Tag: spilled ink

Open the door.

The guy knelt before the screen door. He pressed his weight against the aluminum frame and attempted to peer through the glass window of the wooden door beyond the screen.

He said, “Damn, baby. Damn. Why you gotta do this, baby? Why? Don’t be like that, girl. Come here. Come here. Please, baby, I’m sorry! Please, baby, please. Just, come on, baby. Come on. You don’t gotta do this. You don’t gotta leave me out in the cold. Keep me warm, girl. I need yo love. I need you. Damn, girl. You cold. You gonna do this? You gonna do this? Fuh real? You fuh real just gonna leave me here? Just break my heart, girl? Please, baby! Don’t… do… this! She wasn’t no thing, girl! She wasn’t no love like we got. We got love, girl. We got love! Talk to me. Come on, girl. Goddamn it open the door. Open the door! Open this mothafuggin door. I’ll wait for you all my life, girl. I’ll sit here all my lives in this universe. I’ll sit here, baby, and you open the door when you ready. Remember we promised? You remember that? We gonna have so many kids, baby. We gonna make em and have a big house. Like a mansion, girl. And yo momma livin with us and my brothers and sisters. We got dreams, baby. Open the door and let’s make our dreams come true. Come on, girl. It’s gettin cold out here without you. We got a future ahead of us, baby. We got the world. I’m like Scarface. We gonna do this. We gonna be the best. Ain’t no one make you feel like jelly. No one hits that pussy like me, girl. Makin you quiver. Makin you quiver, girl, like it’s icy hot. Like it’s my love inside you. Girl. Baby! Just open the door and I promise you ain’t gonna be sorry. You gonna be my queen, you gonna have it all. Girl. It’s gettin cold. Open the door, baby.”

It may be of interest that my first kiss was not sweet and innocent by any definition. It was hands at my side and tongues in each other’s mouths. It was the first taste of waxy lipstick. We scammed in front of a crowd who received some cheap adolescent thrill from watching others. I did not approve of it and so we kept to ourselves from then on. Her in my lap. A back corner of the school. Her mother’s back porch. Every moment was exhilirating, both for its taboo nature (“no babies!”) and because of the feeling of physical closeness. Having come from a reserved and repressed people, it was all fresh learning.

I never kissed that girl in an affectionate way. It was all aggression and expectation of what was to be done. We had several outings (we didn’t “date” where I come from) and my first time coming inside a girl’s mouth. It felt explosive. It was a mild feeling of nausea inside me. She held the semen and ran away. I heard the toilet whoosh inside the house. When she returned, I’d pulled my pants up and lied back on the lawn chair. She lied with me. I asked if she was alright. She looked alright. She wore striped thigh highs that’ve been etched into my psyche for eternity. They were black and white, came up a few inches short of her crotch. I became intensely focused on sex with her after that, but it never came to be. I didn’t talk much. She took it as a sign that she’d been used. It’s possible she was.

I never forget the first of anything. Who does?

Several weeks of this is all we had. It’s interesting that it seemed like months. When she broke it off, I felt nothing and moved on. This means I felt something and forced it somewhere hidden in my mind. I made out with a few other girls that summer until I got chided and slapped, after which I couldn’t be bothered with girls for a long while. It was the beginning of a repeating pattern. They wanted something more than I had. Effort, probably. They wanted to know there was caring, especially these girls raised by powerless men who found control in their mistreatment of their wives and daughters. When they even had a father to mistreat them

I hated those men. I blamed them for problems inside me.

I think about that when I go back to the turn between child and adult. I was decent enough, but sometimes circumstances just don’t lead a person to do decent things. Sometimes there’s just a beautiful girl and expectation. There’s no choice but to say the right thing and kiss her.

It may be of interest that my first kiss was not sweet and innocent by any definition. It was hands at my side and tongues in each other’s mouths. It was the first taste of waxy lipstick. We scammed in front of a crowd who received some cheap adolescent thrill from watching others. I did not approve of it and so we kept to ourselves from then on. Her in my lap. A back corner of the school. Her mother’s back porch. Every moment was exhilirating, both for its taboo nature (“no babies!”) and because of the feeling of physical closeness. Having come from a reserved and repressed people, it was all fresh learning.

