Friday, November 30, 2007
curly toes
I sat in the guard office of the Mall, drinking coffee with Alec, the Mall Security Chief. We watched through the glass as hundreds of customers made their way down the hall to the restrooms scattered along its length.“When you first opened I thought that was the stupidest thing I have ever heard of; Private Mall Foot Massage," Alec said, leaning back and taking a sip of his cheap, 'guard house' coffee. "I gave you a month. Now look at you; have to dress in a security guard uniform to keep your identity secret. The whole ‘mystery man’ foot massage thing is brilliant. The women are lined up out the door of your place.”
“It’s relaxing and stimulating for the ladies," I said. "But also intimate; so I decided to stay hidden in the booth. It’s less threatening. I know some of the ladies like to fantasize about the man who is rubbing their feet, ankles and calves; so the ‘Mystery Man’ can be whomever they wish.”
“All I see is a crowd of women lined up to pay you two bucks a minute, in five or ten-minute increments. You should be ready to retire in a year. How do your hands take it?”Alec looked over at my hands, it didn’t bother me anymore when people stared. I have large hands, large by any standards and coke-can wrists to go with them. Genetics and farm work when I was growing up. That’s the only explanation I’ve ever settled on.“It’s not bad; I can do it all day. It’s relaxing.”“Wouldn’t relax me, I’ve seen some of those gals lined up. My God...”“I never look at any of my customers. All I see are their feet, ankles and calves.”“I don’t see how you do it, I love all women, all shapes and sizes; I just love women. But, some of those lining up are so beautiful they make my heart weep. You’re lucky you don’t see them.”“I’m even luckier they don’t see me. Well, thanks Alec, I appreciate you letting me hang out here. See you at lunch.”“I don’t mind buddy; I just wish you’d give up some details about those gals. I know they talk while you're rubbing them.”
“Come on Alec, they would not like it if I start revealing their secrets. It’s ‘Mystery Man Private Foot Massage’; the ‘private’ is part of my success.”I walked along the back service corridors of the Mall. They run the whole length of the structure, and the shoppers never see them. The back door to the stores can be found along their length. I wore a security guard uniform so no one would ever figure out ‘who was rubbing them, giving them pleasure, fueling their inner fires.Alec said I could have frolicked with a different lady every night. Some dreams should remain just dreams.I slipped in the back door to the foot massage salon. It led directly through a tunnel into my massage area. The front portion of the store was open, with a reception counter and dozens of plants. Real plants, replaced monthly by a plant service. They were always green, lush and colorful. The walls were delicate pastels whose restrained hues were broken by art chosen to set a mood. Mostly oils of men and women dancing. Tuxedo’s, flowing gowns and joyous movement. Nothing else for sale, a few comfortable leather couches and chairs, and my receptionist slash cashier. She kept my identity secret, though she’d been offered scandalous sums to reveal it.It was an open area; a ‘horrible waste of retail space’ I’d been told. A small glass cubicle sat in the middle, towards the back. A thickly cushioned recliner sat inside with an opening to slip your feet and lower legs into. A remote seat adjusting panel was mounted on a swing arm next to the recliner. It featured 30 different adjustments to get you into any comfortable position you desired. The sounds of a light rain meandered softly through the sound system. Once inside, the glass door was closed and you could hear none of the bustling mall activity going on just a few feet away.Back where I worked, was a computer monitor which showed the number of minutes the customer had paid for, a silent digital timer, lightly warmed scented oils and my chair which could be rolled around and out of the way for the finale. The customer saw a screen on which the days poem was frozen, they saw their legs disappear into a black hole, surrounded by soft woolen cushion and nothing else.A pair of feet entered through the opening into my domain, and I glanced at the screen. Fifteen minutes, a long time regular. I recognized her feet. When I had first opened, I had a twenty-minute option and a ten-minute option, but complaints rolled in like angry thunderclouds, and I printed a voting card. I allowed everyone to vote for the five and ten-minute option; or leave everything as-is. The vote finished nearly unanimous in favor of the shortened times. I allowed a couple of the long-time customers to have the fifteen-minute option; but I didn’t advertise it. They were among my first customers, and their feet had developed a special relationship with me.I dipped my hands in a bowl of warm jasmine scented oil and gently gripped her left foot. The foot’s owner gave a soft moan as I began working the oil between her toes.“Hello mystery man,” she said. “I dream about you. You know that. Just a hint, what do you look like?”“Who do you want me to look like?”“Let’s not do that again,” she said, letting out a soft moan as I rolled both thumbs along the underside of her foot. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”“You said you wanted me to look like Johnny Depp, and I told you; I have been mistaken for him. I have that same mischievous turn of the mouth.” I said this as I rubbed the warm oil along the underside of her calves, and my fingers worked it into the large calf muscle.
“It’s relaxing and stimulating for the ladies," I said. "But also intimate; so I decided to stay hidden in the booth. It’s less threatening. I know some of the ladies like to fantasize about the man who is rubbing their feet, ankles and calves; so the ‘Mystery Man’ can be whomever they wish.”
