Month: December 2011

I was offered a cigarette this morning.

“Sure, why not. End of the year and all.”

It tasted fucking terrible. I didn’t even finish it, to her dismay. “They cost.”

Given my turn in demeanor these past six months or so, I was on the verge of telling her I’d rather have her in my mouth. Still too much, but I’m wondering where it ends, if.

She was a pretty blonde with gorgeous legs. Not my usual attractor, but hey. Pretty blonde with gorgeous legs. We talked. I offered unsolicited advice regarding college. “I’m a pro at moving before I get the degree,” I told her. “Try and finish one before you go to New York.”

She asked why I wasn’t “at home with friends for the New Year?”

“Why aren’t you?”

She was visiting her mother. She showed me a photograph of herself with her mother from her wallet. A lean, pale woman, with long brunette hair. Beautiful laugh lines.

“She’s up in our room,” she said. “Still sleeping.”

“In town to celebrate?”

“Maybe,” she said. “We’re going to grab dinner. My mother’s not really into parties.”

“Parties are overrated. Unless there’s a theme, like those Mad Menparties.”

She smiled and bowed her head down and then away from the conversation.

“So, why aren’t you with someone you know?”

I pulled the same move and looked out at the parking lot across the street. My rental was sitting somewhere out there.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably too afraid to be with someone I know.”

“Why?”

This really got me. I like probing questions.

“It’s been a rough year,” which felt like a lie.

“Well, now you know me and the year’s about to end,” after which she introduced herself.

“And I’m not afraid. That’s a good sign,” and I did the same.

“So, what’re you doing after dinner?”

She smiled a bit shyly then, and that got me, too. I like timidness.

“Nothing much.”

“Well, I’ll be in the bar, here. If you’d like a a drink—you know, the two of you—look for me. If I don’t see you, Happy New Year.”

I excused myself and returned to my room to stare out the window.

KJ posted something really great this morning. “Shut up and swallow the fireworks.” I don’t usually quote others out into the open air, but I like this. I hope I get to borrow it.

I was offered a cigarette this morning.

“Sure, why not. End of the year and all.”

It tasted fucking terrible. I didn’t even finish it, to her dismay. “They cost.”

Given my turn in demeanor these past six months or so, I was on the verge of telling her I’d rather have her in my mouth. Still too much, but I’m wondering where it ends, if.

She was a pretty blonde with gorgeous legs. Not my usual attractor, but hey. Pretty blonde with gorgeous legs. We talked. I offered unsolicited advice regarding college. “I’m a pro at moving before I get the degree,” I told her. “Try and finish one before you go to New York.”

She asked why I wasn’t “at home with friends for the New Year?”

“Why aren’t you?”

She was visiting her mother. She showed me a photograph of herself with her mother from her wallet. A lean, pale woman, with long brunette hair. Beautiful laugh lines.

“She’s up in our room,” she said. “Still sleeping.”

“In town to celebrate?”

“Maybe,” she said. “We’re going to grab dinner. My mother’s not really into parties.”

“Parties are overrated. Unless there’s a theme, like those Mad Menparties.”

She smiled and bowed her head down and then away from the conversation.

“So, why aren’t you with someone you know?”

I pulled the same move and looked out at the parking lot across the street. My rental was sitting somewhere out there.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably too afraid to be with someone I know.”

“Why?”

This really got me. I like probing questions.

“It’s been a rough year,” which felt like a lie.

“Well, now you know me and the year’s about to end,” after which she introduced herself.

“And I’m not afraid. That’s a good sign,” and I did the same.

“So, what’re you doing after dinner?”

She smiled a bit shyly then, and that got me, too. I like timidness.

“Nothing much.”

“Well, I’ll be in the bar, here. If you’d like a a drink—you know, the two of you—look for me. If I don’t see you, Happy New Year.”

I excused myself and returned to my room to stare out the window.

