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I am starting this, not quite knowing if I'll continue it. I don't even know if I'll ever let anyone else know about it. Maybe not even my new lover, the one who consumes my soul and my heart with new relationship energy right now.
I hope the energy, the swoopy filling feeling lasts forever. I know that it will not, but still I hope.
He brought me here. He shared his January with me and my heart swelled with the loving trust he gave me. He is inside of me.
I want to be inside of him forever.
Today I told some coworkers that I have two lovers. One of them asked me if I was leaning toward one or the other. I smiled at them, and told them I did not have to settle for just one. That they had the freedom to choose to stay with me, or to go, but I need make no choice.
It was a flip response, but a real one.
In my heart, though, I fear. I fear that one of them will choose to go and his going will occur while I am filled with need for him.
An arc of silver sliced the air, vibrating molecules with its passage, whispering in her ears with cutting sibilance.
I always was fairly florid when it came to fantasy writing. I always longed to be a fantasy author.
I wonder what happened to that dream. The girl who had it seems to have been replaced by someone who has become too busy to dream these sorts of dreams.
Perhaps it is because she is living a lot of the dreams she once had. Not in a fantasy landscape, no, but she is the woman of her dreams.
So one co-worker who thinks traditionally keeps telling me I should at least find someone local. "For those times when you want to go to the movies. And then you'll be more likely to settle down. Don't you want to settle down?"
I am settled down. And I am not limited to romantic dates when it comes to doing things like going to the movies, going out to dinner. This mindset, that a woman must have a husband, it boggles me.
Never mind all that: I love my two men. I do not lack. Why would I want more?
Last night I went out with the neighbors to see a play. This was one in a series of plays put on by a multi-city theatrical production company. They're based in one city to the south of us, but perform here as well. Six plays per season. These neighbors and I have been season subscribers for more than fifteen years. I lost count.
We've seen great, mediocre and awful plays. Last night's had some good comical moments, was well acted and terrific scenery but, frankly, I found most of the story it told and the writing fairly boring.
I've been watching kissing on tv shows. Every guy I've ever kissed approaches it differently and I have always followed the guy's lead, kissing him back the way he kisses me.
A number of years ago there was some movie, I forget the name and plot, staring Vin Diesel. All I remember about it was how he kissed. He started out with his mouth open in an "O" shape, like a fish that had a hook. It kind of ooged me out. I would not like to be kissed that way. What if we got stuck in the mutual suction?
He watched her fingers dance idly on the table top. "It's only for two nights," he said.
Her fingers froze. "That's supposed to make it okay? 'Oh, it's only two nights, so, sure, just go ahead!'" Her mimicry of him stung. "Fuck your two nights. And fuck you!"
The chair clattered to the pavement and heads turned as she pushed back and up and strode away from him, her glass of wine untouched. He was grateful she hadn't thought to douse him with it.
He was about to call for the check, when he heard the squeal and the thud.
Him, flicking his eyes at me like that. Made me feel annoyed and queasy at the same time. And there's this belief I have that if you meet their gaze, even if you think you're scalding them with your disgust, they figure it's a challenge.
Why let it bother me? Dunno, except I've taken such a dislike to him it seems like a personal insult that he'd flick his eyes at me. Like that. Insults can have a power over me, sometimes. And men. From way back, when a man I disliked wanted me, the insult I felt had power.
It could be considered futile, and perhaps to someone on the outside it appears that way.
It could also be considered a waste of time, and even to someone on the inside, it undoubtedly is.
There are many other things, far more entertaining things, a person could do with her time, after all.
The entertainment value is all it has going for it.
That, and the hubris that it displays for all to see just how quick, clever, witty, and bright I am.
In the end, however, it remains simply troll baiting. Facebook. Yesterday's Usenet come back to life.
You look at the folder on his desk as you walk in. You see your name on the tab. He holds up one finger and continues conversing on the phone but you don't hear the words because you're too busy looking at the folder.
You don't know why he summoned you. You're just an assembler. He heads the department and people say he only sees people who are about to be sacked. The folder looms.
He hangs up at last, flips open the folder, smiles, and says, "Contratulations, line supervisor!" He's holding out his hand for you to shake.
My lover is en route to me, taking a day off of work in spite of desiring to focus on improving his career track. He wants to spend more time loving me in the sunshine. I will be naked, stretched upon the chaise, sun caressing my skin and he will touch me, taste me, cover me with his hands, his lips, his body. When he enters me I will arch against him, pulling him deeper into me, muffling my cries as I bury my face into his neck. He will be a strong beam of hot sun filling me up.
