What Are You Crying For or The Baron of Chandler Park

   Why do I keep letting you back in?  I am such a fucking fool for you.  You've made a fool of me, countless times.  Is that what love is?  A bullshit roller coaster of pain and contempt?  Someone once told me, "You've already bought the ticket, you might as well take the ride."  I took the ride; I want off.  I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why do I keep falling for this wolf-in-sheep's clothing routine? A couple of crocodile tears roll down your otherwise robotic face and my vulnerability and emotions are manipulated.  A few well-placed, but phony apologies are uttered and I am supposed to come running back into your arms as if nothing happened.  You think there are no long-term psychological or emotional effects.  You think everything you do, no matter how egregious, will be forgiven as soon as you flash that impish smile.  Your smile is as fake as your teeth.  Also, being a dozen years my senior doesn't exactly lend itself to your attempts at a Peter Pan style boyhood.  You're looking for a mother, not a wife. Certainly not a partner nor an equal.  I don't have a mother's love for you.  No one could be as hopelessly and disgustingly devoted to you as that.  No one else stands a chance.  I'm sorry I'm not going to worship you.  You are not the second coming of Christ.  I don't recognize your status as a supreme deity.  I'm not going to snivel at your over-sized feet.  That's for your sycophantic mother to do.  Let your parents continue their brainwashing.  You'll get to be the dutiful soldier you dreamed of being, after all; the Manchurian Candidate.  "I hope you get the star treatment. You deserve it!" You want a fan, a parishioner, a groupie, not a real woman.  You blew your chances at earning my respect.  Your egomania and your fucked-up family has made you more monster than man.

    You are an ornamental windsock, capable of nothing but flopping back and forth in the breeze.  You're as ineffectual as you are incorrigible. Or maybe you are actually an evil, cruel beast only parading as an ineffectual nebbish. Eh. Maybe that's giving you undue credit.  Just like your mother! I hope all your bullshit was worth it.  I hope it was worth smashing someone elses heart over. I hope it was worth steamrolling our happiness.  I hope it was worth bulldozing a family.  I hope it was worth all the pain you caused.  I would say you have to live with that guilt, but that would necessitate a conscience, which we both know you don't possess.  Keep making your bullshit lists that you'll never adhere to.  Keep writing bullshit letters that no one will take to heart. Except me, your biggest chump.  You lured me in with your oily cons, and quickly began smashing me under your boot heels to keep me in line.  It's kind of hard to forget the past when you current behavior is so reminiscent of it.  You're lack of self-respect is astounding.  It's not surprising you have no respect for me.  Don't you stand for anything?  Don't you care about anything beyond yourself?  You really have no moral fiber, do you?  You're more than pathetic, you are apathetic.

     What kind of fucked up dream is it to want to be known as some great jazz musician, yet the only part you've managed to master is that of the depraved, egomaniacal low-life?  You spent so much time partaking in the seedy nightlife of the music scene that you forgot to write any actual music.  That's showbiz, I guess. Shouldn't being a decent human being come first?  I guess I'm just not big enough of an asshole to be even a mediocre success.  It must suck to have only slept your way to the middle.  Keep blaming drugs and alcohol for all your behavior, so you never have to take even the slightest bantam shred of responsibility.  You should have those miscreants that forced those drugs on you arrested.  I think your unwavering, and true personality, stone-cold sober, is vile, repellent and downright pathological.  Keep miming effort, keep praying you'll become a better person.  It really seems to be working for you.  You are nothing but a sad conman.  You fell into an age-old trap; you started to believe your own hype.  It's not surprising that you have chosen to surround yourself with scumbags.  As a sorry consolation to yourself, you say indignantly, "At least I'm not that bad."  Well, sir, I am here to tell you, you are that bad. You're the worst. You've toyed with someone's love for over three years and the best excuse you have is, "Uh, I didn't mean to."  No one accidentally does something for over three years.  You fancy yourself some sort of pornographic Valentino, but you can barely satisfy one woman, let alone some ridiculous gaggle.  My complex sexual desires are clearly out of your debased, yet amateurish wheelhouse. Prepackaged, manufactured pseudo-sexuality is all your paltry mind can fathom. Monkey see, monkey do mimicry isn't sexuality. Even referring to you as any manner of mammal is giving you too much credit. You and your army of reptilian skanks can go fuck yourselves into oblivion.  Face it, you suck as a person. You are a compulsive and habitual liar, you break every promise you make, and you always put yourself first even when a situation has nothing to do with you.  Your needs are paramount as a reigning god, after all. 
   
     I know you'll never live up to the lies you told me, time and time again.  You've caused me pain after pain.  That's why you are in the highly uncomfortable situation you are in now.  It's lonely at the top, mother fucker! Your ass must hurt from perching on that throne all day. Supreme world problems. Amirite?  No one likes the taste of their own medicine.  It's a bitter pill to swallow, asshole.  Choke on it.  Maybe now you can finally get a sense of the devastation you've caused.  Your actions and lack thereof have fucking consequences.  You are responsible for the dissolving of a marriage and a person.  You wanted to play big shot, how did that turn out for you?  Was marriage everything you dreamed of? Was abusing your wife always part of the plan or just something you thought up on the fly? Where is your diary entry for that?
   
     Don't ever forget how wonderful you are.  And talented and handsome and better than everyone in every way.  And nothing you could ever do could hurt anyone because just to be in your presence is an honor.  Just to be allowed a whiff of your shit; a delight. To be hurt by the likes of a great man such as yourself; simply a treat. To be made to feel meaningless and insignificant by such an unrivaled idol; a holiday. Everyday's a holiday on Primrose Lane with you, honey.

     When you first called yourself the Baron of Chandler Park, I thought you were kidding. But I soon realized, you sincerely, and laughably thought of yourself that way. But now, I get it. I can see it, it's just a minor misspelling that was causing the confusion. You are the Barren of Chandler Park. You are Barren of emotion, you are Barren of kindness, you are Barren of empathy, you are Barren of honesty, you are Barren of intelligence. You are Barren of so many things, but especially Barren of true and romantic love. You haven't any idea what that even means. You certainly are royalty, alright. I mean it. The King! You'll surely go down in the history books as world-class. A world-class asshole. Suck a thousand dicks.