KJ posted something really great this morning. “Shut up and swallow the fireworks.” I don’t usually quote others out into the open air, but I like this. I hope I get to borrow it.

I calm myself in this manner. Staring out the window. I tune out the noise and watch the rain or snow fall onto the cars and pavement. If I’m in a mood for holding someone down I’ll grip my left wrist behind my back and squeeze. Feel my bone, the pulse. I usually enjoy the view.

Life is cyclical. Do you believe it? I’ve seen it myself. My last December 30th was spent on a plane to Seattle. I’d missed my train from San Francisco due to my problem with the morning hours. I suspect I was in the air around this time, after which I’d be in a cab and then in a hotel room in downtown, nearest to the water. I asked someone where I could get a steak. There was a lot of walking, from the docks to the Pike Place market to a restaurant that served a fantastic stout. I ate a steak.

Today, I’m in Canada. It’s not much different but for the cold.

You know, I said I’d do things. I didn’t read fifty books and get some of my work out there in print. The few stories I consider to be good enough to shop around still lack details and cohesive style. I sure as hell didn’t return to school. I’ve lost interest in returning to low level classes, especially if I move again. Instead I’m hoarding money like a squirrel and its nuts. Except for travel, I’m all money bags.

Then I did things I hadn’t thought about. I started swimming and walking regularly. I made big plans for the following years. I’ve mapped out my time until age 32. None of my plans include other people because, well, I’m short on trust. Them’s the breaks.

People will enter the picture anyway. It’s kind of what I love about life.

And, there’s this. Lots of talk about “I” and “me”. Where’s all the fiction and whimsical shit? It just don’t flow like it used to.

The first thing I’ll be doing next year is learning to shoot a gun. My pop had rifles and things that he sold before he ever showed us how to use them. He’s got some pistols now that he hides in a coat in his closet, but I don’t think he likes the thought of them.

That’s about it. I hope you’re happy, or will be soon if you’re not. I still just think that most of everyone are trying their best not to be terrible people.

I calm myself in this manner. Staring out the window. I tune out the noise and watch the rain or snow fall onto the cars and pavement. If I’m in a mood for holding someone down I’ll grip my left wrist behind my back and squeeze. Feel my bone, the pulse. I usually enjoy the view.

Life is cyclical. Do you believe it? I’ve seen it myself. My last December 30th was spent on a plane to Seattle. I’d missed my train from San Francisco due to my problem with the morning hours. I suspect I was in the air around this time, after which I’d be in a cab and then in a hotel room in downtown, nearest to the water. I asked someone where I could get a steak. There was a lot of walking, from the docks to the Pike Place market to a restaurant that served a fantastic stout. I ate a steak.

Today, I’m in Canada. It’s not much different but for the cold.

You know, I said I’d do things. I didn’t read fifty books and get some of my work out there in print. The few stories I consider to be good enough to shop around still lack details and cohesive style. I sure as hell didn’t return to school. I’ve lost interest in returning to low level classes, especially if I move again. Instead I’m hoarding money like a squirrel and its nuts. Except for travel, I’m all money bags.

Then I did things I hadn’t thought about. I started swimming and walking regularly. I made big plans for the following years. I’ve mapped out my time until age 32. None of my plans include other people because, well, I’m short on trust. Them’s the breaks.

People will enter the picture anyway. It’s kind of what I love about life.

And, there’s this. Lots of talk about “I” and “me”. Where’s all the fiction and whimsical shit? It just don’t flow like it used to.

The first thing I’ll be doing next year is learning to shoot a gun. My pop had rifles and things that he sold before he ever showed us how to use them. He’s got some pistols now that he hides in a coat in his closet, but I don’t think he likes the thought of them.

That’s about it. I hope you’re happy, or will be soon if you’re not. I still just think that most of everyone are trying their best not to be terrible people.

Fuck, man. I’ve really got Shame on the brain since reading the script.

You seen this movie?