“All I see is a crowd of women lined up to pay you two bucks a minute, in five or ten-minute increments. You should be ready to retire in a year. How do your hands take it?”Alec looked over at my hands, it didn’t bother me anymore when people stared. I have large hands, large by any standards and coke-can wrists to go with them. Genetics and farm work when I was growing up. That’s the only explanation I’ve ever settled on.“It’s not bad; I can do it all day. It’s relaxing.”“Wouldn’t relax me, I’ve seen some of those gals lined up. My God...”“I never look at any of my customers. All I see are their feet, ankles and calves.”“I don’t see how you do it, I love all women, all shapes and sizes; I just love women. But, some of those lining up are so beautiful they make my heart weep. You’re lucky you don’t see them.”“I’m even luckier they don’t see me. Well, thanks Alec, I appreciate you letting me hang out here. See you at lunch.”“I don’t mind buddy; I just wish you’d give up some details about those gals. I know they talk while you're rubbing them.”
“Come on Alec, they would not like it if I start revealing their secrets. It’s ‘Mystery Man Private Foot Massage’; the ‘private’ is part of my success.”I walked along the back service corridors of the Mall. They run the whole length of the structure, and the shoppers never see them. The back door to the stores can be found along their length. I wore a security guard uniform so no one would ever figure out ‘who was rubbing them, giving them pleasure, fueling their inner fires.Alec said I could have frolicked with a different lady every night. Some dreams should remain just dreams.I slipped in the back door to the foot massage salon. It led directly through a tunnel into my massage area. The front portion of the store was open, with a reception counter and dozens of plants. Real plants, replaced monthly by a plant service. They were always green, lush and colorful. The walls were delicate pastels whose restrained hues were broken by art chosen to set a mood. Mostly oils of men and women dancing. Tuxedo’s, flowing gowns and joyous movement. Nothing else for sale, a few comfortable leather couches and chairs, and my receptionist slash cashier. She kept my identity secret, though she’d been offered scandalous sums to reveal it.It was an open area; a ‘horrible waste of retail space’ I’d been told. A small glass cubicle sat in the middle, towards the back. A thickly cushioned recliner sat inside with an opening to slip your feet and lower legs into. A remote seat adjusting panel was mounted on a swing arm next to the recliner. It featured 30 different adjustments to get you into any comfortable position you desired. The sounds of a light rain meandered softly through the sound system. Once inside, the glass door was closed and you could hear none of the bustling mall activity going on just a few feet away.Back where I worked, was a computer monitor which showed the number of minutes the customer had paid for, a silent digital timer, lightly warmed scented oils and my chair which could be rolled around and out of the way for the finale. The customer saw a screen on which the days poem was frozen, they saw their legs disappear into a black hole, surrounded by soft woolen cushion and nothing else.A pair of feet entered through the opening into my domain, and I glanced at the screen. Fifteen minutes, a long time regular. I recognized her feet. When I had first opened, I had a twenty-minute option and a ten-minute option, but complaints rolled in like angry thunderclouds, and I printed a voting card. I allowed everyone to vote for the five and ten-minute option; or leave everything as-is. The vote finished nearly unanimous in favor of the shortened times. I allowed a couple of the long-time customers to have the fifteen-minute option; but I didn’t advertise it. They were among my first customers, and their feet had developed a special relationship with me.I dipped my hands in a bowl of warm jasmine scented oil and gently gripped her left foot. The foot’s owner gave a soft moan as I began working the oil between her toes.“Hello mystery man,” she said. “I dream about you. You know that. Just a hint, what do you look like?”“Who do you want me to look like?”“Let’s not do that again,” she said, letting out a soft moan as I rolled both thumbs along the underside of her foot. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”“You said you wanted me to look like Johnny Depp, and I told you; I have been mistaken for him. I have that same mischievous turn of the mouth.” I said this as I rubbed the warm oil along the underside of her calves, and my fingers worked it into the large calf muscle.
Creation Love
This is not cold,
but a hot breathy kiss on my body and soul.
Melting my wits.
Preparing to soften and harden what fits.
This is not scorn,
but a trick of your mouth for my lust to be born.
Words of mock dirt,
which untie a secret and never do hurt.
This is not anger,
but a longing to fall from the heights of this rigor.
Wanting to drop,
into bliss on your skin and never to stop.
This is not pain,
but the rise of wet honey which runs through my veins.
A taste by your flesh,
and spilled by the push of the loveliest quest.
but a hot breathy kiss on my body and soul.
Melting my wits.
Preparing to soften and harden what fits.
This is not scorn,
but a trick of your mouth for my lust to be born.
Words of mock dirt,
which untie a secret and never do hurt.
This is not anger,
but a longing to fall from the heights of this rigor.
Wanting to drop,
into bliss on your skin and never to stop.
This is not pain,
but the rise of wet honey which runs through my veins.
A taste by your flesh,
and spilled by the push of the loveliest quest.
Encounter...