The Misinformation of Langston Hughes: Part Deux

A chance meeting across a parking lot...
     I pulled in visibly excited over the great parking space I nabbed.  How pathetic.  Feeling stimulated over something so fucking dull.  Like an old man with no more purpose.  How did my life shrivel to this point?  I used to have weird fun. I used to experience strange parts of the night.  I used to have stories to write.  But it was that parking spot that opened the door.  Perhaps I had a right to be aroused.  Because, as I headed from the spot across the expanse of the loaded lot, I saw him, immediately.  There was Langston's Hughes' foot soldier in the flesh.  He pantomimed shielding his face from the sun with his hand against his further receded hairline, though it was fully night.  I don't know if it was arousal I felt when I saw him.  It was almost like part of me expected to see him.  On some plane, I must have felt him.  I managed to play it cool, maybe too cool.  He hugged me, warmly.  We chatted mindlessly while dodging cars speeding down the alleyway.  He said we should get together sometime, I told him he had my number...We talked for a few minutes more, but I could feel myself pulling slightly away.  Instead of hugging him goodbye, I just sort of slid into the night.  But he grabbed my arm.  Somewhat tenderly; longingly, somewhat commandingly.  That subtle and authoritative touch turned me on more than many of the combined sexual encounters I've had lately.  It was just a taste of the mind fuck I had been hungering for.  It was forceful, yet sensual.  And all it took was a powerful hand wrapped around my slender, exposed forearm.  The memory of that touch carried me through the night.  I realized I wanted more.  The night didn't quite feel electric, the way it does when I know something is bound to happen, but it did hold the possibility open.  I remembered what it felt like to hunt down those electric nights.  And to trap big game.  This minion of Mr. Hughes was my marlin.  I hooked him, I reeled him in, and let's take this metaphor all the way into the station: I mounted him.
     My brother told me I had a wild look in my eye, when I finally met up with him further down the street.  I felt wild, I felt feral again.  I was charged knowing that I hadn't lost those unpredictable parts of myself.  They were still there, they were just laying in wait, deep under the glacial ice.

A Scheduled Meeting in a Coffee Shop
     What the hell did I think I was doing anyway? Meeting the erstwhile sexual monolith, that I immortalized so many years ago, at the coffee shop.  Part of me thought he wouldn't even show; a would-be relieved part. The other part of me wanted that part to be so magnificently wrong. It was. He was there even before I.  With his fucking Fonzi leather jacket and casual grey thermal Henley. I know someone with that exact Henley, I thought.  He was so inviting and easy to be around.  It felt familial. He held his money together with a novelty-sized paperclip. He was so polite to the waitstaff. He asked if I was vegan or vegetarian. He said he was vegetarian/pescetarian then proceeded to order a sausage, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. We sat down.  I couldn't stop staring at the five-or-so grey hairs that peppered his sideburns.  Like everything about him, it was a hint at something deeper, something more arcane; undiscovered.  A stray strawberry seed perched upon his left canine lent a vulnerability, rendering him merely human. We talked for over three hours, about everything and nothing.  He left me feeling fully energized whereas I usually feel drained. I felt my whole body abuzz with a marathon energy I hadn't felt in a long while. I felt good. He is amiable, thoughtful, and engaging, yet mysterious. I thought seeing him again after all this time might shatter the mystique I had romanticized over the years, but instead more questions remain than answers. I know he has a darker side. Because I've seen it. No one is that commanding during sex without some diabolical nature.  He wasn't quite rough, but he was very dominant. Which is the ultimate sensual experience for me. It wasn't an act either, or some insecure front. It was coming from an organic, yet sinister place within him. There is also the matter of the proposed threesome text message which I naively misinterpreted until he expounded upon it further during foreplay in his bed. There were seemingly no traces of that side at the coffee shop. I remember nearly everything about that faraway night, even the aforementioned menage a trois suggestion that I conveniently whitewash from my rose-tinted chimera. The way the fire was already crackling, the way the candles were somehow pre-lit in the bedroom. The 90's R & B blasting so loud you could hear from the street.  The banter full of pretense. And when he finally kissed me in front of that white leather couch. The smell of weed and cognac on his breath. It coalesced to an earthy heat that I couldn't get enough of. I wanted  to experience every part he was willing to offer. The way he grabbed my hair to move me where he wanted. It was like he anticipated my every appetite. And the single most erotic exploit I've ever experienced; when he pulled out of me to come all over my lower stomach so dangerously close, and then he just collapsed on top of me in satisfied exhaustion. With no regard whatsoever for the streaks of come amidst us. It was that moment that made it so sensually gratifying. He was completely in the moment. He had given himself over fully to the experience.  It was so entirely stimulating. The intertwining of our bodies throughout the rest of the night made for such a rich, voluptuous experience. One that I had to immortalize in my writing.
     It would become one of the pieces I am most proud of.  It's so raw, vivid and real. It would become a memory bathed in amber and vermilion. One that I would recall when I felt uninspired and unexcited and bored with the trappings of wifedom and motherhood. I had some exotic experiences once. Something to look back on. Something ripe, and juicy; a perfect fruit waiting to be plucked. Something worth writing about. I was young and wild and free. Is tasting freedom worth the price of admission? Do I want the juice of that fruit running down my chin once more?  I certainly want to remain untamed, but at what level does happiness lay?  Responsibilities and obligations are the chains that bind us. They end up defining us.  It's experiential quicksand.  Man-eating is only fun for so long; it was the power I was addicted to, not the men. I fed off them until I was drunk with power. I don't know what state I left them in, but they always came back for another bite. Perhaps they liked the subtle subjugation or perhaps they erroneously thought they could wrangle, then tame me.  I really haven't an idea what those men think of me or if they even do, but I do think of them from time to time. And I recall what it was like to feel in control.

The Misinformation of Langston Hughes or Sweet, Vengeful Immortalization (Part One)

Psychotic Episode in 4/4 Time: Jizzalyn

     She winces just a little as the semen lands in thick streaks across her distorted face.  Its briny stench and searing heat freeze in her grotesque contortions, momentarily. Her burly, largish nose heaves and gulps air as her too-widely-set-apart eyes snap closed. She has been branded by yet another foul-smelling nobody.  Not beautiful by any means, leathery and older-looking than her years, she needs to do anything she can to keep a man interested. Blowing guys while they record it POV-style, with their iPhone, seems to fulfill, however briefly, a need in her, for validation, for applause, for something human, something remotely interesting in an otherwise dull existence. Her used up body and insipid sex is all she can offer to the world at this point; pedestrian and unremarkable.  She sucks and fucks just to feel the warmth of a man for those few minutes, to feel like she belongs, even if it is in the sewer. The finished masterpieces have the sexual appeal of a Nazi propaganda film, but with none of Goebbels' production value.  As the unimaginative, feckless men shoot their vile loads on the caricature of a gargoyle that passes for her face, they are already plotting their exit.  They have wrestled on their skinny jeans and made for the door before she can even unglue their rancid seed from her eyes.  By the time she forces her glassy, piscine orbs open, they will have already left.  She will be alone again, to wade in pile of rapidly cooling sperm.

      She wasn't always so monstrous.  Like many other Midwestern girls, what she lacked in talent she made up for in delusion.  But when life didn't fulfill the fairytale she was promised, she soon grew jaded and increasingly desperate for approval and celebrity.  Once the demons of envy, vanity, and lust took over, her exterior began to steadily match her interior.  Just a few sagging fuck holes was all she had left to realize her fleeting dream. So, she'll clean herself up the best she can tonight; running a near-toothless comb through her hair, trying to scrub the smell of stale cum out of her skin, and shakily applying a raunchy shade of vermilion lipstick to her dry and creased lips, so she can stumble her way to the nearest bar to play out this repugnant farce once again.

What Makes a House a Home- A Playlist for the Lost *Unfinished, Garbled, and Shitty*

What makes a house a home? A ubiquitous cliche, with an even more cliche answer: love. According to Tom Waits, "...They remind me that houses are just made of wood. What makes a house grand, ain't the roof or the doors, if there's love in a house, it's a palace for sure.Without love, it ain't nothin but a house, a house where nobody lives."  But a home is really more than that, it's a place to call your own, it's freedom or prison, depending on your particulars.  It's a place to put your stuff, it's always in need of repair, it's antediluvian or shiny with the virginity.  It's filled with family or lonely as a desert.

