Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Tell me we both matter...

"So... what happened?"

"They were over at his house, drinking a few beers. He pulled out a .44 cal and shot himself in the head in front of her."


"I had to pick up the pieces of his brain... it really messed me up."


"This is all my fault. If we hadn't hooked up, it wouldn't have caused so many issues in their relationship. He wouldn't have been so upset, he wouldn't have killed himself."

"It is not your fault."

"She needs me now... I can't see you anymore."

"I know."


Monday, April 27, 2009


He says, "And that is exactly why I realized we could never date... because you don't find peace in yourself. It's just the way you are."

Sunday, April 26, 2009

The Number is One.

Trying to gather thoughts... it's been a long weekend and Sunday hasn't really started yet.

At an event LA Weekly was hosting. Henry Rollins and Keith Morris were DJing. Art was on display, alcohol was free, and Wil Wheaton was reading exerpts from his latest book.

I was overly excited about seeing Rollins. The man behind the books, those wonderful books that hooked and reeled me in. It was something that sent adrenaline rushing through me, heart racing, breathing almost shallow.

I spoke with him briefly, about a song he was playing. I loved it, I wanted to go get the CD.

He was just a man, but a man who might actually understand me.

That's something that means more than anything I can imagine to me.


Looking at each other and knowing that we're both these wrecked and isolated beings. That we both thrive on pain, on hardship, that that's what we're good at. We can take it.

When one of my exes told me that it was if I was designed to take pain, I was blown away. But he was right, dead on to me and my life.

Other people... they don't get that. It's as though I'm in this world where people are going in one direction, and I've taken a left turn somewhere down the line and who can I relate to now?

Months later, I pick up a Rollins book, and he echos that. He writes of how the only thing he is good at is taking the pain. Someone understood. Someone actually understood.

At the event, our eyes met and held. We stared at each other, then he looked away.

And then I thought, "Did that just happen? Did we just connect?" Skeptical and trying to supress the thrill, the thought that maybe I could actually speak with someone and have them understand. To talk to another person and have them get "it".

But no, no we didn't. He had no memory of it, was just spacing out and his eyes happened to rest on me. I should be flattered, I suppose, that his eyes focused on me when they could have rested elsewhere.


It has become so important to me. It's not love I'm looking for, it's not the emotional thrill. I'm not looking to be romanced or swept off my feet. I'm just looking for understanding, for a person to talk to, a person that isn't mentally separated from me by a large gap of inexperience or different experiences.

We make choices in our lives that send us down flow charts, each incident separating us from our neighbors, each box we stop at a launching point to send us further down the line.

Problem is, I started going the hard way early on.

And that leaves me distant. While others are shooting down the plastic pipes at life's waterpark, I'm crawling through obstacle courses of mind and body, of social and emotional. How am I supposed to talk to these people?

Friday night, I found that I could blend. I found that I could weave myself in by slightly altering my behaviors, by controlling the positioning of the people around me. I could go into a "normal" place, with "normal" people, and take control.

I'm going to be testing this out more soon.

But it doesn't solve this problem. Well, really, if something is to be called a problem, then that means there's a solution. I'm not so sure this is a problem. I think it is just the way things are, the way things are going to be.

I know it is more than likely that I will be alone. I know I need to accept this and, usually, I do.

Sometimes, though, it's harder. Sometimes I look at someone, read a book, hear a speech, catch a blog, and I'm struck with this longing that if only I could connect with this person, then it would fill that isolating hole in me.

But I need to fill it for myself.

All I have, on this level, is me. It's a matter of what I'm going to do with it, how I'm going to experience this life, what I will take from those experiences, and how I will make myself stronger and better. It's all I can do.

I am stronger than this longing, I just forget sometimes.

Monday, April 20, 2009


Nearly 11PM, the plane starts to slide out of the sky, a sloping angle towards Los Angeles.

The overhead light is off, air conditioner vent blowing across my face, half-pressed against the window, watching as the wings bank against the horizon.

Most of the passengers are asleep, the girl on my left included, having finally wiped herself out with flight-anxiety, her body gave. No more white knuckles share my armrest.

My books are at my feet, propped up against the wall so as not to spill, and my notebook rests in my lap, open to a half-full page.

I'm alone.

Surrounded by people, this flight is alone.

At night, I drove to the airport, dropped the rental car, and took the rail into the terminal.

I sat against the wall and ate a banana, the healthiest thing I could find in the airport foodcourt.

They called for boarding, section A, and I went. Straight down the aisle, dodging hastily shoved luggage, sliding past wayward appendages.

We fly, and I read. We fly, and I write.