I don’t want to be one of those people, but I’ll tell you about the one scene. Brandon (Fassbender) and his lady friend Marianne (Beharie) are in a nice-looking hotel room. There are wide views of the harbor and East River or something. This is one of those scenes where they’re undressing and in mid-dishevelment, breathing heavily, with no music at all to ruin it. It’s a good scene. What you realize, though, is that there’s a bit of hesitance. An awkward laugh. Brandon’s got her on the bed and she’s beautiful, of course, so you figure he’s about to really fuck her like he’s fucked every other woman he’s been with since the start of the film. He’s struggling and reaching for his dick and eventually so’s she, but nothing happens. He finally gives up and walks away, leaving her to commence what would have been the post-coital replacement of bra and slinky top. She looks hesitant and unsure. It’s a moment that makes you want to hold her and tell her you’re sorry, it’s not her fault.

“You know, it’s cool,” she says. “It’s okay. Should I go?”

“Sure.”

A few scenes later Brandon is fucking a prostitute up against the window of the same hotel room.

This isn’t about why he couldn’t get it up for Marianne. You’ll have to watch the movie to put that all together. What’s on my mind is that minute when you’ve got her there, and she’s beautiful and breathing hard for you and reaching for you because you’re there, God, you’re there and so’s she and you shouldn’t be thinking at all. Instinct and experience ought to take over. Still, you can’t go through with it. Something fails to trigger in your brain.

You is me, of course. I don’t expect you to really know. The telling here is just an idea of what this is about.

It’s about this one time when I failed to get into the moment. It was a night with someone new who I didn’t feel anything toward. A date for the sake of a date, as is sometimes the case. She was going down on me and I couldn’t stay erect. It might have been the steering wheel in the way and the awkward position, my disinterest, or the fact that I didn’t really know anything about her. I’d performed admirably with new girls before so I couldn’t believe that. There was my minimal sexual contact in the period before then. It was a betrayal by a girl, which I’d tried to get over by ignoring the fairer sex altogether for several years.

The most likely wall, I suspect, was that the girl in my car wasn’t who I wanted. I was too preoccupied with what might have been with someone else.

Preoccupations, obsessions. These are the things that cause a main to fail.

(I think it was Elia Kazan who talked about a person’s ability to cope with decisions. In his case, he’d heard about a friend of his who’d testified for HUAC and became completely impotent afterward. This concerned Kazan, naturally. The first thing he did was go out and have sex. This is how he knew he’d made the right decision. In spite of all the shit he’d gone through, he could still get it up.)

There were few words with that girl. On the phone, at dinner. She wasn’t very interesting. I was tempted to tell her to call herself by a different name when I had my hand on her head. I mostly groaned. Eventually, she took my dick in her hand and finished me off with my head in her mouth. She opened the door and spit into the gutter.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded and smiled. “Yes. Was it good?”

“Of course it was.”

I kissed her. I was certain we’d never speak again.

I haven’t had this sort of problem since.

Fuck, man. I’ve really got Shame on the brain since reading the script.

You seen this movie?

I don’t want to be one of those people, but I’ll tell you about the one scene. Brandon (Fassbender) and his lady friend Marianne (Beharie) are in a nice-looking hotel room. There are wide views of the harbor and East River or something. This is one of those scenes where they’re undressing and in mid-dishevelment, breathing heavily, with no music at all to ruin it. It’s a good scene. What you realize, though, is that there’s a bit of hesitance. An awkward laugh. Brandon’s got her on the bed and she’s beautiful, of course, so you figure he’s about to really fuck her like he’s fucked every other woman he’s been with since the start of the film. He’s struggling and reaching for his dick and eventually so’s she, but nothing happens. He finally gives up and walks away, leaving her to commence what would have been the post-coital replacement of bra and slinky top. She looks hesitant and unsure. It’s a moment that makes you want to hold her and tell her you’re sorry, it’s not her fault.

“You know, it’s cool,” she says. “It’s okay. Should I go?”

