This is my home town. This is where I'm from.

It's a bluesy sound, the music of the Late Rounders, the guys likely all from one of the small towns in the area although they'll all say they're from Cape, have voices like you'd hear on the radio. They cover the Ray Wylie Hubbard song Snake Farm although the way the lead singer whines you'd think he'd been there before.

"I asked Ramona how come she works there.
She says it's got its charms.
Nothing to do in the winter.
Now and then some kid gets bit at the snake farm."

And I'm sure he has... Just in a different city with a different name, maybe right across the bridge which stretches over the great Mississippi River leading drunk college kids and deteriorating rednecks like mosquitoes to the neon lights of the Pink Pony in shit-hole Southern Illinois.

The Pink Pony. You wouldn't think it's turn up noses similar to a name like Snake Farm, but across the 50 states I've been to plenty of Pink Pony's and they're far from toy stores relying on little girl's love of My Little Pony. No sir-e. They're places that rely on some little girls growing up without much of innocence to fall back on. They've all smelled of smoke and molding liquor. The majority of the clientele is male and also smell of molding liquor. And 100% of the performers are female and aren't afraid, or maybe there is fear and that's part of the rush, to show a lotta skin.
(I want to intrude here... I'm sure not all strippers come from broken homes and struggle. I think it could be a very empowering thing to do in some cases. In others, possibly the majority, not so much.)

It's 10 o'clock in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, a burgeoning (Ben Affleck and David Fincher were recently in town filming Gone Girl) small college town in the Southeast of the state. It's one of the more liberal areas in Missouri although no one that lives there and most that witness the townspeople's idiotic, ineffectually smartass, Facebook posts would agree. But there's a tired youth connected to other, “better” places through the internet, so the town's population, even the young adults that basically vomit exactly what their parents think about politics and economics and society and racism, hears other sides to the story and that's the first step towards acceptance.

So it's 10 o'clock and the music is loud and the atmosphere is just what I like. I'm sure it's because I grew up here, but us Southeast Missourians know how to party. We're educated, we know what class is, we just choose not to partake.

A 20-something blonde is being spun around by a gray-haired man. She's laughing, and while his smile is unassuming, I'm sure he's still got one toe in the gutter. This isn't abnormal, for the young adults to hang out with the old hippies, to stroll around town together, to share a Budweiser and a bowl together, to sleep together.

And no one stares unless their smiling along with, feeling their toes start to tap until it bounces them right out of the chair and onto the dance floor in front of the pool table. That beer-splattered green cloth sleeps under the various knick-knacks that have been collected and attached to the walls and ceilings--a license plates, sports memorabilia, anything and everything. Isn't it cliché? A dirty dive bar full of junk, but I'd put a bet on everyone else copying us.

The couple keeps dancing, the gentleman pulling her away from the girls walking in like they own the place, in rhinestone-assed jeans and pointed-toe high heels. And while I'm proud of where I came from, I can't help but roll my eyes at these small town “big deals.” And since I've been removed I can actually smile at these patrons, but maybe it's a bit patronizing, but it's not the fake smile and gossipy pleasantries everyone else here uses.

Seven dollars for a vodka/cranberry in a pint glass, light on the cranberry. Four dollars for a pack of Marlboro Lights that you can smoke anywhere.

Warning, there's a tangent afoot: At the beginning of 2011, a vote was brought to the citizens of Cape Girardeau, what was called a “controversial” bill to ban smoking in bars and restaurants in the town. On April 5 Missouri voters struck down the bill by a 52% margin—a slimmer margin than I honestly would have expected, but at that time I was a serving bar flies extra strawberry butter and BBQ plates, watching over my tables from the end of the bar where I smoked like a chimney on the clock at a restaurant owned by one of the opposition leaders of the bill, grumbling about the strangling of our freedoms and the loss of revenue the downtown area would feel if those regulars had to walk outside. Shit they might have even realized it was a god damned beautiful night and go for a walk by the river, which is literally three feet away, behind the river wall, painted with notable people who “were born in the state or achieved fame while living there,” like Yogi Berra, Calamity Jane, George Washington Carver, T. S. Eliot, Joseph Pulitzer and Rush fucking Limbaugh.

But if you do venture outside for some fresh air, it'll be tainted with a puff of skunk-y smoke. And harder drugs, you shouldn't have a problem finding anything you need.

Just ask the people sitting at the bar already clearly fucked up. Like that middle-aged man that was a dish washer at that staple Bar-B-Que restaurant I worked at and played at for a couple years. He's laughing hysterically, spinning on his bar stool. “You look good,” he repeats and then laughs again, spinning away from me. He isn't saying it because he hasn't seen me in forever. No, instead the drugs are blocking his recollection and demanding over and over, “Find pussy.”

But you gotta ask early. Drugs get smoked, snorted and injected quick...

