA, for some reason. And then we go back to his house and have sex again, only to wake up the next morning wondering where the day went.
He finally gets up, but kisses me before he does. I feel slightly dejected as I don't want the night to end. I find it hard to drag myself out of bed. So I just lie there, facing the window for a while. He comes in and chuckles sweetly at my apparent sleepiness. I know I have to get up. I wait for him to go spit his mouthwash before I pull myself out of bed. I want him to see me naked one more time before we have to leave. I quickly dress and squeeze past him to get to the door, deliberately arching my back so my ass brushes against him. He grabs my arm or my side, I cant remember which, playfully. He apologizes again for having to rush out the door. I want him to kiss me. We make our way outside, the sun just barely rising in the sky. It's warmer today. He says sorry once more for the rush. He pulls me in for a quick kiss, but I want more. It must have shown on my face or he felt the same because he pulls me in for another one. He said he would call me later and I wonder if he means it. I walk to my car and look over at him pulling out of the driveway. I smile genuinely and he waves. I wave back. And with that, he is off. The car is completely fogged up, but I have this sense of urgency to leave so I pull out, hardly able to see out of the windshield. As I search for something good on the radio, I realize I don't remember how to get back to the freeway. I finally figure it out and make my way back home. I don't know how to feel. There is no compartmentalization , so I am forced to confront my feelings head-on. The writing is simply pouring out of me. I feel inspired. And it's not my usual overly-verbose, flowery, garish descriptions and meandering, loquacious run-ons. It's pithier; succinct; I'm not hiding behind semantics. I realize I've been writing for close to four hours. Tom Waits' "Jersey Girl" keeps playing in my head; especially the line, "When I'm wrapped up in my baby's arms..." It symbolizes something for me about this that I can't quite pinpoint. I like that dream I had, strange, but I like it. I purposely don't shower. I don't want to wash the the feel of him off of me. I want to keep the scent of him; that essence, on me all day. I realize I am hungry for the first time in days.