Monthly Archives

May 2016

men

Apparently You can Handle the Truth…who knew?

May 10, 2016

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At no point was I lying. I was fucking trying, even when it started to slide I tried to not end up in the ditch. Last time I tried that we ended up upside down in a swamp, this is not a metaphor, this happened. I hit the gas instead of the brake when I shouldn’t have hit either and just coasted. But I barely knew how to drive back then.

What happened is this. The one I wanted beyond measure and reason told me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want me. I saved the texts. Listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac, believed him and set about healing and filling the space he left.

I was without heavy equipment, holding one of those kiddie beach shovels and staring into this massive abyss. Every now and again believing I caught a glimpse of the monster, but I wasn’t sure. Jason showed up with a backhoe.

He showed me off and celebrated me. I did the same. We both knew what it was like to be kept a secret and to be kept guessing.

He was safe, sane and my kinda weird.

Listened to everything I had to say without prejudice.

Starting writing things about me and actually posting them. I did the same, I wanted to, he was worth it, he deserved it and it was fucking fun. This freefall into softness.

I thought if I stopped hurting I would run out of words. I didn’t, I found new ones.

Everything was on display for the world to see, like Christmas window dressing, elaborate and shiny and making everyone smile.

We went mildly viral.

We went to bed in Toledo Friday night and he looked at me and said, “Thousands of people know we just had sex.”

To be clear, he is my kind of weird. This was not.

I freaked out a bit.

I liken myself to lots of things. Commonly a pendulum/wrecking ball and damn did we swing far and wide from what I was used to. But I wanted to see, so did he, the edge is where the best view is.

And then I ran.

I spent today/yesterday and most of last night trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong, why did I run?

I think I know. Jason really knows. He saw the whole thing coming and decided to try anyways, says I am worth it. He is an amazing man, truly.

He has forgiven me my trespasses and we are back where we started, friends. Amen.

He took a day and night, got drunk and posted many a thing. Nothing to sharp, I didn’t feel persecuted, like at all…

I wasn’t getting the shunning I felt I deserved. So I whipped myself…

It wasn’t necessary. Everyone saw what happened, plain as fucking day. Everyone but me…

Jason said I had to forgive myself first, but his forgiveness and these words from a stranger made that a lot easier. Maybe in the time called now, taking the hard road can be a lot easier if you don’t circle the same 7 miles out of sheer stubbornness. I got myself so close on memory and wits alone. Now it’s time for a little faith.

This showed up in my page inbox and I wept tears of relief.

Okay so I’ve never done this however watching it all unfold for days now and reading all the comments, blogs, and memes I feel inclined to write this…there is a community of writers and page owners and I found these two there…Sarah and Jason…they chose to share a portion of their journey with their public, (on Our Lady of Lust and Grace as well as her blog and personal fb/ Jason King the writers page) not for drama or attention but for decided choice reasons and as a statement within their relationship…now to a degree we feel invested and of course that we have a right to weigh in, even me because. ..Well…here I am. The thing is…it’s not a choose sides, judging, or pissing contest…this is two people navigating a part of their journey…and sometimes that gets ugly…sometimes toes are stepped on…and sometimes it hurts…however all that being said it is still wrapped in beauty and worth the dance. I think Jason knew who Sarah was and where she was at in her life but made the choice to move forward…because he needed too…and I think Sarah essentially did the same…for different reasons but ending in the same place…both were well intentioned, breathing in hope but living in truth…and ultimately as much as the journey was about ‘them’ it seems it was really about themselves on their way to self-discovery and evolution. They played their roles and are fulfilling their purpose. He knew as much as she knew. She is no worse or responsible then he is. They both knew…and pushed forward anyway on a wing and a prayer…isn’t that the point?…isn’t that what we all do?…you can’t fault people for being who they are and living the best they can and are able…we journey where we need to grow and it is my opinion and hope that Sarah learns how to become her own poet, yes that has double meaning, and truly love and honor herself and that Jason learns to break patterns and find healing so he can embrace love and stop having to fight or self-sabotage in the name of it…however that looks and whoever they end up with…much universal love and respect to them both.

