sexloveandgrace, Author at Our Lady of Lust and Grace - Page 49 of 70Our Lady of Lust and Grace

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…

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

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.

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 10^th 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.

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.

dancing girls

Burning Books

April 30, 2016

Someone called this blog my ‘burn book’ last night.

Seriously? 100 000 followers and you are yelling at me in the middle of the floor on a Friday night…that hardly seems safe now does it.

“Watch how you treat writers, we will describe you.”

I get paid to tell stories about my life. Sometimes it bursts into flames, I light a smoke and watch it burn. Then I write about it.

I’m more of a pour-sugar-on-shit-to-make-it-look-good kinda girl. Ask my exes.

The irony of the Mean Girls references flying around while a group of sparkly blond girls ganged up on me…not lost.

It started a little something like this.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women. ~ Madeleine Albright

There’s an extra fiery pit for women who watch their drug dealer hit his girlfriend, proceed to just buy drugs anyways and leave her there.
The heat in that pit gets turned WAY the fuck up when they ‘swear on my son’s life I didn’t do that.’

Ya, you did.

Just like she swore on her son’s life she wasn’t trying to fuck my ex. She was.

She applied her cocaine logic to the situation…instead of talking to me, she amplified a pre-existing fight and suddenly every girl in that clique was mad at me, including my PIC.

I’d uttered a less than silent prayer earlier yesterday that my Friday night be peaceful and profitable. For two reasons.

I knew I had fucked up at work. I mean I didn’t know, I was told.
Bartender said “_______ is mad at you for touching her customer”.

He explained what happened and when. I instantly felt like shit. The girl in question had asked Bartender to say something to me to avoid a fight. Rather adult of her actually, kudos.
I said “There isn’t going to be a fight, I fucked up.”

To fight implies I have some right to counter her argument. I don’t.

It doesn’t matter that I meant no harm, harm was done. Ergo, no fight. Just her mad and me sorry.

We’ll come back to this.

But first.

The girl who got beat up by the drug dealer? She’s a friend of mine. She called me panicked, crying, screaming and running down the street trying to get away from him and asking for help. I did what non-addicts do and grabbed my car keys, my son and a baseball bat and went to go get her. Put her in the car, threatened to run him over and brought her home.

I had already had a bit of a day.

Sadly my prayers went unanswered. Money was shit and ______ was pissed.

_______ asked me if it was okay to stick her finger in my face and I said ‘sure if that’s what you want.’ She was citing other fights with other girls. Seriously, do what you gotta do to get this out so we can get past it. Fuck, hit me if you need to.

But don’t yell at me on behalf of other girls.

Flashbacks of high school.

She who shall now forever be known as ‘Cocaine Logic’ saw a way to get in with the popular girls and took it. She also took it upon herself to tell my PIC that she ‘heard’ I had been shit talking her.

I still have no idea what I supposedly said. In fact any time I have been asked about our time away I stick to ‘it was insane, it was amazing, I want to go away with her again’, it’s all right here in this very blog.

Why would I make plans to go away with her again? At 8:30 this very night we talked about going to Chicago. I openly called her my PIC and made her my WCW. I adamantly defended her when people spoke badly about her or warned me about hanging out/going away with her. I actually expected her to do the same. No such courtesy.

So be it. Soap bubble friendship that popped at the first touch of anything.

I’m not here to fight. I wouldn’t trade a minute of hanging out with her for some bullshit idea of revenge.

This is just one of life’s little shake ups.

I spent a year in that bar being teased and ridiculed and alone. I can do it again. And if memory serves, I made way more money when I had way less friends.

Now.

If you have followed the blog you know, everyone gets a nickname.

I handed out a bad one. Call it poetic licence.

It’s just a case of a writer knowing what I meant and not explaining it. It happens.
Again, I meant no harm by it but harm was done. Doesn’t matter if I meant to or not. I did the thing.

So my darling 100K readers, here’s the corresponding apology.

I called a girl at work THE Plastic. Hence all the Mean Girl talk.

She gets her hair and nails done did on the regular. She probably has a collection of purses and shoes that cost more than my last 3 vehicles combined. She is always looks like she stepped out of a magazine… pretty, coordinated. She works out, goes to yoga and Starbucks.

I’m a heavily tattooed, barely functioning alcoholic, weird, writer/stripper.

She isn’t part of my tribe is all. None of them are, I was just visiting.

What I failed to make clear is that despite our vast differences on paper…I really like her. She was fun to talk to, said things like ‘I don’t like your music but I love your shows’. Flattering considering her shows are flawless and fantastic.
She has layers, we have had a handful of great conversations.
The article I mentioned her in cited one of those talks. When I re-read it I realized I didn’t make it clear that although she had gotten on my nerves one night, I shrugged it off for the greater good, which was us getting along. I don’t like what you did but I still like you. Basically.

Work is just work.

I love my life. I have a wonderful man who loves me. I have a son who overhears that panicked conversation with my girl and just grabs a bat and starts the car.

I’m going to miss my PIC if she stays gone.
The idea of making new memories with her was a nice one.
But, if I miss her, I have about an hours’ worth of videotaped shenanigans stored in my phone.