A friend of mine bought coke for my arrival. I'm not sure why, maybe for old time's sake. 

The night before this night at the bar, he microwaved the gram on probably an everyday, ordinary plate in his mother's kitchen because it was wet, tested it, decided it wasn't very good coke, so snorted it all by himself at 3 a.m. watching an Umphrey's McGee concert.  

“Why would you snort it all?”

“It wasn't good so it wouldn't even be worth it for you to do.”

I laugh; he gets upset and tells me not to judge. I'm not.

It's just ridiculous. It could easily be a scene in a movie adapted from a Hunter S. Thompson novel. And everyone would laugh at that man's unbridled “don't give a fuck.” 

I think it's harder for him to think it's comical, since he's far too smart to be struggling with drug addiction. Maybe I laugh because I am an asshole; I'm removed from the pestilence so what the hell do I care; it is like watching a movie.

Maybe I am judging...

Cincinnati

I skipped my Greyhound so I could continue to have sex with him. I might not have gotten off five hours before, but this was the type of sex I could get attached to. I was also hungover but that was more of an excuse; surely he didn't actually believe that.

So I spent another day with him. I spent some of that day working while he slept, although it became near impossible to work by noon because my vagina had started making decisions by then. So I got back in bed... And as he's talking with a Rosa's employee who doesn't seem to understand my vegan diet, all I can think is that my mouth should be a lot closer to his dick. .

But he makes me so fucking nervous. Or maybe last year is what rattles my nerves... 

He reminds me of Zeus. Maybe because he's flaky, or because he says no one compliments him, or because I can imagine he throws back quite a bit of pussy, or because he's so confidently honest it could be a lie, or maybe it's just because I'm passionate about him... and it's been a while. 

Uprooting my life to live in sleepy Cincinnati is a thought I've dabbled in. And when a man has that kind of sway... well it's never worked out for me before.

I should have looked into his eyes more. But maybe that was subconscious, knowing what I'd find there. 

But they are different than those black child eyes Zeus had. Jesus Christ those eyes... Bright blue like nothing in nature I can metaphor. They're like that color of blue I hated as a kid, Cerulean. I much preferred the darker versions, a Navy or Wild Blue Yonder for instance. But in his eye sockets, I know every woman in the room notices him. 

They're different though... Zeus has innocent eyes, a trick of evolution, so he could hide that he wasn't very innocent. It's possible I'm wrong, but I swear there's actual feeling behind those blue eyes. The way they excite as he starts talking faster when he tells me what we're doing now. 

He called off a trip to New York earlier this year at the last minute because some Hooters waitress asked him to be exclusive in bed one morning. I can imagine she knew what she was doing... I've always been a fan of asking for things after sex and after Sunday's go around he said, "So I am moving to New York or are you moving to Cincinnati?" so he's exploiting the same method. 

He doesn't always text back. And he's told me he just stops responding when he doesn't want to say no... Probably a pretty good indication today that he's not going to make a trip to Missouri in November.

I don't want to be the scared woman anymore though... But I still am. I'm afraid they're all lying. "You're amazing."Sure it feels good but that isn't the only feeling... "Me and Michael always used to talk about your ass." Worry is the other feeling; I'm worried I'm being conned. 

It's constant... My brain won't shut the fuck up about it. But I guess that's what happens when you date a man that never tells the truth, and lies so poorly you always find out different.

But anyway, Monday I flew into Newark. First time flying into Jersey. The cabbie was pissed he had to take me to Brooklyn; I was equally unhappy about spending $85 to get to Brooklyn. 

Then the Holland Tunnel... White tile on either side illuminated harshly by fluorescent lights, it looks like the hallways into the guts of a mental institute. It looks like that; it is that. 

New York City is that hospital. This is where the crazies come to be dosed with booze and drugs and attractive men and women, made docile by fetish parties and themed events with expensive cocktails and shared batty's and cocaine, to be drugged with opportunity, both to work and play, walking the streets alone, talking to yourself, knowing the family that just passed with sideways glances won't ever see you again so what's it matter. Raise hell. New York doesn't reprimand you, it only gives you more. 

Every one of us here, we may have different conditions, some of us Schizophrenic, others Bipolar, still others Depressed, but there's one disease that we all share... Unsatisfaction. 

We all started out just dissatisfied, but that's only a symptom, like HIV it slowly turns into the full blown AIDs of an individual's character. There is a slight nuance between these words. Dissatisfaction is an expectation that fell short, whereas unsatisfaction is an expectation that has not been met at all. 

I'll eventually have to leave New York, move back to Where people can be satisfied. 

Maybe it's because I've aged but I used to be so much more flippant. I'd love someone for a week, and it'd be passionate and it'd be true if not long. 

Now there are people I won't even make out with because I know there are people much better, probably walking past us right now at the top of the subway saying good-bye with an awkward hug. 