From the page runner at https://www.facebook.com/FirefliesMoonlight-406903469415962/

Go show her some love like she just showed us.

All I know is this. My old wounds have not closed and I am the only one who can tend to them.
The hole has reopened and I am walking around it trying to figure out what to do.

That was the only lie I have told, I know exactly what to do. Write my own damned story

My heart is in the abyss and I’m going in after it.

 

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men

Spoiled, Broken and/or Delusional

May 10, 2016

 

I am having a slight twinge of jealousy right now and it’s so far out of my wheelhouse.
I am uneasy being green.

My girl came home and just vomited up all these damp, dark secrets up into the light. The relief that flickered across her face and lit her up from the inside, as a table full of us played priest-in-a-box, triggered my envy. We just said ‘hallelujah’ and celebrated her decisions and becoming. Testify.

I can’t have that, but I want it.

I don’t get a welcome back party.

I don’t get absolved.

I can’t even get words out right now, save these. I am struggling to write around self-imposed gag orders. Some of these are not my stories to tell, some wounds are still bleeding.

And honestly? I am afraid of what I might say.

I am currently unable to even.
Fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything.
Throwing on my yoga pants, grabbing a venti/iced/soy/latte (ew, I am totally not doing that) and going full white girl. I need brunch and mimosas STAT, with a mani-pedi on top.

Aaaaand I am grossing myself out right now.

I need, I need, I want, I want…
I deserve nothing.
Not the kindness and understanding pouring into my inbox, no sympathy and definitely no more bandages.

I promised everyone a fairy-tale.
As it turns out I am not the damsel that needs saving. I am the dragon that burns down the world when I sneeze and all I am left with is ashes. It ended, unhappily.

I strive to be the shield and not the sword and yet, there is a blood trail leading straight to me. It’s not my blood. It’s my fault.

I should be shunned by my tribe right now. I should be yelled at, punished.
No one’s stepping up to do it for me so I will go ahead and do it my damned self.
I’m putting Baby in the fucking corner.

My behavior was predicted and predictable, but I still don’t know exactly why.

I was navigating uncharted waters on a ship called Hope. Then…

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That bit of awful and a few other choice phrases running loops in my head right now. Like those spherical cages with multiple motorcycles in them at circuses. Just waiting for the crash and burn.

That is what my head is, that and a roundabout with hidden exits. A weigh station where everything is weighed and measured and takes the long way to get where it’s going or ends up in Timbuctoo. A switch-yard where the trains never seem to be on time and the signals go awry and shit blows up.

A line from Return to Oz where Jack the pumpkin headed scarecrow fucks something up and errrbody is about to die and Dorothy Gale just says “it’s alright Jack, it can’t be helped.” Really just the second half of that sentence.

I just hurt someone exactly the way I have been hurt, recently and often and I feel sick about it.

“I hurt him and now I hurt for him” I told her, “It’s my way. “
All of this is my way, sadly. Thought I could break it, break through something. And I broke him.
He didn’t deserve it.

He saw it coming, had essays and memes ready to go.

I didn’t.

I don’t even know what happened exactly. I am trying to figure it out as I write this.

I am bearing witness to the fallout. Everybody is watching it happen and I am sitting here unable to speak. Beyond “Can’t help it, the girl can’t help it. Oh no…” Little Richard

I hate doing what’s been done to me. Doesn’t excuse me. I did the fucking thing.

I am not sure if I am spoiled, broken or delusional. Probably a little from each column with my own magical fucked up psychic self that can see the What but not the Why.

I rarely think I am right, even when fate is screaming in my ear as I struggle to drive and argue at the same time. Pulling over when I couldn’t take the fighting in my head. Then just submitting to it, trying to get enough quiet to figure out what the fuck was happening.

But he wrote rebuttals before I said the words.

It’s possible he saw it coming, I spoke openly of others in front of him, warned him I wasn’t coming in clean. I didn’t realize how dirty I am. I should have known, I think I just got used to my own filth, seemed normal, until it wasn’t. Now my soul feels filthy and blood stained, again, it’s not my blood.

This is so surreal.