You. Of course this is about you. It's about you as you live within me, being so deeply a part of me.
This ought to go without saying, because it's been evident for some time. And yet, it should be said. Needs to be said. Because saying it is enveloped in ages old magic of saying something to make it manifest.
You add depth to who I am. You, who are an extension of me in so many ways, bring an added dimension. It is not for this that I love you. I love you, because you are you.
This is an end to a wonderful weekend. It's merely a taste of many more amazing times to come.
It really is that simple.
Which is why I can't be sad at our parting.
I was going to write a story, but have run out of time to properly craft one. And on this, the eve of the "anniversary" of our first face-to-face, I am more at peace with who we are than I have been.
He gave me that gift, by opening to me, by sharing with me, without fear of causing me hurt.
That cements it.
Your job puts the bacon in the larder, but that isn't your life's work.
Your job provides, or could provide, sufficient challenge, but that isn't where your heart is.
Sit you down. Do not be afraid. Do not think of the whole. Just write one word, and then another. What you would pour into a blog should instead become the inner turmoil of your protagonist. Do this in the cracks and corners of your days. Keep a notepad for it. Write the story, not the blog. Worry about piecing it together to fit your theme later.
You could not see light through the contents of the glass, the brew was that dark, that heavy.
When I sniffed at the rich foam, a notion of licorice, or chocolate, or maybe it was both, formed in my head. He nodded approval, because apparently what I did instinctively was exactly the way a connoisseur is supposed to approach these things.
I sipped. Bitter bite exploded, leaving behind streamers of coffee, followed by a waft of chocolate, ending in a smoky inky blackness that was indescribable and just right.
Stuff like this, I'd probably almost like beer, innit.
It's one of those miracles, those unexplained things, she thought. She could not remember the pain. She knew it had existed. She knew it had been unlivable for a time. Yet, she could not bring to mind what it had been like. Only the merest ghost of it moaned in her memories.
The miracle, though, was not forgetting the pain, but was that she could remember and relive in exquisite detail every last scent, sound, and sensation of what followed the time of pain.
A small floppy bundle lying burritoed and nestled in her arms suckled her breast.
How odd it had been for me to come from 88 degree sunshine on the weekend in my beloved desert to cold and clammy East Coast weather. The landscape looked barren -- I guess I didn't expect lush green trees coming out of winter, but the starkness of the bare trees and brown ground struck me and depressed me.
Overnight, though, the chill departed, the sun graced the earth, and corpse-like trees sprang into bloom with fluffy white or pink blossoms.
My spirits lifted, and everywhere I looked, the previously drab and dour people also sprang into smile filled bloom.
I knew, even as I picked off chunks of the delicious chewy bread that I was overindulging.
I knew, even as I took another bite, squishing the mound of sliced ham together with the peppers, tomatoes, onions, lettuce together in vain hope I could fit it into my mouth without spilling.
The bread had been sprinkled liberally with oil and vinegar and the meat and condiments salted and peppered. The bread could not hold all of the ingredients.
It was a delicacy, a local treat, a must-have for the area.
One more bite ... but later that night, agony.
She could not have been older than 15, yet I saw no adults checking on her. Her Asian looks probably contributed to her childlike features, and she giggled, squealed and clapped as she watched images of herself on her laptop screen.
Her beauty, slenderness,stylish mode of dress, and the logos adorning her clothing and gear, plus the photo shoots on her screen made it clear that she was a model.
And the way in which she re-applied her makeup just before landing -- a skilled mason could not have wielded a trowel as rapidly, as deftly as she.
This is what I come home to.
"You're here! It's really you! You were gone forever and ever and I was so sad, but now you're here. It's a miracle! Let me kiss you, let me sniff you, oh my god it's really you!
"See, I've brought my ball so you can throw it! Look, I brought this toy too see how I squeak it for you? Squeak! Squeak! I will give you my belly to rub, this is my gift to you. Oh, a miracle you are home for me again! You were lost to me forever.
The stranger was impossibly tall. She'd encountered tall beings before, but this one, it didn't seem like any others. He was not shaped right. Too many limbs, in wrong places. Completely hair covered, again unlike anything she knew. Sparse, spiny hairs sprouting from all but the lower region and ...
He had only hairless leg! The leg looked chewed, covered with holes.
She backed away, alarmed yet curious. She could not stop staring.
As she considered her next move -- attack? -- she found her decision made for her.
Mom tugged the leash and she had no choice but to follow.
"I don't get it Dad. Show me again."