What makes a house a home?  Who the fuck knows.  Who the fuck cares.  Everything turns to liquid shit anyway.  What is a bunch of philosophizing after the fact going to do for anyone.  Nice people finish last.  Nice people cease to exist after a while, because if they wise up, they grow jaded, disillusioned and fucked up.  They turn sour, more sour than the wretched assholes that got them there.  Nice people get cheated on, they get lied to, taken advantage of, disrespected and mistreated.  Their good graces and kindness, their love, and devotion are used against them.  It's an Achille's heel.  Just be a shit.  It will get you further.  If you turn yourself off of the world, then the world can't get to you.  They can't take that last remaining part of your soul.  Protect it with everything you have, for it is the only thing worth anything.  Everything else is an illusion.  Everything else is absolute bullshit.  Let them go fuck themselves.  Never let them in.  Never open your heart if you want to keep any of yourself.  They will rip everything away from you if they get the chance, like God damned vultures, scavenging for goodness with their knifish beaks, pecking and ripping at the soft, pure flesh of your love.  But if you have a leathery, leaden exterior they can't penetrate you.  They'll grow bored and turn their bloodlust elsewhere.

Here's a bunch of songs about homes and house, that no one is going to fucking read or listen to anyway.  Enjoy fuckfaces.

Tom Waits- Come on up to the House  "Well you know you should surrender. But you can't let go. You gotta come on up to the house."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUE-ic_Q0g4

 Roy Orbison- Coming Home  The uber-produced sound of Roy Orbison in the 1980's, but I love it anyway.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqNhWl0B65w

Roy Orbison- House Without Windows.  A little more classical Roy Orbison.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B92l_fNsyVc

Shep and the Limelites- Daddy's Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8DICjr5jBI

Joe Cocker- Darling Be Home  "The time I spent confused was the time I spent without you."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEdn1Vidka4

Sam Cooke- Bring it on Home to Me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dl5usKhGz60

Luther Vandross- A House is not a Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2-PW2l4b2A

Clarence "Frogman" Henry- Ain't Got No Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atCwKBeq76w

Fats Domino- I Want to Walk You Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwwFKzVAHSw

Otis Redding- I'm Coming Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B21nnUD2mY8

Tom Waits- House Where Nobody Lives "Once it held laughter. Once it held dreams. Did they throw it away. Did they know what it means. Did someone's heart break or did someone do somebody wrong?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0YxjH09TDU

Ben Miller Band- Honey Why Don't We Go Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYDWK62L-wY

Waylon Jennings- I'm a Long Way From Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b10QIub95X0

The Flying Burrito Brothers- Sing Me Back Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9-fXlMeevw

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young- Our House.  What kind of a playlist would this be without this on-the-nose selection.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWBejsSM2Ys

Tom Waits- Take Me Home.  This one is a fitting finale to this playlist; schmaltzy and just grainy enough to give it a nostalgic air.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XewO1DB96To

Lyle Lovett- Step Inside This House  "It's a song about invitin' someone into your life."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GVpeKmniLY

Backstage

Her long tobacco-colored tresses clung to her back as she made her way through the dense and confused crowd toward the metal barrier that led to the backstage area.  She forgot to grab the "pass" (really just a home-laminated square hung from a lanyard) from her husband before he went on stage, but she strode confidently to the gate anyway.  The squatty, bald security guard, whose only credentials were a red t-shirt that had the word "Security" printed on the back; it might has well been scribbled in magic marker, was chatting up a chubby, piggish girl crammed into a tube top.  She didn't even bother to break stride to explain.  He paused his gripping banter just long enough to try to exert his bantam authority.
  
      "This area is restricted, Miss," he mustered with feigned license.

      "Oh, I'm with the band," she drily replied.

       "Uh, you are?" he trailed off as she breezed past.

She really hated saying that, it was ridiculously cliche, but casually delivering that line got her where she wanted.  She laughed at how easy it was, how easy it was to take command of situations.  An air of confidence and a disinterested manner was all it took.  It was natural to feel superior, as she was 6'1 in bare feet.  When you tower over the public, ideas like that get reinforced without much effort.
     
She wandered around what was essentially a shipping bay to find the dressing room she and her husband lounged in before the show.  A nondescript man exited the opposite dressing room and assessed her.  She got the split-second feeling he was going to say something she didn't particularly want to hear.

       "Aren't you a tall one, darling.  You look good," he stated with a British accent, as if his gallant appraisal was actually worth a damn to her.

       "Yeah.  Thanks," she apathetically replied with a curt smile. She got comments like this all time, especially from short men, trying to manufacture some kind of masculinity to cover up their deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy.  Analyzing the shit out of them was her only solace from their neurotic parade of remarks.

      "Are you looking for someone?" he asked arrogantly.

      Not you, pal, she thought.  "Actually, I was looking for my husband.  He's right in there." She motioned to the dressing room door.

      "Lucky man," he muttered on his way toward the stage.

She turned toward the door, but she found herself hesitating as her hand grazed the cool, metallic knob.  She didn't quite know why, but something made her breath catch in her throat before swinging open the door.  She snapped out of it and pushed the weighty door open anyway.  The room was icy compared to the blistering heat of the July sun and so many close-quartered bodies.  She spotted the guitarist first, she couldn't recall his name; but she never could recall anyone's name.  He was sitting at a generic looking, faux-woodgrained folding table, surrounded by a dozen or so mismatched chairs from the Nixon administration.  He tilted his head back to swig from a beaded-up bottle of water.  She exhaled.  She pushed the door open further to reveal her husband sitting directly across from her in a vinyl-upholstered attempt at a wing-back chair.

      What a glamorous life, she thought flippantly.  Of course, he would choose that chair from among all the others, her mind continued.  It's the most throne-like in the room.  He did have a mock-regality about his demeanor.  He looked so imposing on his makeshift throne in the corner, presiding over the room.  She admittedly had a love/hate relationship with his egregious ego.  It infuriated her to no end when he acted like a king, but it excited her so when he was her king.  He looked up from his cellphone casually as she entered.  Fuck he was addicted to that thing.

     "Hey baby.  How are you?" he asked, unfolding his 6'5 frame to greet her with a kiss.  "Were you too hot out there?"

     "No, I was fine.  I guess.  It was hot, but I kind of like the heat," she replied.  She still felt strangely.  Maybe it was the heat taking its toll.

     "I could see your skin glistening from the stage.  I like that dress on you; it kept distracting me while I was playing."

    He was referring to the pure white halter dress finished with a blue and white striped bow.  She called it her Marilyn dress because it bore a striking resemblance to one Marilyn Monroe wore in  The Seven Year Itch.  The fabric flowed away just right under her breasts to show off her tall, lean body.  She wore white espadrilles with ribbon lacing around her slender ankles tied with sweet, little bows on either side.  She did feel very sexy in that dress.  It was hard not to.  It let her sexuality radiate from her.

    "I didn't even know you could see me out there," she said honestly.

