Your tune is old and familiar, as old as human, comforting and fatiguing. You exchange in love, commerce in time. A world of sound and sometimes sorrow, brightly colored rooms and sometimes blackness, your musician’s heart and home are open, your mind inviting, your mood reportedly shifting. Your song, lustfully romantic, is too familiar; it stirs the cauldroned stew of guarded moments and defense mechanisms, over-brimming the pot’s sterile concoction. Strung tight, the strings struggle to free their song, the one about the loves lost, dulled feelings and despairing anger. Many familied yourself, your sole sun centers your world, keeps the anger reigned and the songs unraveling: the one about reluctant parents, abandoning parents, maniacal mothers, furious fathers, sons of savage mothers, forsaken ballad of wish and wood-filled cabins. The gentle soul wanders in the circumscribed perimeter of hearth and home, waiting for the right riff, the bass line, the righthand rhythm, while the sunlight spends itself into the starred and scarred grey skyline. What ghosts haunt the tune? The vortex whirls, spinning the fear and regret feverishly into pinpoint perspective. Love is medicine.
A sketched out sea colors
the canvas auburn and indigo waves
Digital smears of cyber brush
and stroke, feathered illusion
of depth and space
texture and sense
I smell the ocean but feel no breeze
you do not move me
in a virtual world, yes
in the plane breathed warmly, no
nearly lifted from the screen
lying flat across atoms and time
no light, no touch, no sight
The sky and the sea run parallel
but free of attachments,
committed only to movement and time.
While the sea moves in currents
as the day and nighttime stimuli
take her–as does the sky–
she buoys those upon her up
or swallows them down,
supporting or drowning,
life-giving or taking;
he hangs his companions there–
free and suspended–
with little to no support.
A risky visit to his domain
will surely lead to lost lives
without self-supporting devices
but the ride will be once-in-a-lifetime.
My brother, friend, partner and soul, you have a supple mind of teflon passion and heat. Sex connects you to a yet undiscovered core. Having abandoned love and intimacy before you knew you had, longing compels you, impels your every action in its abyss. Who broke you? Your parents who left you behind? Your brother, who found you a threat, healthy and happy? Society, who condemned your desires, a man born out of the proper time? A life of privilege brings none, not ever. The gleam of the blue in your eyes belie the sparkle of hope, of invention and creative genius, muted to the grey, also in your eyes, due to fear, self-doubt, filling the hollow that howls echoed desire, fear of aging and missing out, fear of moving, changing, for losing something reliable, something undefined, undiscerned and untrue. Stymied by mistrust of yourself yet too trusting of others, you have never known your own worth. The shredded skin of your fingers, perpetual gratings of your nails moving like metronomes to soothe the ache and sync the anxiety. Ease of style and comfort with the unconventional is your lure–from the outside–but your constant compassion and soft, syncopated song, artful, eclectic sound, music of your making is your essence. Anger coats you; despair governs steadily like a politician, to fill the gaps, find the excuses, even as it is you. You look like the yogi master but are not in that peaceful possession of equanimity and ease. Your body is your armor.
A man of soft voice and heart but hard, angry muscle and drive fills my days. He is strong and weak, bent and upright, thin and full of fantasy flights of dreams and visions, me and him, a house, a life, a bed. His hair is dark, peppered grey, and receding, falling from his forehead to feet, carpeting his body like a coat. Persistent and patient, he with stuttering voice, whispery, shattered and deep, a boy-man of broken childhood, keeps close from afar, runs to me in the gaps, and sprays urgency over me; he is like a vibratory hummingbird at my ear, the wing flutter always flapping near, perceived unseen. He has too much time to think of me and a future. I lean left and right. We share loneliness and time wasted, a lifetime of near misses, music and art, politics, people watching and the idleness of directionless desire and aims. Transitions are either near approach to the top of the Ferris wheel or just over the top slide to the bottom again. They test sure footing, roots, grounding, toppling over with the weight of uncertainty or standing tree firm to the skies while the bark is bitten, flaked off. I am a sleeping sandwich, breaded to face the holy heavens equally to the wormed earth. Can you wake me, man of manic mind and heart?
There is a woman from up north who answered my call. She was looking and I was curious. I placed the ad cavalierly but she was in serious passionate need. I am not gay. I wasn’t even sure if I was curious. I just placed the ad, and she answered it, wanting to know if I were interested in having my first experience with someone from out of town.
My response was underwhelming from her perspective. I didn’t think a first time experience of girl-girl sex could be with someone who comes to town once or twice a year. I wanted my experience then, at or near the time I placed the ad. She met me at her hotel that next week and I broke the going too long chatter, she on the bed, and me on the opposite facing chair, with a kiss. Before then, I was a little nervous but at base slightly detached, no expectations. The kiss was fine. The ensuing embrace and groping was comfortable, familiar, as in any other passion filled moments with a new lover. The sex was wild, hard and sometimes painful, sometimes sweet. She loved me with a vicious force and cruel observation, swallowing every detail of every sinew, tasting, teeth sinking chewing of my veins and muscles. She cannibalized me. Thereafter, I became her obsession. She needed to feed off me, me to passionize her, emblazon her with heat and fuel. She vampired my lust and sleep. We were the catatonic of the day and sex zombies of the night. Each night there was an addition to play, a toy, a restraint, a pose, an added finger or push of the hand to the back. I refused her the ultimate surrender and left each night so as to avoid the intimacy of sleep. The last night I relented. She responded with deeper gratitude and gifts. Despite her germaphobia, she lent me her toothbrush, we bathed in too hot water and returned to the sheets for more sucking, licking, biting, tossing, wrestling, moaning and sleeping. She left, went home.
Psychology of a Mistress
The links in the reference list may potentially be interesting.
The Huffington Post article about the four considerations a mistress should take into account is a pop shot overview of some relevant but obvious conclusions about the role.
The general’s vision is laser-in-the-night. His narrowed slit-eyed glare is fixed on his object of desire—me–willing it to be controlled, consumed and coalesced, absorbed in him. He is a warm dictator, serrated from childhood abuse, mistaking the lack of the material for need and staunching ancient bloody wounds with food, sex, alcohol, sports, status and wealth; he is boy bully reformed by recognition and contrition. He fears. The cage is constructed from belief, and his wife’s passion-less submission layered with passive aggression ignites his sin, the longing to connect in the only way he understands—the physical surrender that is sublimation of self and subjection to the other at once. I have performed under his lacerating gaze; exacting he is but earthy too. And when we uncouple, he lies back, longing to feel, caressed, his hard skin and muscle beleaguered by the efforts of war, keeping the troops at home and abroad in production, reflecting America’s finest offering, strongest, most capable. But his soft hair, body and head, belie his dual nature. In the brief hiatus from the battle, he laughs, absent from the hierarchy that defines him and shapes his being. Only one wrong choice he made, he avers—and that one has undermined all his achievement, sapped the juju and saddled his joy. All else has been in perfect order.
I met an architect just like me. His lips in their slight, silent, still pressing against mine were soft and fleshy—soothing. Our touch was lock and key, familiar and knowing, his scent intoxicating allure slotted to my cells. He smelled like inhalation after exhale, a need so naturally occurring and fulfilling, necessary. Together we designed space and time, delineating boundary lines, designing layout and structuring aesthetics. We strategically anticipated and crafted the reactions of the other, onlooker and outsider to the place we created—and to each other. He knew just what to say, in the proper lighting. I was an avid fan of cinema and literature. Together we penned with steady hand at romance and sentimentality, made plans for the life of the building beyond the present drawings—to add life and depth to the two dimensional paper. We planned a life together.