And now I know there is. He's sitting in Cincinnati watching TV, texting people that would get there tonight, even though I could be there tomorrow... And I'm doing the same... Reading Tinder messages from a man that has just read my blog for the first time. "Fuck." "Trouble..." "I didn't know girls thought like this." "Hooked" "I want you." "Sheets and bootlegged movies." 

And it makes me twitch. It sounds good... It's just coming from the wrong pair of lips, the ones that gave me the bruises I pray will stay eternally tender to the touch, the ones I just left in a region of the country that will always be able to pull me back. 

"Love's not all that complicated. 

It tells you who it's after 

and it either gets what it wants 

or destroys you." 

-Beau Taplin

And one more from this genius man...

"The one thing I know for sure is that feelings are rarely mutual, so when they are, drop everything, forget belongings an expectations, forget the games, the two days in between texts, the hard to gets because this is it, this is what the entire world is after and you've stumbled upon it by chance, by accident--so take a deep breath, take a step forward, no run, collide like planets in he system of a dying sun, embrace each other with both arms and let all the rules, the opinions and common sense crash down around you. Because this is love kid, and it's all yours. Believe me, you're in for one hell of a ride, after all--this is the one thing I know for sure."

-Beau Taplin

Now you'll just have to wait to see which one Cincinnati is. 

 

 

Some fucked up thought process to orgasm...

What wouldn't you want to lose?

I'm about halfway through The Bonesetter's Daughter, a novel about Asian immigrants to the States haunted by the traditions of old world China. LuLing is an old woman, stereotypically grouchy and critical, who's daughter Ruth is trying to figure out what's reality and what's a false memory as her mother slips into dementia.

We always think about how terrible it would be to lose our mind, or how hard it would be to lose our ability to use our legs. We obsess over losing our toned physique and get anxious about losing our place in line.

What I don't hear people contemplate is the loss of orgasm.

But wouldn't that be something you'd figuratively die to have again if it hadn't graced your lower extremity in some time.

I don't spend much time reading erotica to know how close some writers have gotten to explaining that pinch of pleasure. And it seems that I never remember to think while in the act "How would I describe this eloquently?" which would most definitely not help the journey to the that coagulating effect-the moment where the two bodies stop working as waves rising and falling and become a gunk, a semisolid mass, lying still with an exhale.

And it's hard to recreate that feeling without the actual feeling.

But an orgasm is sometimes the only way I can get motivated. It's that little break, hips grinding hard over my hands, when a project is staring me in the face, walking from one room to the other--I need a snack. I'll turn on the BANKS station on Pandora. Now I need a cigarette. Ok, I'm comfortable laying propped up on a bunch of pillows, but I could use some water. And some times I work better at the table in the kitchen. But now I need to grab my charger.

But if I just lay face down on my lilac sheets and think about the hottest man alive telling me to sit on his dick, about ten minutes later I can usually jump up with beads of sweat on my forward and get down to business.

It seems to work pretty well for others in calming insomnia.

The blog post linked above is written by a new friend I met on Tinder. I had just spent the last couple hours reading through his work on my small mobile phone screen at 1 am, bedroom lights out and trying to stop my brain from wanting more.

I decided I'd take his advice and... Is there a classy way to say masturbate?

It took me a bit longer than usual to get off that night, probably because I was still thinking about Guacamole. Guacamole, two guys fighting with erections, masturbation, "maybe I'm not a writer after all," The Florist, eating balls, Gary Oldman...

There we go... Gary Oldman. He'll work.

And then... "What if I lost my ability to get myself off? In my current slump I'd be pretty uptight."

And then... I'm laughing out loud.

My stomach contracts moving my hand away from the clit making it hard to keep the friction I need. I'm drooling on my pillow as I think how utterly absurd it is that I'm thinking about writing, turning over the idea of blogging about the loss of the ability to orgasm, while I'm trying to orgasm. And then more laughing.

Just STOP brain, god dammit. Think about Filipino dick. Filipinos... Asians... Stereotypes aren't always true... Harvey... No, true... Carlos... Not Asia, but true... Filipinos, Filipinos... Rama from Raid... Ooooh yes... Martial arts... Blood... He couldn't possibly have a small penis...

Nope.

Yep. Yeeepppp.

The Cabdriver

Lonely, I've always dealt really well with it. 

In my early twenties driving double-digit hours alone in the night to get to a new city where I'd cozy up in a small hostel alone, slip out to a bar and sip rum alone until I struck up a conversation with a new face. I moved to DC alone. And for lack of any real support from the thing I moved to New York with, I can say I moved here alone too. 

But there was always comfort in the fact I could strike up a conversation when my lips were tired of being silent. 

In Paris it was different...

The first few days were amazing, walking around the city, sensory overload, trying to figure it all out alone. I have several friends there, who speak English but resort to French when they aren't directly talking to me, and I would just listen.