“Sure.”

A few scenes later Brandon is fucking a prostitute up against the window of the same hotel room.

This isn’t about why he couldn’t get it up for Marianne. You’ll have to watch the movie to put that all together. What’s on my mind is that minute when you’ve got her there, and she’s beautiful and breathing hard for you and reaching for you because you’re there, God, you’re there and so’s she and you shouldn’t be thinking at all. Instinct and experience ought to take over. Still, you can’t go through with it. Something fails to trigger in your brain.

You is me, of course. I don’t expect you to really know. The telling here is just an idea of what this is about.

It’s about this one time when I failed to get into the moment. It was a night with someone new who I didn’t feel anything toward. A date for the sake of a date, as is sometimes the case. She was going down on me and I couldn’t stay erect. It might have been the steering wheel in the way and the awkward position, my disinterest, or the fact that I didn’t really know anything about her. I’d performed admirably with new girls before so I couldn’t believe that. There was my minimal sexual contact in the period before then. It was a betrayal by a girl, which I’d tried to get over by ignoring the fairer sex altogether for several years.

The most likely wall, I suspect, was that the girl in my car wasn’t who I wanted. I was too preoccupied with what might have been with someone else.

Preoccupations, obsessions. These are the things that cause a main to fail.

(I think it was Elia Kazan who talked about a person’s ability to cope with decisions. In his case, he’d heard about a friend of his who’d testified for HUAC and became completely impotent afterward. This concerned Kazan, naturally. The first thing he did was go out and have sex. This is how he knew he’d made the right decision. In spite of all the shit he’d gone through, he could still get it up.)

There were few words with that girl. On the phone, at dinner. She wasn’t very interesting. I was tempted to tell her to call herself by a different name when I had my hand on her head. I mostly groaned. Eventually, she took my dick in her hand and finished me off with my head in her mouth. She opened the door and spit into the gutter.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded and smiled. “Yes. Was it good?”

“Of course it was.”

I kissed her. I was certain we’d never speak again.

I haven’t had this sort of problem since.

It may seem odd that a man would want to sincerely wreck that, especially as some people are soft-minded and do not develop violent associations with their sexual endeavors. I do not know if I wish I was that way or not. It makes little difference when the mentality is there and, even at my most gentle, I want to completely overpower. Utterly annihilate. I like pressing my fingers into forearms, thighs, and buttocks. I’m not sure why. If I see a bruise I think I’ve done something well, and perhaps beautiful.

It gets me thinking about the women I’ve been with recently and if I chose them because they wanted the violence or if they simply remained silent and took it. I certainly got the sense that they enjoyed it.

Personally, I don’t think I can keep it up. But then this life’s not the kind of life that rewards consistency.

In lieu of smoking.

Tired for a moment, I retreat from my company to join the smokers. I stand and lean against a wooden post. A couple pass me and enter with his arm around her waist. I think of stepping inside and tempting her. I consider that all I am capable of is aggressive pursuit and cold pleasantries. I am not patient enough for the rules. A poorly socialized but attractive specimen.

Recent events rekindle me. The annoyance, the frustration. Markers of a brief attempt at a relationship. Reminders of my inability to make her mine from a distance. Too far and not eloquent enough to keep her coming back for more. I think in rationalities and feel in aggressive possessiveness. Even now, more aware of the lies surrounding us, I desire her, as was her goal: To be desired and enveloped in a wonderful shroud of attention. For a time, I thought this would be alright. They can desire her. She is mine. But, as became evident, I was surrounded by others, all possessed by their gullibility. I was one of several and chose not to see it until there had been declarations of lust and love. In the end, only one man possessed her. An eternal rival. His anonymous face a blank soul.

