I entered an honest to God debate on why sucking dick or eating pussy are not lesser expressions of love than, say, pressing lips together, rubbing noses, or holding hands, and it came down to the belief that those things are ‘dirty’ or ‘naughty’ which, personal reasons for getting aroused aside, is about as convincing as saying that the words ‘fuck me’ are any less valid than the words ‘make love to me’. I considered pushing it as far as descriptive talk about BDSM, rimming, and so forth, but I stopped short out of courtesy which shows that even as I try to persuade someone toward my point of view I inhibit myself, and the fact is she had an innocent air about her and it was fucking hot to see someone so inhibited in her communication struggle to speak about the topic out in the open. It was a mirror of sorts, now that I think about it
Month: January 2012
A mirror of sorts
I entered an honest to God debate on why sucking dick or eating pussy are not lesser expressions of love than, say, pressing lips together, rubbing noses, or holding hands, and it came down to the belief that those things are ‘dirty’ or ‘naughty’ which, personal reasons for getting aroused aside, is about as convincing as saying that the words ‘fuck me’ are any less valid than the words ‘make love to me’. I considered pushing it as far as descriptive talk about BDSM, rimming, and so forth, but I stopped short out of courtesy which shows that even as I try to persuade someone toward my point of view I inhibit myself, and the fact is she had an innocent air about her and it was fucking hot to see someone so inhibited in her communication struggle to speak about the topic out in the open. It was a mirror of sorts, now that I think about it
Two bedroom
I explained why I required a two bedroom apartment for myself.
“Space to think in is essential.”
“Essential for what?”
“Creativity. Sanity.”
Our laziness kept us glued to the couch, listening to classical music that was too low to really be heard. It provided a background. Our minds—mine for certain—were empty enough to have a deft conversation.
“I haven’t seen you insane.”
“Precisely. Let’s hope you never do.”
“Why would you want to hide something about yourself?”
“Some things aren’t pretty. I can be terrible in some regards. I don’t know, it’s tough to explain out loud.”
“When is it easy to explain?”
I distinctly remember feeling uncomfortable. My left arm was falling asleep and I was running low on responses.
“When I’m older, maybe. When I’m wiser.”
I couldn’t feel her hair anymore. “Move your head up a bit. I can’t feel my arm.”
She did and I became aroused.
“I like you,” I said. “I like you asking questions.”
“You seem annoyed.”
“I’m not, not annoyed. I’m just not used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She smiled and I reached for her with my tingly hand. I felt quite close to her then.
We moved to the bedroom later, for a couple of hours. She mentioned that I should buy a night stand for the other side and hang a painting or photograph on the opposite wall.
“It would look nice.”
I thought about my walls looking nice or staring into white oblivion.
“What should I put on the wall?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think you’ll pick something perfect.”
Two bedroom
I explained why I required a two bedroom apartment for myself.
“Space to think in is essential.”
“Essential for what?”
“Creativity. Sanity.”
Our laziness kept us glued to the couch, listening to classical music that was too low to really be heard. It provided a background. Our minds—mine for certain—were empty enough to have a deft conversation.
“I haven’t seen you insane.”
“Precisely. Let’s hope you never do.”
“Why would you want to hide something about yourself?”
“Some things aren’t pretty. I can be terrible in some regards. I don’t know, it’s tough to explain out loud.”
“When is it easy to explain?”
I distinctly remember feeling uncomfortable. My left arm was falling asleep and I was running low on responses.
“When I’m older, maybe. When I’m wiser.”
I couldn’t feel her hair anymore. “Move your head up a bit. I can’t feel my arm.”
She did and I became aroused.
“I like you,” I said. “I like you asking questions.”
“You seem annoyed.”
“I’m not, not annoyed. I’m just not used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She smiled and I reached for her with my tingly hand. I felt quite close to her then.
We moved to the bedroom later, for a couple of hours. She mentioned that I should buy a night stand for the other side and hang a painting or photograph on the opposite wall.
“It would look nice.”
I thought about my walls looking nice or staring into white oblivion.
“What should I put on the wall?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think you’ll pick something perfect.”
Annie Clark
“You wanna come to a show?”
“Who?”
“St. Vincent.”
“Venue?”
“The Fox.”
“In Oakland?”
“Yea.”
“Maybe. I’m in the balcony if I do.”
“Okay.”
“I wish it could be just Annie Clark on an empty stage and no one in the audience but me.”
“You wish everything was just you.”
“Me plus one.”
Annie Clark
“You wanna come to a show?”
“Who?”
“St. Vincent.”
“Venue?”
“The Fox.”
“In Oakland?”
“Yea.”
“Maybe. I’m in the balcony if I do.”
“Okay.”
“I wish it could be just Annie Clark on an empty stage and no one in the audience but me.”
“You wish everything was just you.”
“Me plus one.”
Ribcage
I get visions of a pick axe plunged into my ribcage. I remove it to reveal a gaping hole in my side. I look at the hole and say, “I don’t believe you. You’re a lie.” The blood gathers at the base of my spine when I sleep, which is odd because I sleep on my stomach or my sides. The visions never stop when I am away in Seattle, St. Helens, or some other place I happen to be running off to. Before they happen, sometimes, I get this idea to tell someone that I’m not in a mood for fucking, forget it, and just stop worrying and fall asleep beside me. The air conditioner is usually humming when I wake up. I open the curtains to let in morning sunlight and shower. When I press my fingers to my ribs I feel nothing, and I dig them in further, trying to reach through and find what I always see. Later, when I get back from work or walking, I shower again, and pace around waiting for my hair to dry up. I feel my side again and lose interest in doing anything but sleep.
Ribcage
I get visions of a pick axe plunged into my ribcage. I remove it to reveal a gaping hole in my side. I look at the hole and say, “I don’t believe you. You’re a lie.” The blood gathers at the base of my spine when I sleep, which is odd because I sleep on my stomach or my sides. The visions never stop when I am away in Seattle, St. Helens, or some other place I happen to be running off to. Before they happen, sometimes, I get this idea to tell someone that I’m not in a mood for fucking, forget it, and just stop worrying and fall asleep beside me. The air conditioner is usually humming when I wake up. I open the curtains to let in morning sunlight and shower. When I press my fingers to my ribs I feel nothing, and I dig them in further, trying to reach through and find what I always see. Later, when I get back from work or walking, I shower again, and pace around waiting for my hair to dry up. I feel my side again and lose interest in doing anything but sleep.
The door to hell.
• Iceland is known as the Land of the Midnight Sun because in summer there are almost 24 hours of daylight.
• There are 15 active volcanoes in Iceland, including Mount Hekla, long believed to be the entrance to Hell.
• More books are published per capita in Iceland than in any other country.
• Many Icelanders still practice the old Viking religion of Norse mythology.
• Icelanders drink more Coca-Cola than anyone else in the world.
• Cement is Iceland’s most imported product.
The door to hell.
• Iceland is known as the Land of the Midnight Sun because in summer there are almost 24 hours of daylight.
• There are 15 active volcanoes in Iceland, including Mount Hekla, long believed to be the entrance to Hell.
• More books are published per capita in Iceland than in any other country.
• Many Icelanders still practice the old Viking religion of Norse mythology.
• Icelanders drink more Coca-Cola than anyone else in the world.
• Cement is Iceland’s most imported product.