Unexpected destined meetingUnclothed option ocean shoreFathoms deep in foam between themPrince of passion, Mermaid whore
Black horizon fast approachingStorm without and storm within Tempest building, vessels swayingCold wind rippling lovers skin
Standing, facing, there before herNaked, reaching, growing sizeVisual licks, two points of focusStark impaling eager eyes
Winds approaching fever pitchRocking, ravished female formThunder crashing, bodies swayingTwo so hungry for the warm
Lightening flashing, illuminatingHidden chamber in the rocksSeeking shelter from the storm and toPandora's awaiting box
Bodies falling, tumbling, tanglingupon the grottos sandy floorPrince of passion, arms surroundingWarming flesh with thoughts of more
Viscous liquids, boiling, pressurefleshy heat, skin drenched with fireSeeking, restless, eager, upward As salmon swimming toward expire
Sounds of Eros, gasping, crying,Thunder crashing, rain, the windUnwritten symphony long awaitingLovers destined to begin
Black horizon fast approachingStorm without and storm within Tempest building, vessels swayingCold wind rippling lovers skin
Standing, facing, there before herNaked, reaching, growing sizeVisual licks, two points of focusStark impaling eager eyes
Winds approaching fever pitchRocking, ravished female formThunder crashing, bodies swayingTwo so hungry for the warm
Lightening flashing, illuminatingHidden chamber in the rocksSeeking shelter from the storm and toPandora's awaiting box
Bodies falling, tumbling, tanglingupon the grottos sandy floorPrince of passion, arms surroundingWarming flesh with thoughts of more
Viscous liquids, boiling, pressurefleshy heat, skin drenched with fireSeeking, restless, eager, upward As salmon swimming toward expire
Sounds of Eros, gasping, crying,Thunder crashing, rain, the windUnwritten symphony long awaitingLovers destined to begin
Poets
Black birds against a grey sky,
we gather.
The flutter of our words rustle
over pages
penned in pain.
We speak not of the horrors
to one another,
letting discovery occur
if one examines
a poem feather,
dropped from
the wings of our past.
we gather.
The flutter of our words rustle
over pages
penned in pain.
We speak not of the horrors
to one another,
letting discovery occur
if one examines
a poem feather,
dropped from
the wings of our past.
A Birthday Surprise
So it's official, I'm now completely without balls!
What other explanation can there possibly be for standing outside my girlfriend’s apartment while she and her ex are both inside, doing God only knows what?
How else can I explain the overriding impulse to slink guiltily away, before somebody notices me lurking like a peeping Tom in the pre-dawn shadows?
It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t just felt the hood of his car; the cool surface providing evidence enough that it, and therefore he, have been here all night. I didn’t want to touch it; I knew I wouldn’t like the conclusiveness of my test, but still I looked on in helpless surprise as my arm reached out, hovered above and then came to rest on the metallic blue paintwork. I wish sometimes that we shared 99% of our DNA with ostriches rather than Chimps; it would make us more prone to bury our heads when faced with such unpalatable situations.
I think this whole debacle would hurt a little less if it weren’t her 24th birthday and, despite my meticulous forward planning, my chance of being the first person she sees today is now as deflated as my ego. But the worst thing of all? I’m standing here like a prize moron with a dozen roses in one hand and a shiny ‘Happy Birthday’ helium balloon in the other. I don’t think I could feel more vulnerable and stupid if I’d woken up to find I’d sleepwalked, naked, into the living room and the assembled ladies of my Mom’s book club. Again.
I’ve been planning Gina’s surprise breakfast in bed for weeks and this morning I woke at five a.m. to make sure everything went smoothly and my girl’s 25th year started off as I hoped it would continue, with me proving to her that I love her beyond measure. But this? This is an eventuality I hadn’t anticipated.
My stomach has been doing somersaults since I rounded the corner and saw his flashy little car parked in the street and now I’m shaking, too. The next thing I know I’ll start crying and, with the exception of growing a pair of pert 36 C’s, my transformation from ‘Danny’ to ‘Danielle’ will be complete. Although if I do grow some breasts they may prove useful, considering my luck with the ladies! I’m fairly certain that a man with his own boobs will never be bored. I don’t mean ‘man-boobs’ though, I mean proper girly-bumps. I can’t see ‘man-boobs’ generating more than a few days of fun.
What other explanation can there possibly be for standing outside my girlfriend’s apartment while she and her ex are both inside, doing God only knows what?
How else can I explain the overriding impulse to slink guiltily away, before somebody notices me lurking like a peeping Tom in the pre-dawn shadows?
It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t just felt the hood of his car; the cool surface providing evidence enough that it, and therefore he, have been here all night. I didn’t want to touch it; I knew I wouldn’t like the conclusiveness of my test, but still I looked on in helpless surprise as my arm reached out, hovered above and then came to rest on the metallic blue paintwork. I wish sometimes that we shared 99% of our DNA with ostriches rather than Chimps; it would make us more prone to bury our heads when faced with such unpalatable situations.