    "Honey, you are kind of hard to miss." He flashed that million-dollar, boyish smile at her.  "You're a tall, unique woman," something he often said to her.

    "Yeah, I guess you're right," she said almost shyly.

       He made his way back to his distinguished chair.  A few more band members trickled in and made recapping small talk as they cooled down.  She stood idly in the center of the fluorescently lit room with one hand coquettishly placed on her jutting right hip.  Her body language would give her away if anyone paid the slightest attention.  She is becoming increasingly pissed off at her husband's cocky manner.  He's trying to act slick in front of his bandmates, like the big fucking man, trying to get her to gush over his compliments.  But he's really just coming off like a bit of an asshole, so she immediately reverts to a standoffish, aloof disposition.  Looking away from him to focus on the inane conversation taking place at the table; she throws out a few well-placed quips to further take command of the room.  The laughs further her haughty behavior. Her husband picks up on the subtle shift and imperiously tries to regain control over his kingdom.

      "Do you want to come sit on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?" he delivers pompously, while patting his knee.

      This simultaneously enrages her and excites her; part of her want to punch him across his self-important face and part of her wants to do exactly what he dictates. But pride and decorum win out and she flashes her middle finger and gives him a murderous look instead.

 He either must have saw through her or simply didn't care because he asked again, undeterred, "Are you sure you don't want to sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"

      The cavalier tone of his deep, baritone voice sends a shiver down her spine which culminates somewhere in her increasingly moistening panties.   No one else in the room seems to notice, or at least they politely pretend not to.  This wasn't exactly backstage at the L.A.Forum after a Guns N' Roses concert.  It was a thrown-together afterthought, at an adult contemporary blues festival, with the only amenities being a plastic tub with some scattered water and apple juice tossed in it and air conditioning.

     She contemplated for a second on her next move.  She could continue her feigned indifference or she could do what she vehemently desired deep inside, which was to stride over to him and curl up on her big man's lap.  Her long, slender legs made the decision for her.  She advanced to her husband's awaiting arms.  She turned slightly to position herself on his right knee, facing outward, away from the group, with her crossed legs in between his.  He wrapped his lanky arms around her waist as she settled into his lap and she felt that tingle course through her again.  He kissed her sweetly on her pouty lips.  She leaned in to rest her head on his broad shoulder.  His shirt was drenched in sweat and sticking to him at every available point.  His strong, masculine scent invaded her airspace.  She breathed it in deeply; it drove her wild.  She compulsively kissed his neck, then withdrew upon realization.  He looked up at her with his oceanic eyes in both color and depth.  She subconsciously began to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly as he proceeded to kiss her passionately and deeply this time.  She was beginning to forget where she was; being fully enveloped in the moment.  He alone had the power to do that to her.  He didn't seem to mind the other guys in the room either, as his hands began to grip around her narrow waist tighter and tighter; almost to the point of pain.  God, she was getting aroused. 

     The guitarist she first spotted, sensing some tension, makes an excuse to leave the room, and soon the others, thankfully follow suit and wander out.  She found herself starting to grind against his rapidly lengthening bulge, more obviously now; their bodies moving in perfect dynamic rhythm.  They begin to kiss more intensely now, with more abandon as the room has cleared out.  His large hands make their way to her tits.  He grabs one in each hand, squeezing them together, forcibly.  His thumb and forefinger begin to find her hardening nipple on her left breast.  He pinches it roughly through the cotton, the way he knows she likes.  She is so hot at this public foreplay, but she knows it can only go so far.  He's not really one for such voyeuristic or dangerous scenarios, like she can be.  But she deeply appreciates the effort.  She figures he will stop any moment, upon sobering up from the intoxication of love and the heat madness, but instead he slides his strong hand from her nipple, down her stomach to the hem of her dress.  He slips his hand underneath the fabric onto her soaking wet, white cotton panties below.

     "Mmm, you're so wet for me.  I love it.  You have the juiciest pussy," he whispers in her titillated ear.

      This makes her even hotter as he licks her elongated neck and earlobe to which she grinds even faster to the rhythm of his fingers on her panty-covered clit.  He loops his forefinger around the drenched panties and deftly pulls them to the side.  She is wild with desire.  Her dress is still covering her, so the danger is minimal.  Her husband sensing this, hikes up the skirt, exposing her shaved pussy.  She instinctively tightens her thighs around his exploring hand.

   "Spread your legs wide for me," he commands, as he tries to push her knees apart.

     She resists as much as she can.

    "Spread your legs open for me, or I'll stop..."

    "But what if someone comes in?" she asks only half worriedly, resisting futilely.

    "Then they're going to see how wet I get my wife's pussy," he replied smoothly, as he continued to rub her clit with his fore and middle fingers in a soft, circular motion.

     God, he was driving her crazy; he's never been that dominant before. She longed for it more than anything.  She wanted him to take control, command her to do whatever he wanted, do what no other man could do to her.  She wanted to worship his cock; do nothing but pleasure him.  It was against her every waking and latent feminist notion, but that's what her uninhibited, raw, sexual id begged for.  They kissed fiercely, their tongues wound around one another.  She rode his hand and his yet to be unearthed cock, simultaneously with the pulsing of her hips and ass.  His hand that had been groping her breast, quickly found the bow at the back of her neck and adroitly pulled on the the ribbons to release the halter.  She could feel her face blush with bashfulness and a hint of voyeuristic indulgence.

      "What are you doing?" she breathed feebly.

      "I want to taste your nipples and I certainly can't do it with your dress covering up those sweet titties," he answered with calm logic.

     She attempted to protest, but let him peel back the material covering her perked breasts.  His tongue lingered and flicked at her left nipple, while his fingers were back tugging hard on her right.  She writhed in pleasure. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked and swirled his tongue against the erect surface.  There she was, completely exposed save for the crumpled white dress gathered around her waist.

     Her hand was stroking his granite dick through his conservative black pants.  She let her fingers just glide over the outline.  She dragged her nails delicately and deliberately across the fabric.  He moaned gutturally in her ear.  She loved to hear him in the throes of delectation. She couldn't wait any longer, she unfastened his belt only to reveal a further obstacle in her decadent path; the button on his pants couldn't come undone fast enough.  She unbuttoned it as fervently as she could while still riding her husband's hand furiously.  She tore down the zipper with hedonistic anticipation.  She reached into his boxers to release his monstercock from its textile prison.  It sprang up at full attention like the royalty it was.  Massive and august, but smooth and refined.  She wanted to kiss its length, lick it, cradle it in her delicate hands for hours; never wanting to be away from his imperial monolith.   But he slid her panties out from under her ass, down her porcelain thighs, just past her trembling knees.

        He wanted to fuck her, for then he mouthed into the scintillated nape of her stately neck, "I can't wait to feel that tight, wet pussy wrapped around my big cock."

       The hand that was playing with her clit so wickedly, moved to the base of his cock to guide it into his wife's covetous pussy.  God, this was insane, here in this harshly-lit, makeshift dressing room with an unlocked door and plenty of passersby shuffling about behind it, able to waltz in at any given time.  He teased her with the head of his concrete cock, spanking it against her clit and sliding it the length of her pussy.