Maybe I just walked from the best thing that ever happened to me. Time will tell. Everything will become clear, and maybe I will come clean again or find someone whose filth and fury matches my own.

What I cannot deny that voice, screaming in my head that said ‘no’ loud enough that I almost crashed the rental car. I have ignored her before and it went as bad as it could go before I left the places not meant for me.

Maybe I did shield him and it remains to be seen.

Maybe, the kissing cousin of Hope.

The ship called Hope still floats.

gypsy travels

Anticipation

May 6, 2016

 

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I grew up on a pretty steady diet of Carole King, James Taylor, Crosby Stills Nash and sometimes Young. And Carly Simon. She was the soundtrack to house cleaning most often. You’re So Vain shows up in this blog with regularity.

I did have some dreams and they were clouds in my coffee and he was so vain.

But that isn’t where I am at right now.

I am here…

And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
But I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.
Anticipation, Anticipation…

Um ya Carly, exactly that.

It’s 7:30 am. I got up early to write. In 7 hours I leave for Toledo Ohio to see my love. It’s our halfway point and I booked a hotel with an indoor pool, and a 7 minute drive from Bob Evans…my wishes and wants and he is rolling with it. Because biscuits and bikini…

He rolls with everything, so do I….mostly. But I am having a mild freak out that must be acknowledged.

We have been talking for months. Facebook official for 10 days and met once in person mid-April for just over an hour at an airport. I almost missed my plane because I didn’t want to stop kissing him.

Fairy tale romance as far as internet romances go…or any romance really. I fucking love him.

But um…

We haven’t slept together yet.

Tonight is the night and I am feeling like a teenager again. Nervous. Maybe if I had ever dated in high school, or gone to prom this wouldn’t feel so strange. But I didn’t and it does.

I have really never dated like this before, all this getting to know you stuff before the sex.
Yes I have done long distance, but I had slept with them prior to the geographical rift.

I have started dividing my life into 2 parts. Before and after.

In the time called before I would (almost) literally trip and fall into a relationship by meeting a cute-ish guy, sleeping with him and then he just wouldn’t leave. 5 years, 7 years, 2 years, all gone.
I stopped that after Budget George/Pimp daddy. Not the sleeping with them right away. I fucked Young Un before dinner on our second date, less than a week after we met…but he was my choice. And he was/is magic.

Drogo, Gelfling, Wolfling, Giant.

Common denominator? Magic.
Empathic, ethereal and compatible. And they were my choice. Not something I fell into and couldn’t get out of.
Incredible transcendental conversations, dates, car rides, adventures.

And the sex?

Phantasmagorical.

I didn’t see the aurora borealis, I became them. Lightning, fireworks, molten lava in human form.

Natural phenomenon brought on by otherworldly compatibility.

I said before that we shouldn’t fuck outside of our tribe and this is why.

So why am I worried?

As I write this, I have realized. I am not worried, I’m nervous, but not worried.

He wrote this…

The Candle and The Fire – Jason King

And it sounds a lot like me. He is my tribe.

It’s no secret that I have had a lot of sex. It’s not a secret that I am really good at it, because I fucking love it, pun intended.

I learned years ago that ‘bad sex’ is a rarity, especially if you know what you are doing, and I do. And even more rare if you know how to use your words as well as your hips, and I really do.

Jason and I have developed our own secret language, some of it makes us belly laugh and some of it is just guttural growls and moans when we lose our words. I can see both of those things happening in our hotel bed.

I remember pressing my body against his under the overpass by the pillar that divided terminal one from two at O’Hare, and how it felt like I belonged there.

I’m no prophet, I don’t know nature’s way
So I’ll try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, ’cause these are the good old days.

I am a prophet and I do know nature’s way. 6 hours now until I can look into his eyes for the second time. The ‘right here’ that is a Comfort Suites in Toledo is where I want to be. I will stay right here. Because so far, this relationship with him is rivaling the happier times in my life. And I have to agree, that no matter what comes, I know I will look back years from now and see that these are the good old days.

I love you baby, no more sleeps.