I never kissed that girl in an affectionate way. It was all aggression and expectation of what was to be done. We had several outings (we didn’t “date” where I come from) and my first time coming inside a girl’s mouth. It felt explosive. It was a mild feeling of nausea inside me. She held the semen and ran away. I heard the toilet whoosh inside the house. When she returned, I’d pulled my pants up and lied back on the lawn chair. She lied with me. I asked if she was alright. She looked alright. She wore striped thigh highs that’ve been etched into my psyche for eternity. They were black and white, came up a few inches short of her crotch. I became intensely focused on sex with her after that, but it never came to be. I didn’t talk much. She took it as a sign that she’d been used. It’s possible she was.

I never forget the first of anything. Who does?

Several weeks of this is all we had. It’s interesting that it seemed like months. When she broke it off, I felt nothing and moved on. This means I felt something and forced it somewhere hidden in my mind. I made out with a few other girls that summer until I got chided and slapped, after which I couldn’t be bothered with girls for a long while. It was the beginning of a repeating pattern. They wanted something more than I had. Effort, probably. They wanted to know there was caring, especially these girls raised by powerless men who found control in their mistreatment of their wives and daughters. When they even had a father to mistreat them

I hated those men. I blamed them for problems inside me.

I think about that when I go back to the turn between child and adult. I was decent enough, but sometimes circumstances just don’t lead a person to do decent things. Sometimes there’s just a beautiful girl and expectation. There’s no choice but to say the right thing and kiss her.

Patiently observing.

I knew a friend who worked as a prostitute. She appeared often and may’ve lived in a nearby apartment, or perhaps as a roommate. She was always around when I got in from work. She had short black hair that always as if she’d just fucked someone. Messy. Her indifferent eyes were sunk into the mascara and kohl-rimmed shadows and were her most attractive feature.

There was another girl there with whom I was amiable. She was definitely a roommate.

For several days I would get home and become immediately aroused for no reason other than I am capable of it. The first girl would emerge from a room somewhere and stroll by casually, cigarette in between chapped lips, and we would talk for several minutes. I immediately knew that I trusted her enough to talk to her honestly, openly, though I do not know what we discussed. Sometimes, the definite roommate of mine, a redhead, would emerge and sit on the couch to read a book, at which point the first girl would say goodbye and finish her smoke in the hall.

This kept on for many days until one day when I was sitting on the balcony. I had a brown liquor in hand and watched the sunset while nursing a raging erection. I stood and entered the apartment to look for the dark-haired girl, who surely enough appeared from somewhere unseen with a cigarette in hand and disheveled hair. She strode to the kitchen counter and waited for the microwave to ding. I produced a hundred dollar bill from my pocket and approached her. I asked, “What’ll this buy me?” feeling no moral qualm, nor sense of being cheap and tactless. She hesitated for a moment but instantly understood my meaning. She took the hundred and said, “Anything you want. Fuck me any way you want.” Her face was done up in a coy smirk. She took the hundred and went to wait for me in the giant bed that sat just a few feet away in the living room. The redhead roommate appeared to sit on the couch and although I was chomping at the bit to get started, I could not do so with her sitting idly by reading a book. I approached her and and explained: “Listen, can you see her over there? I am about to make her sing my name out. You can hang out, or…” She expressed what can only be called a disgusted whatever and gathered her book. I saw a flash of her parting her legs to reveal a golden bush, but it was only a dream within. “Actually,” I said, “that would be amazing. Why don’t you join us?” And then she was gone.

I returned to my other friend (who was impatiently waiting in bed) and proceeded to hold her wrists while I fucked her from behind, feeling that there was no other human state in which I’d rather be, all animal and fluids, making her sing my name out to a pitch black void.