     "But what if someone see us, Chris?"

     "That's what you wanted isn't it?  The thrill of getting caught.  Isn't that why you're cunt is dripping wet right now?"  he posited boldly.

     He positioned his cock at her aperture.  She knew he was at least partly right.  The thrill of getting caught was exciting, but not as exciting as the thought of others stumbling upon the physical manifestation of their profound love.  It was her most sacred acquisition and she childishly wanted to show it off like a beautiful scalloped shell found amidst the lapping waves some warm, summer afternoon.  She lost what little self-control that weakly remained and slid down onto his shaft the rest of the way.  She bounced up and down furiously with her hips, relishing the sound her ass made as it slapped against his sweat-drenched thigh.  He rhythmically thrust into her, slow and rough, to send fiery currents of electricity surging through her quaking body, straight down to her toes.

     "Mmm," she purred.  "Your cock feels so amazing.  I just want to fuck forever."

     "That's it, honey.  Ride my fucking cock just like that.  Uhh.  Yeah.  Like a good fucking wife."

     "Oh my God! You're going to make me fucking come," she screamed.

     "Oh yeah, baby.  Fucking come for me.  I want you to come all over my cock."

     She was panting now with wanton lust.  Her concentrated orgasm was building irrepressibly.  She moaned and purred.

     "Fuck your dick feels so fucking good.  You're so deep in me," she yelped as she could barely breathe.  Her body was on fire with sybaritic voltage.

     He kept drilling her with forceful, deliberate strokes, to build her orgasm up at an agonizingly slow speed.  He could feel her pussy tightening even further around his cock; he knew she was on the verge of climax.

     Just then, the door swung open and the band's drummer, an older gray-haired man, walked in, not noticing for a split-second.  Her mind realized someone had walked in, but her body refused to stop.  Her head was reeling.

     "Oh my God! I'm so sorry," he stammered.  "I didn't realize anyone was still in here.  Oh Jesus.  I'm sorry.  I just forgot my drumsticks, " he blathered on, tripping over a chair as he stumbled toward where the drumsticks lay on the table.

      She felt a flush of embarrassment wash over her, but she was so fucking close to coming.  Her body took over again.  She threw her head back and closed her obsidian-painted eyes, while she continued to ride her husband's rigid cock.  The man tried to politely avert his eyes, but her moaning had commenced and he couldn't help but sneak a glance.  His mixture of arousal and self-consciousness was too much to contain.  He lingered at the door for a minute, drinking in the tableau before him.  Her husband rousing from his own ecstasy spotted the drummer stalling at the exit.

    "Look what you did, honey.  You got George all disconcerted watching you ride me.  Hey, George.  You can look, but you can't touch.  This is my wife, and she is all mine.  Isn't that right, baby?"

     "Ohh, fuck yeah," she moaned.  "I'm all yours, Chris. No one else's"  God, she was fucking close.

With that George reluctantly left shaking his head in disbelief and rubbing the growing bulge in his Dockers.    
   
    "That's a good girl, Cesca.  Sit on that cock like a good wife.  Are you going to come for me, baby?"

    "Oh, fuck yes."

     "Good, baby.  Come for me."

     "Fuck, baby.  I'm so close.  Can I come now?  Please can I come now, baby?"

     "Oh yes, baby.  Come for me.  I want you to come for me.  Come all over my cock."

      With that she couldn't take anymore.  She had withstood all she could.  Her thighs burned as she bounced fervently up and down the length of his shaft.

     "Fuck, I'm going to come," she choked out.

     "Fucking come, baby."

      She writhed and tensed as her whole body melted into orgasm.  She screamed and moaned as the orgasm fully washed over her.  As she came, her husband picked up the speed of his thrusts.  She knew he couldn't hold out any longer either.

      "Oh baby, I'm coming," he panted. He growled and grunted.  His cock tensing up as he shot his hot come deep inside her voracious pussy.  She loved it when they came together.  His cock would hit her G-spot perfectly when his ossified dick discharged.  It extended her orgasm even longer.  They slowed down their grinding, he every few seconds thrusting powerfully just to wring every ounce of orgasm out of her.

     "Fuck!" she exclaimed exhausted and wholly satisfied.

    "I know, baby.  That was fucking amazing.  You were so excited."

     They just lay there, collapsed into one another upon their vinyl throne; just then realizing the sweat that had pooled atop their skin.  She never wanted to move.  She wanted to live in the afterglow forever.  His now softening cock still inside her, making her cunt pulsate spasmodically around it.  After a few minutes of complete blissfulness, he shifted in his throne to signify that they should get dressed.  She reluctantly raised her hips to let his beautiful cock slip out of her soaked pussy.  God, she wanted more.  She was growing insatiable.

     "We better get going, Cesca."

     She didn't want the experience to end, but she wanted only to please him.

     "Can I at least clean your cock before we go, baby?" she asked with pleading eyes.

      A look of inspired surprise flashed across his face.  "Of course you can, honey; if that's what will make you happy."

      She slithered down his thighs and kneeled in front of him.  She would get to worship his cock yet, she thought excitedly.  She gingerly took his super-sensitive cock in her soft hands.  She began kissing it at the base of his shaft, working her way up to the head, gently, lovingly, like only a wife could do.  She lapped at his cock sweetly. She slowly and delicately sucked the head into her mouth.  She loved to have his cock in her mouth.  The taste of their tangled essences sent more electricity through her already overworked limbic system.  She loved the taste of his come.  She loved his big cock, she loved fucking him.  She fucking loved him.

    "Cesca, baby, you're the absolute best wife a man could ask for," he said as he gently stroked her thick, chestnut hair.  "I love you so much."

     God, she was overwhelmed with emotion.  The distant ideas of love and lust finally coming together for her in one man.

    "I love you more than anything, Chris," she purred as she planted a few last kisses on his well-attended cock.

     He pulled her to her feet as he stood and lovingly dressed her.  He wrapped his strong arms around her as she leaned down to nuzzle her face in his perfectly masculine chest; her arms wrapped around his muscular back in an amorous embrace.  And they vowed never to let each other go.
  

Sleep and Tenderness

Preface: The threat of tragedy is what makes a romance significant.  Without the risk torn open by vulnerability, love would be without gravity.  You must risk something that matters.

Sleep 

I awake trembling to the scent of lily-white love.  The sun is surreptitiously streaming in through narrow glints that sneak past the heavy opaqueness of the drapes.  But it provides no warmth.  I can't stop shaking, even beneath the leaden blankets.  I cautiously, meticulously, move to my left, towards this monolith of heat on the far side of the bed.  He's so comfortingly warm; he's almost glowing.  I burrow and nestle my way in, eradicating any discernible space between, the contours of our bodies paralleling consummately.  Within minutes the heat magnifies to an unbearably beautiful pain, searing my skin at all contacts.  I endure as long as a physically can, to bathe in it; I'd just as soon stay there forever, but my body is red-hot with fire.  Fuck it, I think.  Let it engulf me in flames.  I want to feel that magnificent burst, that instantaneous powerful flash.  An event horizon.  The only stripe of white light to be seen in the piceous and necrotic universe.  I know not who breaks first, but I find myself staring at the opposite wall, huddled in a pitiful ball, soon enough.

