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!