Month: August 2005

Woman I Never Quite Met

I didn’t know her. I didn’t really want to know her. It was the idea of her that pulled me in.

***

Times
I forget
Of times I slept
Dreaming of amber trees and lightly hooded thieves
Who crept through the ice like so many
of the things I want.

Some things are too good to be exposed,
like the embers hidden
or the curve of your hips,
making me wonder
if you taste like toffee
or maybe
you’ll look as pretty
as i think I might
picture you might
be.

I could say I know hunger
I’ve cut myself on it,
teethed with it until my
adult teeth grew in.

I’ve let it slumber inside me,
fearing that stirring it
might drive it to drain me from
the inside, consuming me until
I let it feed on the skin of my favorite
person of the moment, or maybe
I can just hold it against the wall
and take it, in a pressing of flesh
or maybe its you, I’m holding.

August

This is the beginning. The highly efficient divestiture and distribution of food, board games, alcohol, and personal belongs. Lining up the Malibu rum, pineapple juice, port, Berringer white zin, cheap amaretto, desert wines that taste like grapefruit, Jaggermeister, and a veritable army of beer bottles. Dead soldiers will replace those sent off to perform their duty, and a glass graveyard will stand in place within just one week. The first cigarettes are smoked on the deck.

This is love. Watching NE dance with her husband to Spiderbait’s Black Betty; she stands on the coffee table as the music makes her free and she sheds clothes until she has been reduced to the essentials, the beat riding her hard and bringing her closer to her husband who stands in front of her like an open and closed doorway, dressed only in swimming trunks that can be zipped into a pocket and a cowboy hat that looks oddly appropriate.

This is serenity. Skinny dipping on a hot August night with five of your best friends. Fish nibble at your calves as you drift along on your back; the chorus of crickets and the pinpoints of stars overhead provide context for the moment (time is thin here, and the warm embrace of the water is dangerously comforting).

This is lust. Hands on SB’s waist as she presses along NE’s back. Feeling NE through SB, through the rhythmic pressure of thighs along thighs and something deeper, something more…more because it is the wanting of it, the wanting more of it, that makes it feel so very fucking good.

These are the moments in between. The card playing, the book hiding, the wine splashing, the trampoline wrestling, the fish saving, the long discussions about crippled brothers, traffic, balls (size), C sharp, threesomes, and being controlled from behind; the languid days that are so correctly similar that they blur like an out of focus movie reel until they make one long continuous ribbon of memories.

This is vacation.

Sleep Slut

O sleep,
blessed is your embrace.
though fickle can your affections be,
I remain, as always,
your disciple.

***

I am such a slut for sleep.

I know a lot of people who see more then six hours of sleep as a waste. They mock my complaints when some activity requires me to forgo a few hours of sleep. To be honest, I am not sure why I need eight hours of sleep; I believe it is because I abuse my conscious mind so much that it requires several REM states just to stretch and work out all the kinks my active mind busily creates.

But it matters not why. I am content to just adore sleep and not question my affections for her.

I love waking up gradually and stretching luxuriously in bed as consciousness slips in like an old lover, inhabiting my limbs once more.

I love the feeling that comes with waking up too early and then finding out that, for one reason or another, I get another half hour or so of sleep. I greedily draw those minutes to me, all the more precious because they shouldn’t be there.

Give me eight or nine hours of sleep every night and I can handle anything. Angry, frustrated co-workers become people who just need subtle nudges in the right direction to succeed. Cat-ravaged curtains become an excuse to buy something in a deeper shade of green. Bumper-to-bumper traffic becomes a way to catch up on the intriguing audio book I am in the midst of listening to. Harsh criticism becomes creative critiquing. Broken processes become puzzles of efficiency. Proposals become a game of wordcrafting. Bratty submissives become convenient excuses to practice innovated spanking techniques.

As the narrator says in Fight Club: I become the calm, little center of the world. I become a Zen Master.

With just six or seven hours of sleep, I become…a normal human being. With less then six hours of sleep…bad things happen. Mogwai eating after midnight-like bad things.

I haven’t been getting much sleep the last few days. But – as of tomorrow, I am off to a lake house for a week. I plan to get a lot of sleep. And then I plan to use my calm little center to toss stones into the gentle tranquility of others. Ripples can be so much fun. Especially when they have affects unexpected by those who think they know better.

Light in the Dark

I have always had a fascination with Edgar Allen Poe; his short stories and poetry have a consistent air of morbidity that appeals to my darker half. It was a horror short story that got me accepted at the college I went to, and it was the narrator of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ that conversed with users as part of my artificial intelligence senior project that got me my degree.

This was written several years ago – my Edgar story.

***

Some would call the view a gift: long streams of crimson and gold meeting a horizon carved by the ridge of mountains to the west; the rolling surf, crests of white atop of a blue to make the sky jealous; miniature ships that grow to belong to this world, drawn into shore by a swath of light.

Yes, some would call this view a treasure.

I call it hell.

Truly, there is nothing worse than a cage with a view of paradise. I feel no shame in admitting my hunger for that gold, the need to catch the blood in the ski as the sun sets. I can not deny my desperate yearning to rush into the grip of the ocean.

And this desperation grows until you feel that brittle point, twisted by time and hunger into a fine knot pulled tight enough to vanish into something more than solid. You begin to realize that the one thing worse than being in a cage with a view of paradise is the hate that turns paradise into something darker, something that begs for purification.

Oh, they thought they were clever. Lock him up where he can watch that ocean that he loves so much. Let him watch the ships, the ones he used to sail, come into port under the blazing white gaze of his home. Lock him up, lock him away from the ocean that was his!

But they are not that clever by half. Ha! And soon it shall be shown just how truthful that is. When I darken their lives much as they stole mine.

I move my fingers, like threads of silver through the molasses night to touch the rim of the lighthouse cage. Fool-proof they thought. The light hidden from my touch, locked to protect those toy ships out there. And fool-proof it might be; but I am no fool. The time has come for me to show them how wrong they were.

Rolling up the cuffs of my shirt, exposing soft white to the touch of darkness. Laying bare my skin, I place the edge of the razorblade along my wrist and slit carefully. A well of crimson quickly rose and spread across the skin, destroying all semblance of what might have been truthful in flesh. Quickly – and yet carefully again – I repeat this along my other wrist.

Intent on my purpose, what pain is felt quickly passes into gleeful anticipation of my moment. I place my slit wrists over the top of the lens encasement and watch the blood drip down upon it, pooling at the top. Slowly, the blood found its ways through the cracks and into the encasement itself. I watch the blood slide down, washing over the lens. The light, that light! darkened with the lens, blood coating destroying life as the light shrank in halves, quarters, an eclipse, until…until…

…the light went out.

Seeking :

Trying to define the perfect submissive would be like trying to objectively decide the single best flavor of ice cream. Because everyone has different tastes, it is just not possible. I can't tell you what makes the perfect submissive. But I can tell you what I enjoy. If I were to write an ad looking for a submissive (and no, I'm not actually looking), it would go something like this:

***

Seeking:Ready

Intelligent, sweet, witty, whimsical, content with simple sacrifices and offerings made in her name such as poetry whispered in the dark;

worships in a glance, sings in the shower, walks in the rain;

unafraid of words and what they mean, gets caught up in an idea, a voice, a moment, devious, stubborn, beautifully self-absorbed, divinely giving;

as desperate in her hunger as she is coy in the chase, petulant and bratty, intensely driven, wildly exploring, somewhat domesticated, submissive.