Tag: women

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.

Busted knee, girl

Busted knee, girl, hanging over the edge of the bed. I forgot to turn off the heater that’s been costing me a few dozen nice dinners with wine. Reminders of the usual: beautiful asses and hips, the mellow rhythm ofwhatever with a distinct lack of passion. Too quick to indifference for my commitment tastes. Reading up on public sex and, wham, a reminder of B’s fantasy. A hand between her thighs at dinner followed by a forceful fuck against the side of the car. “When you’re 18, and only if I never hear talk about this ever again.” I made no plans. When I fly it’s on a whim because costs are high these days due to fuel. ______’s expensive. I never plan to drive to the field and take a Cessna out, but when I do, it’s the highlight of that week. California is a dry, brittle landscape, marked by stark striations for mountain ranges. It’s looks as dust on my windshield. Oregon is softer, more green. The mountains roll and it’s like the sweeping cinematic shots of Canada and Alaska. I look forward to my time in the air over Vancouver. The Pacific coast is my kingdom. I saw a photo of a gorgeous Indian girl the other day and didn’t reblog, because an ethereal model’s photo is my artifact but a person’s photo has a sacred air to it. I settle for hearts. I don’t settle for this. She’ll get a call for a walk around downtown. “Your place.” Calls are for arrangements. My charm is leveraged for filthy lucre, red swell. My thumb and fingers are pincers; her eyes, glass; my heart, broken; the world, simple; my name, once more.

Busted knee, girl

Busted knee, girl, hanging over the edge of the bed. I forgot to turn off the heater that’s been costing me a few dozen nice dinners with wine. Reminders of the usual: beautiful asses and hips, the mellow rhythm ofwhatever with a distinct lack of passion. Too quick to indifference for my commitment tastes. Reading up on public sex and, wham, a reminder of B’s fantasy. A hand between her thighs at dinner followed by a forceful fuck against the side of the car. “When you’re 18, and only if I never hear talk about this ever again.” I made no plans. When I fly it’s on a whim because costs are high these days due to fuel. ______’s expensive. I never plan to drive to the field and take a Cessna out, but when I do, it’s the highlight of that week. California is a dry, brittle landscape, marked by stark striations for mountain ranges. It’s looks as dust on my windshield. Oregon is softer, more green. The mountains roll and it’s like the sweeping cinematic shots of Canada and Alaska. I look forward to my time in the air over Vancouver. The Pacific coast is my kingdom. I saw a photo of a gorgeous Indian girl the other day and didn’t reblog, because an ethereal model’s photo is my artifact but a person’s photo has a sacred air to it. I settle for hearts. I don’t settle for this. She’ll get a call for a walk around downtown. “Your place.” Calls are for arrangements. My charm is leveraged for filthy lucre, red swell. My thumb and fingers are pincers; her eyes, glass; my heart, broken; the world, simple; my name, once more.

The past

The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.

The past

The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.

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

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.”