I think this whole debacle would hurt a little less if it weren’t her 24th birthday and, despite my meticulous forward planning, my chance of being the first person she sees today is now as deflated as my ego. But the worst thing of all? I’m standing here like a prize moron with a dozen roses in one hand and a shiny ‘Happy Birthday’ helium balloon in the other. I don’t think I could feel more vulnerable and stupid if I’d woken up to find I’d sleepwalked, naked, into the living room and the assembled ladies of my Mom’s book club. Again.
I’ve been planning Gina’s surprise breakfast in bed for weeks and this morning I woke at five a.m. to make sure everything went smoothly and my girl’s 25th year started off as I hoped it would continue, with me proving to her that I love her beyond measure. But this? This is an eventuality I hadn’t anticipated.
My stomach has been doing somersaults since I rounded the corner and saw his flashy little car parked in the street and now I’m shaking, too. The next thing I know I’ll start crying and, with the exception of growing a pair of pert 36 C’s, my transformation from ‘Danny’ to ‘Danielle’ will be complete. Although if I do grow some breasts they may prove useful, considering my luck with the ladies! I’m fairly certain that a man with his own boobs will never be bored. I don’t mean ‘man-boobs’ though, I mean proper girly-bumps. I can’t see ‘man-boobs’ generating more than a few days of fun.
The Mirror of Soul
My mind's eye, mirror to the soul,closed to the world.
No more does it cast reflections.
Darkened images of the past come to haunt. Are they real? Does the world care?
I look to my heart trying to capture past feelings, finding only shattered fragments of my former self.
I rearrange to find the mirror still cracked, a pale image I no longer resemble. Will it ever heal? Do I care to even try?
The tears, now dried, forever staining the canvas of my face. The colors have run,beyond the edge of the frame.
No more does it cast reflections.
Darkened images of the past come to haunt. Are they real? Does the world care?
I look to my heart trying to capture past feelings, finding only shattered fragments of my former self.
I rearrange to find the mirror still cracked, a pale image I no longer resemble. Will it ever heal? Do I care to even try?
The tears, now dried, forever staining the canvas of my face. The colors have run,beyond the edge of the frame.
An inch from bottom -2
I was impressed.
I can’t remember how long the whole process took, but I do remember imagining locks of my hair hitting the tile. They lay there looking like the thick, slimy worms we had recently dissected in biology class. Suddenly I realized there was an awful lot of hair piling up on the floor.
“Are you almost done?” I asked, attempting to mask my escalating alarm. The sound of snipping scissors was beginning to sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. I wanted her to stop cutting.
“Almost,” she said. “I just need to blow-dry and style a bit. Then we’ll have a whole new you.”
As I looked into the mirror at the wet stringy mop on top of my head, I wondered if my mother would recognize the “new me.” I didn’t even recognize myself. Thanks to this snip-happy stylist, my beautiful hair looked like a glob of wet noodles.
I avoided the mirror through the blow-dry and also while she used a whiskbroom to brush away the stray hairs from my face and neck. When the stylist had finally finished what she considered a masterpiece, I timidly opened my eyes. Did I look like Farrah Fawcett?
No way.
I looked more like Annette Funicello in a Mickey Mouse hat. All my beloved blonde streaks had disappeared. I’d never seen my hair so dark. It hung just above my shoulders. The top was layered, but the layers were so short that the hairs stuck straight up on top and straight out at my temples.
These days, I think that hairstyle is called a “mullet.” To me it was bad news and I felt like crying. I wanted to take the giant plastic bib from around my neck and throw it over my head, keeping it there until my hair grew back.
“Well?” chirped the stylist. “What do you think?”
I can’t remember how long the whole process took, but I do remember imagining locks of my hair hitting the tile. They lay there looking like the thick, slimy worms we had recently dissected in biology class. Suddenly I realized there was an awful lot of hair piling up on the floor.
“Are you almost done?” I asked, attempting to mask my escalating alarm. The sound of snipping scissors was beginning to sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. I wanted her to stop cutting.
“Almost,” she said. “I just need to blow-dry and style a bit. Then we’ll have a whole new you.”
As I looked into the mirror at the wet stringy mop on top of my head, I wondered if my mother would recognize the “new me.” I didn’t even recognize myself. Thanks to this snip-happy stylist, my beautiful hair looked like a glob of wet noodles.
I avoided the mirror through the blow-dry and also while she used a whiskbroom to brush away the stray hairs from my face and neck. When the stylist had finally finished what she considered a masterpiece, I timidly opened my eyes. Did I look like Farrah Fawcett?
No way.
I looked more like Annette Funicello in a Mickey Mouse hat. All my beloved blonde streaks had disappeared. I’d never seen my hair so dark. It hung just above my shoulders. The top was layered, but the layers were so short that the hairs stuck straight up on top and straight out at my temples.
These days, I think that hairstyle is called a “mullet.” To me it was bad news and I felt like crying. I wanted to take the giant plastic bib from around my neck and throw it over my head, keeping it there until my hair grew back.