When we land, I wait for most of the passengers to exit before uncurling myself from my seat and grabbing my bags.

I call no one when I am off the plane. I walk through the terminal, abandoned on a Sunday night, I walk past the baggage claim, through the gates and the passengerless cabs. Up the stairs, over the racetrack highway that I've come to know in the last few years.

My car is where I remember it, exactly to the spot. Untouched. Sitting down in the driver's seat feels odd, since I spent so much of my time in the rental. I'm lower, closer to the ground. My turning radius is better. I'll have to adjust for this.

Five minutes on the street, I'm okay.

Fifteen minutes, I'm at ease in my vehicle again.

I need to wash it.

I turn onto the freeway and I'm home.

Sunday, April 19, 2009


We're cleaning up the dishes.

I lean over the counter, sponge in hand, wiping up the parmesan cheese scattered across the marble surface.

He's behind me.

"These jeans could have been painted on," he murmurs into my ear.

His hands run up my ass, following the curve to the base of my spine before slipping over to the front. He pulls me against him, using my hipbones as handles, and slowly grinds against me.

... ... ... ...

"Forget the party, we should go down to the beach."

He's sitting in my passenger seat.

I glance over, "I can't. I told them I'd be there at five-thirty and I'm already late."

"Take me to Sunken City."

"Another time. I really need to get going."

"We should go out to dinner soon."

I realize I've shown him too much affection. He translates my care for him and his well-being as love. As he tries to convince me to abandon my previous plans, I sit and kick myself for not being colder. I should have known better. He's at my feet like a puppy, waiting for me to feed him treats.

He interrupts my thoughts, "After the party, you should call me. We can go out."

"I'm already exhausted from clubbing last night and being up so early this morning for this event. I doubt I'll have the energy to go out after this."

"Drink some coffee."

"I've got another date tomorrow morning," I try to gently remind him of my lifestyle choice, the choice I made when I decided that he could not have a permanent place in my life, "I can't be up with you all night and then spend tomorrow with this guy all exhausted. That's rude."

"Well, think about it. Let me know."

"I will, but it's doubtful. Please don't get your hopes up." That last part is almost a laugh. It's too late. His hopes are up. His hopes are up for more than I'm willing to give. I know I'm going to have to cut him loose soon and I know that this may cost me his friendship.

We present a good picture.

Lounging down at the house in Long Beach, we socially intertwine. The girls are intimidated by him, by his height, his dress, his attitude. The men are intimidated by me, by my attitude and man-eating reputation. They see him fall for me and it's another feather in my cap. If this man curls up at my feet so easily, what chance do they have?

I'm always outside the group.

... ... ...

One of the girls mentions that they're talking about me down in south Orange County. Apparently, my writing is spreading. Me, a topic of conversation. Who knew?

When I was in San Francisco, the man I was visiting took me to three of his cross-fit classes. I did not understand why, during the classes, he kept looking at me and grinning. It was the oddest smile. I kept asking him what was so amusing, and finally he told me that he couldn't believe that I, of this particular section of internet fame, was doing these classes with him.

Like I wasn't a regular person.

That shocked me.

He was the first to do that.

Last weekend, a similiar situation happened.

Another man wanted me for the same reason. Because of the writing. Because of the stories. Because of the growing fan club. Like me sleeping with him would somehow make him special, like he would somehow become part of the stories.

I've put so little effort into that site, it's only been a few months.

I'm not sure what to think of it.

Thursday, April 16, 2009


He places me on the curb, eliminating those several inches from between our lips.

We breathe together.

"You just want me to fall for you again," he tells me.

I lean back, trying to stop the look of horror from filling my features then, realizing it's too late, press my face into his chest.

"No. That would be awful."

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Easter Sunday

"Get down on the floor," he tells me and releases the fistful of my hair.

Already on my knees, I drop immediately, folding my body up in the bottom of the shower, face pressed against the wet floor. The water is pounding on my back, keeping me warm, and I hear the sounds of his palm sliding up and down his cock.

As he reaches orgasm, he bends down and wraps my hair around his left hand, yanks my head up in time to catch a faceful of semen. My tongue darts out and I clean him off once he is done.

... ... ... ...

I'm bent forward, knees straight, legs spread, hands together in front of me, pushing back against him. In the mirror, I see the matching cuffs on both ankles and both wrists, my hair draping down to one side, a fall of black. I catch my own eyes, the pale blue, and the pink flush across my face, red lips. Color on pale skin becomes art, and I glance up to meet his gaze in the mirror.

He thrusts and my mouth opens, a gasped shout.

I see him smile and feel his fingers curl over my hipbones.