I love the way he looks in the morning.  So genuine, so raw, so human.  Unspoiled by the rigors of the ensuing day.  His eyes, so brilliantly blue, are oceanic, with hypnotizing tidepools of aureated gold; chiaroscuroed tactilely against the freckled and sunken-in nature of his surface.  It hurts my heart to see him drip with insincerity and feigned pretension.  But the world demands it, or seemingly so.  His subjects eat it up like candy, leaving nothing but spent wrappers in its wake.  I want the goofy guy with the bullhorn, wearing my viking helmet, dancing around in his thick socks and fleece cargo pants.  That's the man of my dreams.  That's the man.  The man too busy living and loving to care what anyone thinks.  Wholly himself, genuine and selfless, innocent and understanding.  Courageous in his sincerity.  Real.  Alive.

If we are who we pretend to be then a frightening reality awaits.  So most people choose not to wake up.  They just keep pretending.  The more involved we get, the deeper I fall, the more I feel like I was sent to him for some specific purpose.   The universe continues our course, despite the obvious and more cunning diversions.  For better or for worse, I love him.  I can't help it.  Embracing the vulnerability eases the fear, somewhat.   The make-or-break point came and went and I was left in the lurches of love, with less of a choice in the matter.  But there's a thin line between devotion and chump.  But it's simpler to just fall all the way down the rabbit hole.  To live in a twisted dream where everything is sutured by love.

I'm almost in tears when recalling the strange and vivid dreams of the previous night.  I dreamt a before and after dream, but they are out of order.  I dream the after first: A little boy, maybe three or so sits at a picnic table with a few presumable friends some sunny afternoon.  His eyes are so brightly blue, with those familiar gold flecks.  Shaggy blond hair falls into his labyrinthine eyes and he smiles the most heart-melting smile, with a mouthful of adorably crooked baby teeth.  He's drinking out of a miniature glass, like a shot glass.  He's seated next to the little boy, almost uncomfortably.  The little boy I suddenly realize is mine and there are tears in my eyes.  He pours something into the little boy's glass and the little boy says, "I love you, Daddy," to which he can't help but soften.  I've never felt happiness like the happiness I felt in that dream.  Cut to a party a few years earlier, this strange woman won't stop asking him about having kids.  At which point, he gets mad at me for whatever reason.  I respond by saying I wasn't the one bringing this up, so don't take it out on me.  This sets him off on a ten-minute harangue about how he doesn't want kids because he's got so much going on career-wise.

I'm taken back to the present, to the intensity of the morning, when our bodies entangle like thorned vines in the twilight dimension between dream and reality, between consciousness and sleep, between cognition and emotion.  The only time I breathe in deep and securely.  "Sleep and tenderness, that's all I need," he says.  It sounds like a vaguely familiar song lyric.  I feel incredible.  All I need is to live right here in his arms.

Tenderness

I've never seen a human being so content before.  That look of sheer ebullience.  I'll never forget it.  I never want to.  It made me euphoric.  I was filled with pure delectation.  I'm tired of living in fear, waiting for it all to fall apart, missing out on even the lightest moments.  Constantly trying to fortress my emotions for fear of getting my heart ripped out.  I was so scared to fall again, I superficially cursed love, but never really believing it.  I wanted it more than anything.  And I was finally open to it, but when the going gets tough, old habits tend to die hard.  To my credit, certain fears were justified, but they took over.  They ran amok, Lord of the Flies style.  My pride or more aptly my survival mechanism masquerading itself of pride refused to allow me to do the things I so longed to do.  I longed to touch him, live in the sanctuary of his arms, tell him I love him a thousand times a day, which still wouldn't have been near enough.  I wanted to pine for him while away and dream he was doing the same.  I just wanted to love him, nothing else, but I don't have a balanced middle ground.  It's either all love, all the time, or I shut down.  I play the nonplussed, too-cool, don't-need-anyone, icy, sanctimonious loner.  The dictatoress, the one no one can touch.  The one that escapes into her head, instead of her heart. Where she truly belongs.  She dismisses all of mankind with a smug wave of hand.  But that negates the other half.  The undiluted lover, the self-less nurturer, born to make a man happy, even at her own expense.  She does need him.

Sometimes, I wonder if my clothes dictate my mood or my mood dictates my dress.  When I dress provocatively, I feel powerful.  I feel like I have something to lord over the men that leer and molest me, both past and present.  I am now in control instead of them.  They relinquish control as they are occupied reeling their tongues up off the floor.  It's simple misdirection.  Sex is an easy disguise.  No one gets to the sweet nature.  No one gets to the vulnerability.  They don't get the privilege of the real me, as if that's some great prize.   But it's all I have.  It's something to me, my core.  What was it I saw in those piercing eyes that chilly winter night?  It was as if only his eyes existed in the incandescence.  Just these floating orbs of cerulean light dancing and flickering their way to me.  They made what paltry breath I had left catch in my throat.  My heart sputtered and stalled.  Trying so hard to look slick, but his eyes betrayed him.  I saw right through, so glassine, they were.  It was as though each man I met over those nine months, were another premonition or hint at him.  Because something about each one of them wasn't quite right.  "I'll give you the nickel tour," he said.  It all felt so real, so unbelievably authentic, overwhelmingly so.  I never stopped for a moment to think that he might be insincere, using canned and rehearsed lines.  It was genuine to me, everything I felt, the whirlwind I'd searched for slapping across my flushed cheek.  Slamming like a neglected shutter as the hurricane raged through.  That night, that second night, after he came over and then left so abruptly.  I didn't know what to think. All I knew is that I was choking without him.  I couldn't breathe.  I was left feeling so empty.  I decided right then, that no matter what, no matter the bruise to my pride, I had to know whether or not is was as real as I felt it to be.  I figured it could go either way, completely fifty-fifty, but at least I would have settled the matter, so I could start breathing again,  however shallow and asthmatic the breaths.  It turned out in favor of, the universe working its cosmic voodoo once more.  I chalked up all the strangeness to fear and uncertainty; letting the disingenuousness wash out to sea.  I know I saw something luminous and fragile in that first second, it was only after that the posturing came into focus. But by then, it mattered not.  He just kept staring at me with no regard for decorum.  I found it incredibly infuriating and interminably sexy.  Of course I wasn't going to just let him stare without me staring right back.  But to his credit, he didn't look away much.  We kept our eyes locked on each other.  I remember saying to myself, "Who is this guy?" In part to ask, "Who does this guy think he is?" And in part because, God damn it, I had to know.  Once I laid my eyes on him, I knew I never wanted to stop. It took all I had to look away coquettishly; a patented move.  The repartee was ridiculously wry and tense.  Dripping with deadly serious innuendo.  The air was thick for being so dream-like.  It was all happening so fast.  There was no time to think, but then again enough time had passed already.  Thinking wouldn't have done much good anyway.  Primitive and visceral emotions were in total control.  I wasn't playing any game, despite the lethal roll of the dice.  I knew I was too eager, but so was he, so what did it matter?  "Can I just kiss you now?"  My heart was as fully realized as the low-slung moon that hung in the obsidian sky that night, casting the same eerie grey shadows of arcane romance.  It was never the smoothness that turned me on, that attracted me; it was the roughness.  The missteps, the weirdness, the goofy smiles, the stumbled-over speech, the lisp of a radiant heart.  The flaws he would never let others see, that's what I fell in love with.  When all the swagger and ego and oily cons drained away, what was left was so rich in beauty, so purified in sweetness, so distilled in innocence.  The innocence of a child filled with innocuous thoughts of model airplanes and catching frogs, and being tucked in at night.