“Well?” chirped the stylist. “What do you think?”
An Inch From the Bottom -1
Ever since the day a stylist at Andy’s Unisex Barber Shop said the words, “Let me do something wonderful with your hair,” I’ve had a deadly fear of getting my hair cut.
It was 1976, and I was a typically trendy teenager. When it came to my hair, I was eager to become a member of the Farrah Fawcett-Jones hairstyle club. We all wanted hair like Farrah, and my hair had the potential. It was long and thick with lots of natural curl. It had a variety of colors, different hues of brown, red and blonde, all mixed together. Never mind that I had as many zits as freckles on my face and a mouth full of braces. I had great hair. And the stylist at Andy’s was the first of a long string of one-haircut-stand beauticians to tell me so.
I remember sitting in her soft leather chair, watching in the mirror as she draped a giant plastic bib around my neck. A woman in the chair next to me was flipping frantically through magazines, complaining that none of the styles was right for her. “Everything looks too young,” she said. “Not everyone wants to look like one of Charlie’s Angels!”
I couldn’t believe the coincidence.
“So, what do you have in mind?” asked the stylist while she combed through my hair with her fingers. I felt her long, sharp nails massaging my scalp and was tempted to ask her just to scratch my head for a while.
“Can you layer it a little?” I asked. (There was no way I was going to mention the name “Farrah” with this frustrated woman next to me still tearing through magazines.)
“Are you sure you want to go with layers?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I said. I was certain I needed a new look to make up for the rest of me.
And then the stylist said THE WORDS: “Why don’t you let me do something wonderful with your hair?” I had no idea that these words would soon become my personal Pavlovian prompter to say, “See you later,” find a brush and a rubber band, and organize my own follicles into a tight braid. Since I was trusting (and stupid), I nodded vigorously, excited about the possibility of being transformed into “something wonderful.”
It was 1976, and I was a typically trendy teenager. When it came to my hair, I was eager to become a member of the Farrah Fawcett-Jones hairstyle club. We all wanted hair like Farrah, and my hair had the potential. It was long and thick with lots of natural curl. It had a variety of colors, different hues of brown, red and blonde, all mixed together. Never mind that I had as many zits as freckles on my face and a mouth full of braces. I had great hair. And the stylist at Andy’s was the first of a long string of one-haircut-stand beauticians to tell me so.
I remember sitting in her soft leather chair, watching in the mirror as she draped a giant plastic bib around my neck. A woman in the chair next to me was flipping frantically through magazines, complaining that none of the styles was right for her. “Everything looks too young,” she said. “Not everyone wants to look like one of Charlie’s Angels!”
I couldn’t believe the coincidence.
“So, what do you have in mind?” asked the stylist while she combed through my hair with her fingers. I felt her long, sharp nails massaging my scalp and was tempted to ask her just to scratch my head for a while.
“Can you layer it a little?” I asked. (There was no way I was going to mention the name “Farrah” with this frustrated woman next to me still tearing through magazines.)
“Are you sure you want to go with layers?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I said. I was certain I needed a new look to make up for the rest of me.
And then the stylist said THE WORDS: “Why don’t you let me do something wonderful with your hair?” I had no idea that these words would soon become my personal Pavlovian prompter to say, “See you later,” find a brush and a rubber band, and organize my own follicles into a tight braid. Since I was trusting (and stupid), I nodded vigorously, excited about the possibility of being transformed into “something wonderful.”
Relativity
Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love. How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.
Albert Einstein
Albert Einstein
William Shakespeare
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with like weight of pain,As much or more we should ourselves complain.
William Shakespeare
Action is eloquence.
William Shakespeare
And since you know you cannot see yourself,so well as by reflection, I, your glass,will modestly discover to yourself,that of yourself which you yet know not of.
William Shakespeare
And thus I clothe my naked villainyWith old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
William Shakespeare
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
William Shakespeare
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter windThou art not so unkind,As man's ingratitude.
William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
Action is eloquence.
William Shakespeare
And since you know you cannot see yourself,so well as by reflection, I, your glass,will modestly discover to yourself,that of yourself which you yet know not of.
William Shakespeare
And thus I clothe my naked villainyWith old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
William Shakespeare
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
William Shakespeare
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter windThou art not so unkind,As man's ingratitude.
William Shakespeare
Elemental Changes
SOFT WATER
He is only a pair of dark glittering eyes in the dimly lit bar.
The lights are flickering for the last call, and my ankles are wobbly from too much wine. I stumble my way off the stool, and his hand is suddenly there, holding me steady. He smells like rain on fall leaves, and I agree to share a cab.
The doorman nods us in with a smile.
I stand in his doorway, suddenly cold, shivering with need and fear. He draws me in and fills the bath for me, the temperature perfect, the water soft with oil. He begins with a sponge, then places his hand everywhere, fitting each contour. There is no greed in his touch; it is slow and full of care. The towel blankets me when he helps me step out. His kindness undoes me, and I cry with big hurting sobs.