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Author’s note…
As fate would have it, I got fired on Tuesday. Which gives me more time to write.
Something that was sorely lacking.
There is a ‘pay-per-view’ section contained within this blog that has gone unused.
I promised porn and stripper stories. And here they come.
No better thing to start with than an unadulterated look at why I got fired and a closer examination of the dirty fishbowl that is my old workplace…don’t’cha think?
I have been collecting secrets and stories and now I have time, and if you want to see what I wrote about you…pay up buttercups.
Launching May 10th 2016.
The timing is delicious.

men

Wide Open & Held Together

May 3, 2016

 

 

I told another man I loved him yesterday…not my boyfriend… (I think I hear a gasp from the audience)…so why is he not freaking out? My boyfriend I mean.*

Because he knew. It’s how he found me, loving that other man who had a penchant for leaving me, in a crying puddle on the floor.

My (now) boyfriend showed up in my inbox unannounced, simply said “you okay there puddle?”

I was exactly broken enough to answer, “No, no I am not.” With an implied ‘help me’.

So he did.

I needed him.

He didn’t pry or force, he just let me ramble. Asked a few poignant questions.
“2 years huh? That’s a long time Sarah.” And I realized he was right.
Never once said ‘fuck that guy’.
And he didn’t let go.

As it happens when I am treated with enough patience and given enough time, I got sick of my own shit. I knew I had done all I could do with the Poet short of getting on a plane and showing up at his house, which I knew wouldn’t have gone over well.

So Jason and I started talking about other things, there was some tentative flirting sparked by a pair of kitten crotch panties. I read his writing, he read mine and we realized we had a lot of common philosophies.

He then drove 5.5 hours to see me for one. Held my hand through the bustle of an airport when I was close to flying apart and didn’t let go.

He sat across from me and encouraged me to tell stories in the brief time we were given. His eyes lit up when mine did and basically, that was it. I was smitten as fuck.

Like any of those teen romance movies from the 80’s where our heroine sees that the one she really loves has been standing in front of her the whole time disguised as a friend.

Like the Princess Bride, where she realized every time he said “as you wish”, what he was really saying was “I love you.” And I love him back.

He is my farm boy, poor and perfect.

I had a psychic tell me I would have to make a choice in the spring, between a rich man and a poor man. Huh. Just remembered that now.

The other reason he is not freaking out is that he saw the article I posted before anyone else did.

I sent it to him.

His initial reaction?

“That was beautiful”.

Me: You understand?

Jason: Do I understand as in?

Me: What I said. Why I had to say it. And that it takes nothing away from how I feel about you?

Jason: Yes baby I understand that….You’re making peace.

Me: I believe that you are the kind of man who can extrapolate that if I can love the wrong person this much…then I can love you even more.

Jason: Peace with what was….what could’ve been….who and where you are now. I know exactly how that feels.

Me: It should be enough to know I tried. But…Ima writer.

So is Jason. We feel things, see them touch, them taste, them and then write about it.

It’s how I noticed him in the first place. How we first began to explore and show each other how we felt. And how we continue to do so. I paraphrased an article he wrote about me as the opener for this one.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/ *

We joked yesterday about misplaced jealousy over our past.

“Do you really think I got this amazing by reading about sex and love in books while cloistered in a nunnery?”

I didn’t. I have fucked and loved a lot.

Nor did he. I know he loved his last one and she almost destroyed him, and baby I know exactly how that feels.

Rumi said, you must keep breaking your heart until it opens.

I am open.

Jason showed me how good it feels to be wide open and held together at the same time.

“Baby you have a good heart….and you love….it’s part of you being you…..but….I know you love me….and you know I love you….it’s that simple.”

Me: it really is. I swear to god we just leveled up, or I leveled up and caught up to you…and you know Ima blog about this too right?

Jason: Haha I would expect nothing less from my girl….I love our level ups

Me: Did I catch up or did you come with me? Either way I feel brave and happy and good

Jason: Honestly….I don’t think it matters….we are here….holding hands. And feeling brave and happy and good…..is what matters….

It is.

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the poet

Open Letter to The Poet

May 2, 2016

I had plans to write just this one line.


I stayed, I tried and I fucking love you…god knows I do.

The end.


