Month: February 2012

Horrible dream

Then, I had a horrible dream. The details are faint, but I remember a report about my youngest brother’s dead body. Cut to a shot of a skeleton that looked as if it had been gnawed to the bone by wild animals. The bones were coated in blood, fat, and ligaments. Half of the face was still intact, and it was clear that it was my youngest brother. His eye was open and lifeless, and my mother was in tears. Jesus, it was fucked up. I became enraged. I was ready to hunt someone down and exact revenge when I woke myself up. It reminded me of the white whale.

I told a friend and he said I’m a weird fuckin’ guy, which is more true than he knows.

Another dude came by to tell me about a dream in which we fought head crabs. I seem like the kind of guy who would do well in that sort of fight against parasitic aliens from another dimension. Survival ‘n all.

Four birds.

I have never been the booty call type. It seems like a weakness to me to sit at home and call—or worse, text—someone to come over so I can relieve myself in/on her. Not a weakness in general, but to me. Even when I just want to fuck and treat someone like an object, there’s the modicum of respectful behavior. So, I hold myself back. I can wait. I’m an expert at patience and arrangements.

A formal date is fine, something atmospheric. I like walking around. Her in a big coat, me in some flimsy jacket. This town turned out to be winter lite. She brought it up before: “Aren’t you cold?”

She’s aware of why I ask her. Partially, anyway. I haven’t said everything, but enough. A broken heart is an attractant. A firm aggressiveness, another. In her I find the eagerness to please. Me, her daddy, some past boyfriend. Who knows. She hasn’t said everything either, and it takes a lot out of me to resist digging into her. Instead, we discuss light things. Film studies. Literature. The philosophy thereof. It’s only been a few dates. We talked about mutual masturbation like it was a pasttime. I catch her on the cusp of tears and she digs her face into anything she can get a hold of.

The directness and reciprocation is like a drug. I want it now. The hormonal impulse is like a steady heartbeat that increases when I see her.

My right testicle has taken to getting sore from time to time, after I masturbate. I’ve taken to it more often. I don’t believe I’m being unnecessarily rough with myself, so I’m left to wonder about possibilities. Hyperextension, cancer, unknown malfunction. It worries me for a few responsible minutes. I proceed with life without health insurance not because of more savings, but because I like to prove things. I can live without insurance. I can ride a motorcycle without a helmet. I can jump out of a plane. I can fuck without falling in love.

I dreamt that I was with her at a window. Both nude. Me and my scarred, hairy ridges; her and her ragged-long hair and lumpy hips. There were the four black finches I’d seen a few days before sitting on a power line outside my office. We just watched them.

Four birds.

I have never been the booty call type. It seems like a weakness to me to sit at home and call—or worse, text—someone to come over so I can relieve myself in/on her. Not a weakness in general, but to me. Even when I just want to fuck and treat someone like an object, there’s the modicum of respectful behavior. So, I hold myself back. I can wait. I’m an expert at patience and arrangements.

A formal date is fine, something atmospheric. I like walking around. Her in a big coat, me in some flimsy jacket. This town turned out to be winter lite. She brought it up before: “Aren’t you cold?”

She’s aware of why I ask her. Partially, anyway. I haven’t said everything, but enough. A broken heart is an attractant. A firm aggressiveness, another. In her I find the eagerness to please. Me, her daddy, some past boyfriend. Who knows. She hasn’t said everything either, and it takes a lot out of me to resist digging into her. Instead, we discuss light things. Film studies. Literature. The philosophy thereof. It’s only been a few dates. We talked about mutual masturbation like it was a pasttime. I catch her on the cusp of tears and she digs her face into anything she can get a hold of.

The directness and reciprocation is like a drug. I want it now. The hormonal impulse is like a steady heartbeat that increases when I see her.

My right testicle has taken to getting sore from time to time, after I masturbate. I’ve taken to it more often. I don’t believe I’m being unnecessarily rough with myself, so I’m left to wonder about possibilities. Hyperextension, cancer, unknown malfunction. It worries me for a few responsible minutes. I proceed with life without health insurance not because of more savings, but because I like to prove things. I can live without insurance. I can ride a motorcycle without a helmet. I can jump out of a plane. I can fuck without falling in love.

I dreamt that I was with her at a window. Both nude. Me and my scarred, hairy ridges; her and her ragged-long hair and lumpy hips. There were the four black finches I’d seen a few days before sitting on a power line outside my office. We just watched them.