At the end, a friend whose opinion mattered to me appeared at the station where I waited for my train each morning. She told me she’d been waiting for me in the innocent way of not knowing something deeply personal, smiled wide, and waved at the other two girls I’d just been with. The dark-haired prostitute and the redheaded roommate sat on opposite benches and appeared as they had in the apartment—engaged in cigarette and book, respectively. The train station friend asked me what I’d been up to. She was also someone I trusted. I felt no different than before I’d been with the dark-haired friend, and in fact was glad to have relieved what felt like an ages-long hunger that needed to be sated. But, for some damn reason, I did not want her to know what I’d done. I felt it was something I’d never be able to tell her until we were perhaps dead, floating spirits in the ether, free of the confines that made us imperfect and finally equal in all respects.

Patiently observing.

I knew a friend who worked as a prostitute. She appeared often and may’ve lived in a nearby apartment, or perhaps as a roommate. She was always around when I got in from work. She had short black hair that always as if she’d just fucked someone. Messy. Her indifferent eyes were sunk into the mascara and kohl-rimmed shadows and were her most attractive feature.

There was another girl there with whom I was amiable. She was definitely a roommate.

For several days I would get home and become immediately aroused for no reason other than I am capable of it. The first girl would emerge from a room somewhere and stroll by casually, cigarette in between chapped lips, and we would talk for several minutes. I immediately knew that I trusted her enough to talk to her honestly, openly, though I do not know what we discussed. Sometimes, the definite roommate of mine, a redhead, would emerge and sit on the couch to read a book, at which point the first girl would say goodbye and finish her smoke in the hall.

This kept on for many days until one day when I was sitting on the balcony. I had a brown liquor in hand and watched the sunset while nursing a raging erection. I stood and entered the apartment to look for the dark-haired girl, who surely enough appeared from somewhere unseen with a cigarette in hand and disheveled hair. She strode to the kitchen counter and waited for the microwave to ding. I produced a hundred dollar bill from my pocket and approached her. I asked, “What’ll this buy me?” feeling no moral qualm, nor sense of being cheap and tactless. She hesitated for a moment but instantly understood my meaning. She took the hundred and said, “Anything you want. Fuck me any way you want.” Her face was done up in a coy smirk. She took the hundred and went to wait for me in the giant bed that sat just a few feet away in the living room. The redhead roommate appeared to sit on the couch and although I was chomping at the bit to get started, I could not do so with her sitting idly by reading a book. I approached her and and explained: “Listen, can you see her over there? I am about to make her sing my name out. You can hang out, or…” She expressed what can only be called a disgusted whatever and gathered her book. I saw a flash of her parting her legs to reveal a golden bush, but it was only a dream within. “Actually,” I said, “that would be amazing. Why don’t you join us?” And then she was gone.

I returned to my other friend (who was impatiently waiting in bed) and proceeded to hold her wrists while I fucked her from behind, feeling that there was no other human state in which I’d rather be, all animal and fluids, making her sing my name out to a pitch black void.

At the end, a friend whose opinion mattered to me appeared at the station where I waited for my train each morning. She told me she’d been waiting for me in the innocent way of not knowing something deeply personal, smiled wide, and waved at the other two girls I’d just been with. The dark-haired prostitute and the redheaded roommate sat on opposite benches and appeared as they had in the apartment—engaged in cigarette and book, respectively. The train station friend asked me what I’d been up to. She was also someone I trusted. I felt no different than before I’d been with the dark-haired friend, and in fact was glad to have relieved what felt like an ages-long hunger that needed to be sated. But, for some damn reason, I did not want her to know what I’d done. I felt it was something I’d never be able to tell her until we were perhaps dead, floating spirits in the ether, free of the confines that made us imperfect and finally equal in all respects.

El Hombre Murciélago

We used to have an old hi-fi stereo in the living room. My pop made a big deal about the receiver, which hummed when it was powered up. He also owned an old record player and a box full of old 12-inch LPs. They smelled like dust and mold. I found a strange Iron Butterfly record in the box and listened to the B-side a few times before I cared about any music that wasn’t a theme song for a television show. I might have been lying on that old shag carpet that came with the house before they replaced it with wood flooring. The song was like a long road. I once fell asleep listening to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and didn’t wake up until the next morning.