Love is the only thing that matters.  When I turn away from love, for whatever reason, be it insecurity, paranoia, fear; my life commences to crumble and erode.  What motivates us to cower in fear, despite knowing better?  You have to risk something that matters.  Anything less is a waste of time and talent.  Anything worth anything is difficult.  For if it came easy, one could never appreciate it fully. And appreciation is the medium to lasting happiness.  Materialism , corporate culture, greed, all feed the beastly Cerberus.  The Tao says by quelling desire for these frivolities, we remove all reason for crime; crime of law or crime of spirit.  Coveting leads to the world's worst ills.  Why can't we just be happy with the things we already have?  What is this motivation for more?  It is never enough, so you can never stop.  The snake that eats his tail.  Materialism leads only to human objectification.  And inanimate objects can never fill the void of love.  Dissatisfaction only begets more dissatisfaction.  We are supposed to do our work and forget about it, according to Tao.  We are not to wait around for praise or exaltation.  The lure of  success is a tempting Siren, but it is a hollow endeavor.  It only lures man astray.  If we sync into the peaceful flow of the universe, we will have peace.  To paddle upriver is an exciting, but foolish errand. Peace and excitement are at direct odds with one another.  Lasting happiness is bore from peace, not excitement.  We need only food, water, and companionship to survive, not cars or phones or computers.  But yet working towards these materialisms is not only acceptable, but lauded under the guise of "success" or "drive" or worst of all "high culture."  I often dream of living in a hunter/gatherer society where everyone has their specific and necessary role to fill for the survival of the community.  You get a sense of self-satisfaction whilst contributing to the greater good.  The world is wrought with takers and only a handful of givers, read:suckers.  It's hard to balance basic human decency (assuming such a sentiment exists) with not being a mark.  It's a basic tenet of survival.  Take advantage when you can.  But there are those recherche few that embody altruism.  One-offs from the species, I suppose.

I smile at a shuffling old man passing by my table.  His weathered, but kind face lights up with a stretched and contorted smile.  He waves and I feel good.  It's these seemingly inane interactions that fill my spirit.  "I'm so happy to come home to you," he chokes out.  Is it raw emotion that makes him sputter?  He shakes me up, flips me upside-down.  I burn for the waves of his intensity to wash over me.  He keeps me taut with these currents of electricity sparking and coursing through my synapses.  I've never had what I wanted so dangerously close at hand before.  It makes for a strange and presumably poisonous cocktail, albeit an interesting one.

Post Script: If we are who we pretend to be (See Vonnegut's Mother Night), then we are just that.  Pretenders.  If we pretend to be smooth, or pretend to be cool, pretend to be callous, all that makes us are phonies.  Fakes. Prevaricators.  Nothing more. But what of those who refuse to pretend? Ah. For another time.

State of Affairs or Photosynthesis of Pain

What makes my brain run the way it does?  Strange mechanisms at work.  Beyond my conscious control most of the time.  Universally-leaning.  That metaphysical riddle for me to unscramble.  The great cosmic joke just waiting on the punchline.  Perhaps eternally.  A girl cannot live on tragic romance alone.  Not at all, really.  She needs real nourishment, actual physical affection, something vitamin-rich and soul-satiating.  Something to build a real life on.  Not just some novelistic fantasy a la Sylvia Plath.  Maudlin and bathetic are just fucking fine for a far away recollection of a past life, but it can never sustain a present.  With absolutely no hope for a future.  That's why so many writers are alcoholic suicide cases.  Tragedy is their only currency.  It's their most sacred creative catalyst. Pain is the rawest, most unfiltered emotion to drive the pen.  Everything boils down to pain.  Active avoidance or fervent seeking.  There are  too many pitfalls to morbid curiosity, the by-product of sadomasochism.  I continue to punish myself.  The ultimate sadomasochist.  I have to be the best at absolutely everything, don't I?  A perfect sadomasochist.  Karma is an interesting mistress.  People are so quick to attribute positive events to their own hard work or more likely their sense of entitlement, feeling they deserve good things, as if someone is up there doling them out to the worthy.  I suppose the exercise of free will can get things rolling in one direction or the other, but success and status is pretty much luck of the draw, deeming success and status seeking behaviors worthless endeavors.  It is an illusory and antiquated notion that one can achieve their "dreams" or "goals" or what-have-you simply by old-fashioned hard work and perseverance.  It's a business model dreamt up by the Walt Disneys of the world, a childish notion that good things come to the good and the bad guys eventually get their come-uppance.  If only the wheels of justice moved so swiftly.  And more importantly this internalization of positive events is completely socially acceptable, encouraged even.  But for as quick as people are to internalize positive life events, they are even quicker to externalize negative outcomes.  Not many want to attribute adverse events to their own nefarious actions or sinister thoughts.  And those few that do are considered mentally disturbed.  Only the neurotic, emotionally-scarred headcases, like me, internalize negative events, as part of our self-inflicted internal torture regimen.  For which we are sent to doctor upon doctor and given pill after pill.  Why can't you just self-medicate to the level of functionality like the rest of the world?  We neurotics have far too many emotions to handle; they seep out in dysfunctional gloops.  Glop-gloop.  Glop-gloop.  It oozes.  Glop-gloop.  As it starts to pool around my toes in a stinking, sewage-ridden blob.  Full of love and pain; it festers.  The flies begin to buzz about the bubbling muck.  Soon the rats want their cut.  It turns gangrenous and necrotic as it further putrefies and Stilton-like veins of mold form across the surface.  What evolutionary purpose does it serve?  Our we simply evolutionary defectives?  One-offs from the species?  Or are we the pinnacle?  Evolution run amok, taken to its breaking point.  The limb finally snapping under the psychotic weight.  The brain has evolved beyond its own good.  It's forsaken itself.  Much like man discovering nuclear power.  It's grown too big for it's britches.  There is no suitable containment.  So out pours neuroses.  Even selective breeding has done the same.  Whole industries were born out of the neuroses of domesticated animals, dog psychologists, horse whisperers.  Do we just see ourselves in these animals or is it over-evolution striking again?  Dolphins, elephants or great apes in the wild seem to suffer as well.  Anything with any higher functioning or advanced brain capacity seems to develop emotional problems.  Mo' brain, mo' pain is as a succinctly and flippantly as I can convey.  Vonnegut's big brain hypothesis seems totally credible (see Galapagos).  Horse-shoe crabs have made it millions of years because they never outgrew their reproductive purpose.  There wasn't anything to think about.  In fact, I've never seen nary a horseshoe crab on a therapist's couch.  But we'll blow them all to hell soon enough, nonetheless.