The man smiled, wiping his wet cheek. He loved this big, galumphing boy. He wished he could spend more time with him, but, things being what they were, he should be happy he even got this much. He suspected neither boy was getting enough time and attention. No walks. He thought again about maybe taking ...
... but no. He had no space. It wouldn't be fair. And she would, well, best not go there.
"Okay, kiddo. Look over here. Smile. Like this."
Tongue lolling out the side, perfect.
"I love you, Dad."
"You're a Princess!" Wide blue eyes registered surprise, delight at the transformation. "I'll be a Princess too!"
Kyra adjusted the crystal-studded bodice of her gown for the umpteenth time and smiled at her little flower girl, the child she'd practically raised while the girl's mother attended to her socials and shopping.
"Yes, Peapod, you'll be a Princess today, too. Princess Peapod!"
Kyra remembered last night. Post-bachelor party. She'd protested laughingly; he's not supposed to see the bride and all. Something unexpected, dark, moved last night.
She adjusted the bodice again, hoping it would cover the bruises.
"I could starve if it were not for popcorn." He meant it as whimsical, lighthearted, and she laughed. Inside she shuddered. He's manic. He decides he has to finish some very important project and pushes himself, pushes, forgoing sleep to get it done. Doesn't stop to fix food, just pops a bag into the microwave a couple times a day. Or scoops a bowl of ice cream. Then returns to the project.
The project? It varies. This week's project is cleaning and organizing his house. Sure, it needs it, but not with such obsessive dedication.
On the eve of her tenth birthday, she dreamed him.
That day she found blood in her panties; her belly twisted in pain. From that day she learned that when he appeared in her dreams she would bleed.
He was a stranger but she came to know him. At first he was old, like her father. As she grew into her womanhood, she realized he was not so old after all. He became less like a father. Their intimacy grew.
On the eve of her 21st birthday, he took her.
That day, the sky turned to fire; the world ended.
They come unbidden, hazy across the year, but hot-engraved in my heart.
Mostly it's the eyes, looking at my face with interest, and, as the day wore on, with something else. Expectation? Excitement? The sharpest memory concerns sitting on that hillock in the sunshine, strains of Hawaiian music and chatter filling the air. We were side by side, not touching, but we could have. Glancing to my left, seeing again the steady gaze, that glint of something else.
I felt the smile more than I saw it.
It was a wonderful happy smile; I wanted to see it more.
It's a classic reaction. You've seen it. You've seen it done on TV shows and probably in real life. The shy young woman being struck dumb in the presence of the handsome, athletic, cool guy, but having the most painful crush on him.
That was me. Pure stereotype.
And if the hot guy noticed the shy girl, OMG she'd die because she was not worthy of his attention!
Here's a secret: I'm still a little bit that girl. Every so often I have to pull myself up short because I go there.
See, to me, you are that guy.
"Anyway those dance costumes were quite revealing so I had no choice but to wax and let me tell you it was not pleasant! You can imagine my disgust because oh my gawd I about slapped Carl when he suggested I make that a regular treatment, as if I would endure pain for his pleasure! It's for my art, as you can well understand ... "
I glanced across the table as we listened to her prattle. As if on cue, he rolled his eyes back up into his head. I kicked, he yelped.
Lynn noticed nothing. "So told him that ..."
You sneer lightly. "They're just ... not as good as you and I." That is uncharitable. You read through them again, and this time what speaks to you, suddenly, is not the self-absorbed angst-dribble of the experienced, but rather the practice work of the young, the less accomplished, the hope-filled.
In this new light, you read yet again and find good things -- rough, uncut gems.
No one need ever even cut, polish or set them. You realize the purpose is to spill them, spread them, run fingers through them. In doing this, everyone has opportunity to progress.
You, more than anyone in my life, are bringing words back to me. Once I hungered to be a writer and so I wrote. Words came; giving them structure and purpose was joy.
That faded, until now, and now it's you who are giving me this gift.
Why you? Why not another? Why not me simply finding it?
It's because your love for it is central to who you are, and who you are -- what you love -- has come to matter so much to me. The challenge of writing for you has overtaken the ennui of writing only for me.
The question took her by surprise.
"What do you think of Lacerta de Bouchard?" He was not facing her, his downward gaze unfocused, nervousness evident in stance as well as in the sudden use of his pseudonym.
What does she think of him? What does she think of diamond hot stars studding black velvet nights? What does she think of mountain breezes, of the sweet explosion of ripe peaches against a parched tongue? What does she think of him?
"I think, uh, you ... you're like I imagined ... I mean ..."
Major fail. Slit my wrists now, she thought, heart thudding.
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