My ma used to vacuum and clean the kitchen with the radio tuned to one of the Spanish stations that played los exitos. The announcers had deep, excitable voices. I’ve learned to imitate them for comedic effect.

That receiver and record player sat on top of two tall wood grain speakers, all of which was hidden from view when the living room door was opened so that the breeze could come in past the shiny black grate of the steel security door. We sometimes opened the windows and rolled open the glass window slats to allow the sunlight to flood in past the security bars on the windows.

These details are all incidental. The only real reason to be in the living room was to watch the CRT TV that sat on the shag and rotated slightly on its axis. When my pop found that television is was infested with cockroaches, which he managed to clear out after several hours with it in the garage. It was new enough to be digital and displayed the channels in big green numbers on the front, just above the number pad. There was a remote control with tape around the battery cover but it didn’t work too well. As the oldest, I never had to get up to change the channel.

We used to watch a lot of Ninja Turtles on that television. We collected the cards and watched it like it was the preacher.

If I wanted to chase after Shredder in that house, I ran in a circle. I probably began in the living room and stomped into the central hallway, alongside all the big drawers and closets on the left and my small (tiny) bedroom on the right. I was always Donatello because I was intelligent, even before I was really intelligent. I chased after Shredder wielding a long broom handle and we turned at the bathroom door to enter the kitchen, where I sometimes managed to hit Shredder on the shoulder, lightly enough to be safe but hard enough to get a squeaked child reaction. We continued through the breakfast nook and back into the living room where the chase might end on the old twill couch.

Once, I sat on the couch and wrote “YA NO TE AMO” on the inside of a snapple bottle cap, then sent Abe or Chris to deliver it to my ma, who was sitting on the side stoop with a cigarette and the mangy yard dogs who used to be fancy poodles. She never told me what she thought about it. You must understand that I really wanted to go to the pool with my best friend Ivan and his family. It was cruelty to not allow me to go.

Satisfied with my rejoinder, I sat on the couch and turned on the television to Saturday afternoon shows. The old Adam West Batman show was on, and although I wasn’t really a fan of something as old as Batman, it was enough to pass the time lying on the carpet, listening to commercials and traffic in between the fighting of crime.

El Hombre Murciélago

We used to have an old hi-fi stereo in the living room. My pop made a big deal about the receiver, which hummed when it was powered up. He also owned an old record player and a box full of old 12-inch LPs. They smelled like dust and mold. I found a strange Iron Butterfly record in the box and listened to the B-side a few times before I cared about any music that wasn’t a theme song for a television show. I might have been lying on that old shag carpet that came with the house before they replaced it with wood flooring. The song was like a long road. I once fell asleep listening to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and didn’t wake up until the next morning.

My ma used to vacuum and clean the kitchen with the radio tuned to one of the Spanish stations that played los exitos. The announcers had deep, excitable voices. I’ve learned to imitate them for comedic effect.

That receiver and record player sat on top of two tall wood grain speakers, all of which was hidden from view when the living room door was opened so that the breeze could come in past the shiny black grate of the steel security door. We sometimes opened the windows and rolled open the glass window slats to allow the sunlight to flood in past the security bars on the windows.

These details are all incidental. The only real reason to be in the living room was to watch the CRT TV that sat on the shag and rotated slightly on its axis. When my pop found that television is was infested with cockroaches, which he managed to clear out after several hours with it in the garage. It was new enough to be digital and displayed the channels in big green numbers on the front, just above the number pad. There was a remote control with tape around the battery cover but it didn’t work too well. As the oldest, I never had to get up to change the channel.

We used to watch a lot of Ninja Turtles on that television. We collected the cards and watched it like it was the preacher.

If I wanted to chase after Shredder in that house, I ran in a circle. I probably began in the living room and stomped into the central hallway, alongside all the big drawers and closets on the left and my small (tiny) bedroom on the right. I was always Donatello because I was intelligent, even before I was really intelligent. I chased after Shredder wielding a long broom handle and we turned at the bathroom door to enter the kitchen, where I sometimes managed to hit Shredder on the shoulder, lightly enough to be safe but hard enough to get a squeaked child reaction. We continued through the breakfast nook and back into the living room where the chase might end on the old twill couch.