So I wonder how you—You—feel about that. A man out here in the world who thinks of the quiver of your lips as he looks out on this traffic. The feel of your chin and smell of your inner thighs. Your gut-wrenching moisture. The eagerness with which you part your legs. Yours was the pussy my soul desired from that innate place you wove yourself into. Even now I think of you lying in my bed, still dressed but for the lace panties peeled off and thrown to the ground. Dancing for me and playing the guitar. Reading and singing to you. All the happiness in the world lies before you and for me there’s lust, love, and the possibility of never moving on. It becomes my fuel, something to replace the bitterness. I think of the women since the autumn, how I have fucked them with a fraction of the tenderness that I reserved for you. Yours was a lifetime of being possessed and pushed to be strong. My love was simmering, waiting. The time with them was a hollow satisfaction.

If so, if this is how life is going to be, I pray for those I will be led toward by this unbridled obsession. I pray for myself. I want to kiss full lips, roam over dark hair, be lusted after by destructive eyes. They will be made to open their cage and let loose the animal inside them. Relentless submission. Make them want me the way a man wants things, with hunger and desperation. At thirty, forty, fifty. Temporary loves that never quite live up to the hesitant voice I carry with me.

I await my equal, if not you.

In lieu of smoking.

Tired for a moment, I retreat from my company to join the smokers. I stand and lean against a wooden post. A couple pass me and enter with his arm around her waist. I think of stepping inside and tempting her. I consider that all I am capable of is aggressive pursuit and cold pleasantries. I am not patient enough for the rules. A poorly socialized but attractive specimen.

Recent events rekindle me. The annoyance, the frustration. Markers of a brief attempt at a relationship. Reminders of my inability to make her mine from a distance. Too far and not eloquent enough to keep her coming back for more. I think in rationalities and feel in aggressive possessiveness. Even now, more aware of the lies surrounding us, I desire her, as was her goal: To be desired and enveloped in a wonderful shroud of attention. For a time, I thought this would be alright. They can desire her. She is mine. But, as became evident, I was surrounded by others, all possessed by their gullibility. I was one of several and chose not to see it until there had been declarations of lust and love. In the end, only one man possessed her. An eternal rival. His anonymous face a blank soul.

So I wonder how you—You—feel about that. A man out here in the world who thinks of the quiver of your lips as he looks out on this traffic. The feel of your chin and smell of your inner thighs. Your gut-wrenching moisture. The eagerness with which you part your legs. Yours was the pussy my soul desired from that innate place you wove yourself into. Even now I think of you lying in my bed, still dressed but for the lace panties peeled off and thrown to the ground. Dancing for me and playing the guitar. Reading and singing to you. All the happiness in the world lies before you and for me there’s lust, love, and the possibility of never moving on. It becomes my fuel, something to replace the bitterness. I think of the women since the autumn, how I have fucked them with a fraction of the tenderness that I reserved for you. Yours was a lifetime of being possessed and pushed to be strong. My love was simmering, waiting. The time with them was a hollow satisfaction.

If so, if this is how life is going to be, I pray for those I will be led toward by this unbridled obsession. I pray for myself. I want to kiss full lips, roam over dark hair, be lusted after by destructive eyes. They will be made to open their cage and let loose the animal inside them. Relentless submission. Make them want me the way a man wants things, with hunger and desperation. At thirty, forty, fifty. Temporary loves that never quite live up to the hesitant voice I carry with me.

I await my equal, if not you.

It may seem odd that a man would want to sincerely wreck that, especially as some people are soft-minded and do not develop violent associations with their sexual endeavors. I do not know if I wish I was that way or not. It makes little difference when the mentality is there and, even at my most gentle, I want to completely overpower. Utterly annihilate. I like pressing my fingers into forearms, thighs, and buttocks. I’m not sure why. If I see a bruise I think I’ve done something well, and perhaps beautiful.

It gets me thinking about the women I’ve been with recently and if I chose them because they wanted the violence or if they simply remained silent and took it. I certainly got the sense that they enjoyed it.

Personally, I don’t think I can keep it up. But then this life’s not the kind of life that rewards consistency.