But, there is always a ‘but’.
When she sent me over to your page to read ‘pretty damned sure this is about you Sarah’ and I found myself blocked, for the first time in 2 years, I knew beyond doubt and question that you loved me.
Not because of what you wrote, because you blocked me.

And honey, that is really fucking fucked up.

“If you love me, then love me.” Stephen King

Why is this hard?

What you wrote was glorious, and all of the things most women dream of hearing.

I am not most women. Nothing compared to hearing you whisper “you fucker” in my ear, that I gave you an ‘emotional boner’ or sighing when I said something that pleased you. That was the real you talking to the real me, that was us. That laugh when you’d call me a clever girl, like diamonds, but more precious.

I asked you out for coffee, 2 years ago tomorrow.

I remember the dancing dots, my hopes soaring that you might actually say yes.

You spent 20 minutes hunting through my profile pictures and found exactly what you were looking for, a reason to say no, a nipple.

You decided in that moment I was exactly like all the rest, an attention whore/exhibitionist who would do anything for social media likes.

You told me to fuck off.

You never asked me why I put it up. For the record, it was a show of solidarity for a female friend who had been put in Facebook jail over a nipple. Nothing more.

There was nothing to forgive. You were protecting yourself, I saw it. I understand. I feel protective over you too, viciously so, even in absentia I would allow no one to speak badly of you.
Even now, I still defend you. I always will. It’s my way.

The exact same amount of time you spent looking for reasons this would never work and making assumptions about me, I spent learning you. Gleaning why you are the way you are and trying to figure out ways to prove I loved you with the parameters given.
And lordy-fucking-lord there were a lot of parameters. I could barely move an inch without hitting a wall.

I think I realized, the third or fourth time you came back, that if you stayed, life as I knew it would be over. And I didn’t mind. I called you my life’s work and I meant it.

“…my love for you is so overpowering I’m afraid I will disappear.” Paul Simon

I wasn’t afraid.

I knew that once I laid eyes on you the rest of the world would fall away. And once you saw into mine you would trust me. My face would forever reflect that fact that I belonged to you alone. My body and mouth would back that up in their respective languages. I am yours, nothing more.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I started out being afraid of you. In awe. I chuckle to myself when I think back to my first idea of what and how you were. Some of it astute and the rest so far off.

I imagined you in a small apartment above a bodega. A desk overflowing with poetry and balled up pieces of paper, a few whiskey bottles and full ashtrays. A small iron balcony on which you would sit, smoke and drink your morning coffee or afternoon whiskey and just observe.
Pounding at the keyboard, trying to diffuse some love back into the world, one drop of your heart’s blood at a time.

Every time I bought a book or a piece of your work I thought I was helping you in some small way. Funny in retrospect, but it is the thought that counts.

Poor and lost and lovely to me. And I loved you, as is, or as I imagined. I still do.

When I realized how wrong I was, I just chuckled to myself and gleaned an even further understanding as to why those walls of yours are so damned high.

I wish I could remember the exact moment that I realized you were human. Flesh, blood and marrow. Fallible and fumbling, just like me. It was a good moment. I fell harder for you and became braver than I have ever been.

When you told me about your life I absorbed every word, every tone in your voice that said ‘this is what made me’. I learned you, even when you left, I kept studying our conversations. I wanted to be better at loving you. You were worth it.

You taught me I wasn’t worth it, to you.

Your safety is more important than the risk it was to just love me and see where it goes.

I understand, your safety is important to me too.

That is why 5 people know your name…and no one knows the secrets you told me in the dark.

I wouldn’t trade a minute of you.

Since last July I have had plane ticket money tucked away in a drawer, waiting for you to call me to you. But you never did.

You opened up a whole new world of possibilities as to how honest I can be with those around me about who and what I am, the things I want and the things I have done. You made me admit things out loud that I had hidden even from myself. You unlocked the cage society made for me and set me free. And I know you loved me for it.

So I will always love you. I had to flip the switch from active to passive. And now back again, there is nothing unlovable about you to me.

I am writing this to you, in blood red, dripping graffiti on one of the walls you threw up to block me with. And that is the best I can do, in the parameters given.

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