Once, I sat on the couch and wrote “YA NO TE AMO” on the inside of a snapple bottle cap, then sent Abe or Chris to deliver it to my ma, who was sitting on the side stoop with a cigarette and the mangy yard dogs who used to be fancy poodles. She never told me what she thought about it. You must understand that I really wanted to go to the pool with my best friend Ivan and his family. It was cruelty to not allow me to go.

Satisfied with my rejoinder, I sat on the couch and turned on the television to Saturday afternoon shows. The old Adam West Batman show was on, and although I wasn’t really a fan of something as old as Batman, it was enough to pass the time lying on the carpet, listening to commercials and traffic in between the fighting of crime.

The coworker’s become enamored with the adoption of a pure-bred Husky or Malamute, and just invested an hour into researching available puppies in this area. They range in price from $500 to $1000.

But I also spent that hour trying to convince him that a $500 pure-bred puppy is likely to be adopted, whereas the many animals at the human society and shelters, not to mention the hordes of them posted on Craigslist and elsewhere as “FREE TO GOOD HOME,” are probably on more shaky ground, and that a mixed breed dog is no less capable of providing whatever it is he’s looking for in a pet.

He says, “But you can’t show them,” because the aesthetics of a creature and its marketability are most important.

I also chimed in with anecdotes about my own experience with a large breed of dog in a small apartment, and the pitfalls of working for much of the day while a large and energetic dog becomes bored at home. He remained obstinate about his desire for a high-cost, very large dog, just as I would remain obstinate about how bad an idea it is.

Different minds, differing opinions.

I’m over my own concerns about providing enough behavioral discipline to raise healthy, well-adjusted pets. Instead, I find myself researching immunotherapy and the cost of that versus being forced to give up all physical activity due to severely constrained breathing passages and remaining as distant as possible. Or, the cost of providing for their first year of life and giving them up to a different home versus my own needs. Cost is an easy problem.

It begins to feel like I’m the father who buys possessions for his children and ships them off to boarding school instead of providing them with simple affection.

The coworker’s become enamored with the adoption of a pure-bred Husky or Malamute, and just invested an hour into researching available puppies in this area. They range in price from $500 to $1000.

But I also spent that hour trying to convince him that a $500 pure-bred puppy is likely to be adopted, whereas the many animals at the human society and shelters, not to mention the hordes of them posted on Craigslist and elsewhere as “FREE TO GOOD HOME,” are probably on more shaky ground, and that a mixed breed dog is no less capable of providing whatever it is he’s looking for in a pet.

He says, “But you can’t show them,” because the aesthetics of a creature and its marketability are most important.

I also chimed in with anecdotes about my own experience with a large breed of dog in a small apartment, and the pitfalls of working for much of the day while a large and energetic dog becomes bored at home. He remained obstinate about his desire for a high-cost, very large dog, just as I would remain obstinate about how bad an idea it is.

Different minds, differing opinions.

I’m over my own concerns about providing enough behavioral discipline to raise healthy, well-adjusted pets. Instead, I find myself researching immunotherapy and the cost of that versus being forced to give up all physical activity due to severely constrained breathing passages and remaining as distant as possible. Or, the cost of providing for their first year of life and giving them up to a different home versus my own needs. Cost is an easy problem.

It begins to feel like I’m the father who buys possessions for his children and ships them off to boarding school instead of providing them with simple affection.

There was the one time, recently, where someone was talking to me about dreams and wonderful pies and things, and she kept on and on when we could have been eating or hiking or fucking or something, so I punched her square in her arm, right at the termination of the bicep valley, although not hard enough to be anything more than playful.

Instead of bitching about being punched she turned and smiled and kicked me in the shin, again in the context of play, and it was understood that although I am a man with dreams and hopes and fears and great potential and imperfections, I am a man of reality and the tangible, so instead of talking about wonderfully florid dreams I need to do things or be silent or go off and write about all the beautiful stuff that I can never speak of but consider and ponder to their everlasting death.