“Little girl,” he says, “you are so far from your home.”
He picks me up in his arms and settles me in his bed. I try to slide over, but he presses his finger pads hard, straight down on my head. He shoves, pushing into my hairline with his hand slowly flattening and stretching open. A starfish of pleasure blossoms inside me. The loneliness knotted behind my eyes melts, spreads like hot honey from my head to my limbs
Is this love? Is this what love feels like?
I take a deep breath and my eyes flutter closed.
The small sounds of his cufflinks hitting the dresser, the rustle of clothing sliding off skin, a soft shush on the carpet and he returns to the bed. He lies with his back against me, his flesh cool as crisp linen, where it rests against mine.
Who are you? How did you find me?
I feel safe and fall asleep.
He is only a pair of dark glittering eyes in the dimly lit bar.
The lights are flickering for the last call, and my ankles are wobbly from too much wine. I stumble my way off the stool, and his hand is suddenly there, holding me steady. He smells like rain on fall leaves, and I agree to share a cab.
The doorman nods us in with a smile.
I stand in his doorway, suddenly cold, shivering with need and fear. He draws me in and fills the bath for me, the temperature perfect, the water soft with oil. He begins with a sponge, then places his hand everywhere, fitting each contour. There is no greed in his touch; it is slow and full of care. The towel blankets me when he helps me step out. His kindness undoes me, and I cry with big hurting sobs.
“Little girl,” he says, “you are so far from your home.”
He picks me up in his arms and settles me in his bed. I try to slide over, but he presses his finger pads hard, straight down on my head. He shoves, pushing into my hairline with his hand slowly flattening and stretching open. A starfish of pleasure blossoms inside me. The loneliness knotted behind my eyes melts, spreads like hot honey from my head to my limbs
Is this love? Is this what love feels like?
I take a deep breath and my eyes flutter closed.
The small sounds of his cufflinks hitting the dresser, the rustle of clothing sliding off skin, a soft shush on the carpet and he returns to the bed. He lies with his back against me, his flesh cool as crisp linen, where it rests against mine.
Who are you? How did you find me?
I feel safe and fall asleep.
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The Trumpets
They do not know
Who have heard not the trumpets
They have not walked with Pickett's boys
In the Pennsylvania sun
Or lain with the Siberian Guard
In the snows before Moscow
They do not know
Who have heard not the trumpets
Though from thrones and parliaments
They bid fire and steel
Blaze forth between those
Who might else be brothers
They do know
Who have heard not the trumpets
They have not walked with Pickett's boys
In the Pennsylvania sun
Or lain with the Siberian Guard
In the snows before Moscow
They do not know
Who have heard not the trumpets
Though from thrones and parliaments
They bid fire and steel
Blaze forth between those
Who might else be brothers
They do know
That Dress
I wore that dress. You remember? The dress that made one think of a bygone era when women wore dresses that hinted of how they felt about a man? The pink dress with the fern print in nearly black; or perhaps it was navy. I was unsure about shoes. Couldn’t decide between the black and the navy. I think I went with the black strappy sandals. Remember?
Remember when we met? The summer we fell in love? The dress I wore when we went to what would become our favorite downtown Thai restaurant. We had such a wonderful time gazing into each other's eyes throughout dinner. Then we walked through the city and a homeless guy said, ‘oh, you have the look of two people in love'. I was cringing because it was so true about what I thought was the beginning of what I felt about you and I was so worried about whether you felt the same way. That dress.
Remember? Dear? Do you remember who I am? Here, one more bite. You need to eat, Darling.
Remember when we met? The summer we fell in love? The dress I wore when we went to what would become our favorite downtown Thai restaurant. We had such a wonderful time gazing into each other's eyes throughout dinner. Then we walked through the city and a homeless guy said, ‘oh, you have the look of two people in love'. I was cringing because it was so true about what I thought was the beginning of what I felt about you and I was so worried about whether you felt the same way. That dress.
Remember? Dear? Do you remember who I am? Here, one more bite. You need to eat, Darling.
My Journal
Dear Reader:
If you’ve had the unfortunate opportunity to stumble upon this pathetic collection of words, called My Journal, then I pity you, my hapless friend. We are bound now, you and I, to an ever increasing sharing of all things at once personal, yet worn, futile, and eternally sorrowful. I say bound with full understanding of it's meaning; for once someone as soft of heart as yourself has sensed… no, breathed, the torment contained within these pages, your very being will not rest until I am rescued, as if you could rescue me… if only you could.
My Journal
I promise you, my friend, to be honest and truthful in my tale of woe. I owe you that much. I will guide my pen therefore, to lie before you nothing of my own imagining, but only those things in which others can bear testimony. There are many who have turned aside from the sorrow they claimed I’ve brought them, but they can be found and compelled to give account of what I say, if you feel the need after my tale is told.
You must believe.
I need you to believe.
The living can choose to believe… or not, but it isn’t so with the dead. The dead have no need to believe… for they know.