Yet negative emotions persist.  Melancholy, anger, guilt fear.  What purpose do they serve?  I find myself asking time and time again.  One purpose that guilt and fear serve is to forbid me from living like a crazy person.  That's something.  It keeps me in check; guilt and fear are life's cattle fencing.  Keeping me in the pasture, for some semblance of a life.  Some semblance of morality, some semblance of happiness.  Of a life that other people seem to lead.  My head is full of these little snapshots of what a happy life looks like: a young couple picnic-ing under the shade of a grand oak on a sunny spring afternoon, a grandfatherly figure carving a picturesque Thanksgiving turkey with a big, shiny knife with even bigger, shinier eyes, a child blowing out the birthday candles on his billowy white-frosted cake against a backdrop of cheering adults, an incandescently lit Christmas tree littered with meticulously wrapped packages, while a fireplace roars beneath a mantle dotted with handmade stockings. Fireworks exploding overhead in the July heat, illuminating the faces of delighted children sitting cross-legged on an oversized red and white checkered blanket, or an elderly couple holding hands as they meander down a rust and gold leafed path, smiling at each other after all these years, relishing each satisfying crunch underfoot.  This is my foolish, nostalgic, black-and-white movie, Rockwell-ian, Americana idea of happiness.  Anything less than that seems meaningless and trite.  Silly, I know.  I wonder if anyone else, like say under the age of 75, feels that way.  Should I even care about fulfilling such a specific and ridiculous dream?  Probably not, but yet I hold out some bantam shred of hope.  Pervasive idealism is hard to deal with on a day-to-day basis.  So few understand.  No one understands fully.  I've given up on being understood fully.  But damn, I've been close.  God, it was so beautiful and harmonious once.  I could almost taste it.  It was powerful, more powerful than either one of us was prepared to deal with.   I know it scared him.  Fuck, it sure scared me.  It all changed in an instant, without warning.  One omniscient look, the locking of eyes across a crowded room, that's all it took to seal our fate.  The universe smiled between us.  Poetically succinct.  The rest of the world needed not exist in that determining moment.  There was only us, perfectly in sync.  We had it all right there, in the lavender-scented, apricot-hued effulgence.  Just the right amount of sweat and passion.  An overwhelming amount of love.  My heart ached and lurched.  I trembled.  He trembled.  Tears welled in my eyes, but they refused to fall.  For it was too wonderful a moment for even a touch of sadness.  It was the most right I've ever felt.  The universe whole-heartedly approved.  The universe smiled between us.  His heart pounding out of his blond-grey lined chest.  My fingertips dancing lovingly among the brush.  I lived to count the freckles on his arms as they wrapped around me.  Never wanting to be freed from the prison of his love.  I'm a hopeless case, I suppose.  Anyone professional with any sense has already moved on to more receptive patients.  More often than not, instead of his arms, I'm locked in the padded cell of my macabre sadomasochism.   Never letting go of the moonlit memories.  The oxidization of brass leaving a rust-colored stain on my barely-beating heart.  Never to be cleansed of his sad, watery-blue eyes.  The way his mouth curves over his teeth to form the slightest lisp.  Jesus, that barely perceptible, sweet, inescapable lisp.  I had forgotten how strong a narcotic love can be.  God, the exquisite, immeasurable, insufferable pain I longed for.  La doleur exquise, my darling.  You have to die of something.  What better than love?  Real gut-wrenching, blood-boiling, mind-bending, vomit-inducing love.  The hardest drug of all.  The one you just can't quit.  There is no rehabilitation.  Diamond-strength, nuclear-powered, surface-of-the-sun, hotter than the hinges of hell kind of love.  That's where true addiction lies.  Addiction for the emotionally flaggellistic.  Drugs for the cerebral cutter.  I want to see those hot streaks of crimson flash onto my porcelain flesh, so tight and supple with youth, yet slashed and burned with the cynicism of experience.  I've lived a thousand lifetimes in my head.  I want to wear my wounds like badges; pin them to my uniform as commendations.  Survival commendations.  People should take more pride in what they've survived.  Those are the ones who should be rewarded by that great wheel of chance.  Look what I've been through and yet I managed to drag myself out of bed!  I have yet to jump in front of a train.  Let's celebrate!  An un-suicide party.  I didn't put a gun in my mouth today! Where's the limbo pole?  Congratulations, you made it another pain-soaked day without pulling a rifle on a random crowd of people.  Kudos, man!  You didn't go kill-crazy; here's a gift certificate to Crate & Barrel.  Treat yourself to a couple of those really fancy throw pillows to take your rage out on.  You deserve it! Positive reinforcement works.  A crooked and stretched smile is forming across B. F. Skinner's corpse somewhere in the depths.

What is happiness without pain, anyway?  How can we appreciate light without shadow?  How can one discern warmth without first experiencing frost?  If good exists, so follows evil.  Everything has its natural opposite.  Positive and negative charges.  To live in the neutral is not to live at all.  I want to experience the full range of human emotions.  Why was I given them to experience otherwise?  What is their purpose?  Surely, it's not just to keep Pfizer and GlaxoSmithKline lining their pockets.  It does follow that that is one reason negative emotions are frowned upon, for as long as they are condemned, the patients will continue to pop their pills, so those yachts can stay afloat and those jets stay in the air.  Why is anesthetization so much more socially acceptable than experiencing negative emotions?  Medication, be it self, or prescribed just perpetuates and prolongs the cycle of pain.  It pettifogs the brain, so you can't intellectualize or rationalize the problem for any lasting relief.  It only temporarily treats the symptoms without attacking the cause.  If you allow yourself to feel the naturally-occurring emotion, you can confront it head-on, and work through.  That takes true courage, and it's wholly honest.  There is no need for delusion.  And self-medication only works for as long as you swallow it.  All that pain floods right back the second the drug dissipates, therefore you take another hit, and another, and another, until there is nothing but that ever-fleeting drug-induced stupor.  All you've done is kill time, at best.  At worst, you've killed yourself or any remaining facsimile of it.

People really loathe sanctimony.  Especially when it contains a grain of truth.  No one likes to be held up to the light.  They aren't the beautiful prisms they purport themselves to be. They are ugly, contorted, self-absorbed, fungus-covered, swarthy, volcanic rock.  No one ever likes what they see in that mirror.  It's hard to stomach a cold, hard look at yourself.  Where are those redeeming qualities you thought you possessed?  Just another middle-of-the-road, unremarkable, terrible asshole.  Barely a memory.  No one wants to be a dime-a-dozen kind of chap, but someone has to be.  Delusion is the opiate of the masses.  It makes the world go round.  Otherwise, I guess we all would be lying in mental hospitals getting shock treatments.  There are a few sapphires of existence, but they are rare, exceedingly so.  They twist and writhe and push themselves for the sake of others, for some greater good, but to no tangible reward.  Most often to their detriment.  These tragic, genuine, beautiful creatures are the only unsung.  Justice is propaganda.  You know why some people punish themselves?  Because the world is terrible.  It's full of terrible things; hate, murder, evil.  And some poor sap has to absorb and process those terrible things.  Emotional migrant workers.  There is no landfill for pain.  It has to go somewhere.  The photosynthesis of pain is a necessary torture.  Without it, how would the rest of us breathe?  The sun shines for thee.