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.