My tale begins in 1968 when I turned twelve. Yes, yes of course there was a life I led up to my twelfth year, but I can barely remember it. I had family then. I had friends then. All that changed when I turned twelve.
I do remember the party, my twelfth birthday. It is such a vivid memory, although I think my mind has been at play with some of the details. Most of the memory of that day is intact…unchanged, but not all. I say this to be completely honest with you, dear reader, as I promised. There are clues that not all I remember is as it really was. Some faces in this horrible memory are different, I’m sure of it. They are fierce and hard now, and I know that couldn’t have been the way it was. After the accident, certainly, they were that way...but not before. They all loved me before it happened.
My true love was at the party, my soul mate, Dora. …I hear you laughing. Don’t laugh at what I tell you. Never laugh at me. I loved her, and she loved me. It didn’t matter that we were only twelve. Our love was a pure, sweet thing that you cannot fathom.
I told you that you could believe me, didn’t I? Haven’t I been honest with you?
I’ll try to tell you everything about the accident, the first one, on the day my life changed forever, but sometimes I cannot remember all things that happened. The doctors told me my mind did those kinds of things on it's own, playing hide and seek. The rules of this game are hazy to me. I call out words like 'Safety' and 'Olli- Olli-Oxen-Free' and other silly things, but they refuse to come out from their hiding places. The doctors said this was normal, under the circumstances, but I don’t believe them. I think my mind is changing the rules without telling me…not telling me the new calling words… and that’s not fair, is it?
The party; I remember it all today. It was at Dora’s house, just down the street from the park where we all played, and ran, and shouted at the top of our lungs. I liked her house. It was small with a bright white wooden fence around it. Dora’s mother said the fence kept dogs out of her yard. She said they dug up her flowers. But Dora’s older sister Janice… a horrible name for a horrible girl… she said it was to keep boys out, especially me. She hated me, and I hated her. But I didn’t hurt her on purpose, no matter what anyone says.
Dora’s mother knew how much we cared for each other. That is why she gave me the party, so we could share my day. And she baked a most beautiful birthday cake. She made it just for me; did I tell you that? It was so perfect. The icing was white; swirled and caressed into waves of frosting. And on the top she wrote my name in the most brilliant of blue icing I have ever seen. I like the memory of the cake; it has remained the most pleasant of thoughts, and I think of it often. In my mind’s eye the cake occasionally has red frosting; sometimes only the writing is crimson and dripping. That is only on my very worst days, the days my mind wants to hurt me… punish me.
Janice had to be at the party. I think she could have been somewhere else if she wanted. But, no… she would not go away. Her friends had to be at my birthday too. They ruined everything. They taunted me. They told lies about me, and ruined our games. I hate Janice; did I tell you that?
Dora handed me a knife. It was large and heavy and sharp. Have you seen the knives for wedding cakes? It was a grand knife like one of those. I remember standing at the table with the knife, and the knife glinted in the light. It was like a mirror.
Do you know what Janice did to my cake; my beautiful birthday cake that Dora’s mom made special, just for me? She took one of her pudgy hands and her dirty fingernails and dug deep finger furrows through my name.
Janice then leaned close to me, and with fruit-punch tainted breath said, "Next, we'll dig in your back yard...yes! A scavenger hunt! I bet we find Pixy and Princess!"
And she laughed at me; her giddy, cackling laugh.
Never laugh at me… did I tell you that?
I turned and pointed the knife at Janice’s fleshy, pink neck.
You must be careful with knives or bad things can happen; but I’m sure you already know that.
I must be honest with you again before I continue this tale because I keep my promises. I’m not sure Cole was the boy who shoved Janice. I told the policeman it was him. I can’t say that now. My memory plays nasty tricks on me when I try too hard to remember. In one trick I see it’s not Cole at all, but Steven pushing Janice. Another trick I see, Janice is screaming. But that memory can’t be true. She couldn’t have screamed, even if she wanted to. Could she scream with all that red icing bubbling from her mouth? All that crimson icing dripping over my beautiful, white cake.
If you’ve had the unfortunate opportunity to stumble upon this pathetic collection of words, called My Journal, then I pity you, my hapless friend. We are bound now, you and I, to an ever increasing sharing of all things at once personal, yet worn, futile, and eternally sorrowful. I say bound with full understanding of it's meaning; for once someone as soft of heart as yourself has sensed… no, breathed, the torment contained within these pages, your very being will not rest until I am rescued, as if you could rescue me… if only you could.
My Journal
I promise you, my friend, to be honest and truthful in my tale of woe. I owe you that much. I will guide my pen therefore, to lie before you nothing of my own imagining, but only those things in which others can bear testimony. There are many who have turned aside from the sorrow they claimed I’ve brought them, but they can be found and compelled to give account of what I say, if you feel the need after my tale is told.
You must believe.
I need you to believe.
The living can choose to believe… or not, but it isn’t so with the dead. The dead have no need to believe… for they know.
My tale begins in 1968 when I turned twelve. Yes, yes of course there was a life I led up to my twelfth year, but I can barely remember it. I had family then. I had friends then. All that changed when I turned twelve.
