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.