There's a man there, mid-forties, a photographer with blonde-white dreds. I've known him for many years although we've only met a couple times. It was the seventh day and we went to have dinner near Moulin Rouge. He says I look better without the septum piercing. I don't hide it. He likes natural, most French people I run into seem to prefer natural. I prefer modified. 

I was standing around sipping rum while he shot pictures of a petite dirty blonde actress, younger than I, with a group of friends. 

She smiled but I didn't know why. He joked but I couldn't laugh. They laughed and I smiled sheepishly. They told stories and I stared, clutching the sticky glass and sucking on the straw when someone looked at me as though that would save me from having to say that I didn't understand. 

And then the bar closed and then he put me in a cab. 

The cabdriver was a woman from Senegal. She didn't speak English, but she was sucking loudly on a hard candy, moving it around in her mouth so it knocked into her teeth audibly, her lips parting to smack. And although this is the most irritating thing (I wouldn't be able to stand it in the States), in that moment I prayed that candy was big enough to last the entire ride. 

Because I knew that sound; I knew what that noise meant.  

So I popped a few Tic-Tacs and started chomping. And it was as if we were talking. And it was comforting.

Trouble

I've really started using New York for all it's worth, including a multitude or pretty good-looking men of all races and backgrounds that feel just as stressed and lonely as I do.

But with that, I've become more secretive and that makes me worried. It makes me feel deceptive. It makes me feel like I'm the liar. It's as if I almost feel ashamed of what I'm doing. Maybe it's the Catholic upbringing, never mentioning sex and when it hit you right in genitals just denying it. Maybe it's that I've always thought of myself as a catch. You know, sure I'll make out with anyone, but to get the good stuff you have to be special.

But I've become frivolous with sex; I guess they call that promiscuous.

I walk into a bar with my mind on finding the most-attractive, most-interesting (opinion-based of course) man I can and then in a whirlwind of vodka and deep conversations say, "Hey, so wanna go back to my place?"
It was ingrained in me from kindergarten to twelfth grade that every time you have sex you will either get an incurable STD that will basically make you equivalent to a leper in the time of Jesus or get pregnant which will be completely shameful, so much so that you will then have to be a child bride. Granted, protection is the key here, but the mentions above, it seems, do not actually happen all that often.

What else doesn't happen?

You don't just jump into bed with someone and fall in love. But that's what I'm looking for... Because sex with a sociopath is so so good. Other people that have dated sociopaths say similar things.
That's really the only thing I miss...

Not even the other "good" parts, like throwing my leg over his lap and whispering about how good we look in those two-seater benches on the L train when the subway car goes underground and turns the window into a mirror; or him crossing his eyes and speaking in a Vietnamese accent, rambling about "your mathaaa" this and "duuuhhh, what so funnieeee" that, sending me into uncontrollable giggling; or even when we'd walk around the city holding hands in front of all those people he didn't want to know about me. None of that even remotely gets to me anymore. It's actually a tad sadistically funny that he will have to live with all he's done to hurt people for the rest of his pathetic life.

While everyone that's he's hurt is getting over it and moving on with people that love...

Now when I daydream of love, I think of that man there, leaning against the door of the 5 train at 8 am, or that one walking out of Grand Central, making eyes with me as he throws his hood over his head but not in time to keep the snowflakes from his brow, or him or him and them.

The thing that worries me though is that I expect to shack up with someone after one date and have the best sex of my life, have comparable sex to what I was having, which just isn't fair really. And if it isn't as ecstasy-inducing as it was  then that's what's wrong with them and I won't give them another chance.

I'm worried that I'll always be wanting them to do what he did when I'm fucking them.
But I'm rational...

It's out there. Every time I try another I'm getting closer to what I want...

There's Bharat, a sheltered Indian boy that had "smoked weed one time" and always asked me if he could kiss me. There's Jit, another Indian that had many interesting ideas about technology and liked hearing mine as well. There's Matt who got drunk off two dark and stormy's and then wanted to make out every ten steps. There's a group of them that use "u" instead of "you" and other shortcuts when texting me nice things. There's Andy who was so fascinated that I could be open about my sexuality that then everything I said was followed by "so tell me more about what you're into." There's the bro. There's the hipster. There's possibilities but they live states away.

I'm not alone. I'm not without kind words and free meals.

But I am so fucking tired of telling people that I'm from Missouri and I'm a writer and I like art and food and drinking and dancing and traveling and everything, just everything.

I want to lay in bed watching bootlegged movies with a friend and get to know each other slowly in between really sweaty sex. I want to look at someone and smile as we walk my sheets to the laundrymat for the fifth day in a row because no one knows what we know, no one sees what we see.

I want fast infatuation and slow romance. That's what I had with him.

This is what I'll always want, and hey it might lead me to trouble again but... I'm quite good at handling trouble.