I do remember the party, my twelfth birthday. It is such a vivid memory, although I think my mind has been at play with some of the details. Most of the memory of that day is intact…unchanged, but not all. I say this to be completely honest with you, dear reader, as I promised. There are clues that not all I remember is as it really was. Some faces in this horrible memory are different, I’m sure of it. They are fierce and hard now, and I know that couldn’t have been the way it was. After the accident, certainly, they were that way...but not before. They all loved me before it happened.
My true love was at the party, my soul mate, Dora. …I hear you laughing. Don’t laugh at what I tell you. Never laugh at me. I loved her, and she loved me. It didn’t matter that we were only twelve. Our love was a pure, sweet thing that you cannot fathom.
I told you that you could believe me, didn’t I? Haven’t I been honest with you?
I’ll try to tell you everything about the accident, the first one, on the day my life changed forever, but sometimes I cannot remember all things that happened. The doctors told me my mind did those kinds of things on it's own, playing hide and seek. The rules of this game are hazy to me. I call out words like 'Safety' and 'Olli- Olli-Oxen-Free' and other silly things, but they refuse to come out from their hiding places. The doctors said this was normal, under the circumstances, but I don’t believe them. I think my mind is changing the rules without telling me…not telling me the new calling words… and that’s not fair, is it?
The party; I remember it all today. It was at Dora’s house, just down the street from the park where we all played, and ran, and shouted at the top of our lungs. I liked her house. It was small with a bright white wooden fence around it. Dora’s mother said the fence kept dogs out of her yard. She said they dug up her flowers. But Dora’s older sister Janice… a horrible name for a horrible girl… she said it was to keep boys out, especially me. She hated me, and I hated her. But I didn’t hurt her on purpose, no matter what anyone says.
Dora’s mother knew how much we cared for each other. That is why she gave me the party, so we could share my day. And she baked a most beautiful birthday cake. She made it just for me; did I tell you that? It was so perfect. The icing was white; swirled and caressed into waves of frosting. And on the top she wrote my name in the most brilliant of blue icing I have ever seen. I like the memory of the cake; it has remained the most pleasant of thoughts, and I think of it often. In my mind’s eye the cake occasionally has red frosting; sometimes only the writing is crimson and dripping. That is only on my very worst days, the days my mind wants to hurt me… punish me.
Janice had to be at the party. I think she could have been somewhere else if she wanted. But, no… she would not go away. Her friends had to be at my birthday too. They ruined everything. They taunted me. They told lies about me, and ruined our games. I hate Janice; did I tell you that?
Dora handed me a knife. It was large and heavy and sharp. Have you seen the knives for wedding cakes? It was a grand knife like one of those. I remember standing at the table with the knife, and the knife glinted in the light. It was like a mirror.
Do you know what Janice did to my cake; my beautiful birthday cake that Dora’s mom made special, just for me? She took one of her pudgy hands and her dirty fingernails and dug deep finger furrows through my name.
Janice then leaned close to me, and with fruit-punch tainted breath said, "Next, we'll dig in your back yard...yes! A scavenger hunt! I bet we find Pixy and Princess!"
And she laughed at me; her giddy, cackling laugh.
Never laugh at me… did I tell you that?
I turned and pointed the knife at Janice’s fleshy, pink neck.
You must be careful with knives or bad things can happen; but I’m sure you already know that.
I must be honest with you again before I continue this tale because I keep my promises. I’m not sure Cole was the boy who shoved Janice. I told the policeman it was him. I can’t say that now. My memory plays nasty tricks on me when I try too hard to remember. In one trick I see it’s not Cole at all, but Steven pushing Janice. Another trick I see, Janice is screaming. But that memory can’t be true. She couldn’t have screamed, even if she wanted to. Could she scream with all that red icing bubbling from her mouth? All that crimson icing dripping over my beautiful, white cake.
lamb...
Little Lamb
Little lamb, born too soon,
Too early slipped the womb.
Like Wordsworth’s child, trailing clouds of glory …,
Heaven lies about you in your infancy.
You, transparent pink, too helpless for the cool of this world.
Your big silver brother, burning as Blake’s tiger.
Took the whole of your mother, proud ewe.
I take you to my breast to feed you, blow life into
Your soul.
I put you on my pillow, warming in my cap.
We sleep.
I awake in the morning to your cold prematurity.
You returned home,
Gone without a sigh, a tear.
But for mine.
Little lamb, born too soon,
Too early slipped the womb.
Like Wordsworth’s child, trailing clouds of glory …,
Heaven lies about you in your infancy.
You, transparent pink, too helpless for the cool of this world.
Your big silver brother, burning as Blake’s tiger.
Took the whole of your mother, proud ewe.
I take you to my breast to feed you, blow life into
Your soul.
I put you on my pillow, warming in my cap.
We sleep.
I awake in the morning to your cold prematurity.
You returned home,
Gone without a sigh, a tear.
But for mine.
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