I archive, that’s what I do.

Added bonus, all the extra blog hits while people read through looking for themselves in here.

Hi guys.

men

The Big Blue Thingee

April 29, 2016

I put out distress calls, god knows I do.

I spent a long time alone in my head believing myself to be strange and unworthy.

Spent that exact amount of time toning myself down and trying to figure out what everyone wanted me to be. Like wearing costumes that didn’t fit. They pinched, itched and hurt.

I think I am naked now.

I found my people and came home to them. We are naked often, stripped bare, just being us.

And sometimes, the me that I am, is a sad girl, a scared girl, I don’t understand the actions of others. Especially those who seek to hurt, maim and manipulate me and mine.

Still, I go out and I try to live my life. I bump into people with sharp edges, I try to love them anyway and I bleed.

If it’s bad enough, I cry out and always, without fail, someone from my village comes running with bandages.

Only makes sense that my heart and ear is also fine-tuned to hear others crying out in the wilderness.

A girl said upon the Facebook “I don’t think I should be allowed out in public today.”

Sounds exactly like me 6 weeks ago.

My first instinct? Go get her and take her home. Make a sushi roll outta her and take it from there.

Instead I messaged and said “I’m around if you need an ear and a coffee.”

You see, we’ve only met twice in person. Once at a photoshoot covered in fake blood and once at the launch party for the calendar that said photoshoot was for. https://www.facebook.com/deadglamourgirlz/?fref=ts

She was drunky and I got her car where it needed to be.

She is cute when she is drunky, and next level sex kitten when she is in front of a camera.

Good times. Not enough to form a lasting bond, but enough that I was intrigued by her.
And then there was the distress call I couldn’t ignore.

We agreed on tacos the next Tuesday.

I told her she is a juxtaposition to me. A chameleon, and I find her fascinating and wonderful. Because at her core she is sweet, kind, smart and a total dork. Kinda like me. Except she has the switch inside of her that turns her brave ALL the way up in a way I have not learned yet.

That day her switch was turned off. Or maybe it wasn’t. It took guts to sit across from a relative stranger and show the absolute shit hand of cards she has been dealt lately. Her bottom lip quivered and I saw tears that never made it out of her eyes, but they were there, hovering, waiting.

The things we talked about are no one’s business. This is my blog and my space. If I could out my friends and their shenanigans, I would have a million followers just for the Cara Show alone.
But one thing she said, I had an immediate counter for. I had real life proof that what she wanted wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

I was a bit late for lunch, for 2 reasons.

A real estate agent and the big blue thingee.

I got stuck waiting for my apartment to be shown, they were late.

Aaaand…Jason and I were trying to make our relationship Facebook official and we couldn’t get the big blue thingee to work. This one.

One of the reasons the girl sitting across from me eating tacos was sad is because she had been with someone for several months and he wouldn’t claim her on social media.

I know right now that some of you are inclined to believe that it’s not a big deal. And if that is your opinion, more power to you. I am not here to judge. I have said before my relationship status was on mute for 5 years.

The only other long distance relationship I had with a semi public figure/writer…it was important to him to be anonymous, so I kept his name like a secret in my mouth. Even though I could bury him, I wouldn’t, I didn’t and I won’t. It’s important that he is safe, even after everything.

It’s no different than some people like holding hands in public, some don’t. Young Un hated it and I knew it. He knew I loved it so sometimes he would, for me. And that was enough, more than enough actually.

It was important to her. So it is valid. She is valid. She is worthy of any gesture that adds comfort to her. Her partner, if he is to be called that, should have acknowledged this BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT A PARTNERSHIP IS. It’s not a failing on her part, it is something simple that she wanted and was within his power to give to her. But he chose not to and thereby didn’t chose her.

Now she is free to find someone who loves the way she loves.

I understand completely. I don’t want to be a secret either, nor does Jason.

In my relationship with him, it is important to US. Doesn’t matter what his/my/our reasons are. I want to be with a hand holder. I want to be held and claimed and celebrated. And it isn’t some bullshit girly fairy tale shit that doesn’t exist. It does. I am proud of my man and proud to be his, and the world knows it.

We are both writers, we both spill our guts. And I have a feeling that we will show the world what is possible when it comes to love via the vast ocean of the internet.

When we are out in public there is no doubt that I belong to him. My body language screams it.

We finally figured out the riddle of the big blue thingee.

Jason has claimed me, over and over. Written pieces and articles about me, in which he calls me Sarah. And my name spoken by him in his sweet southern drawl is about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

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

lost boys

Looking Back and Fucking Thumbs

April 28, 2016

“…that’s a biiiiiiiig fuckin’ thumb you just sent me.”

That was the first time I heard his voice. InstaSploosh.

I am a sucker for a southern drawl, I won’t lie.

American accents sound like home and happiness. Some more than others. “Just shut up and let me say this” sounds bad regardless of the voice. I think even Morgan Freeman telling me to shut up would get my back up.

And that badly placed thumb on Facebook messenger. I hate it, seems dismissive. And yet I hit it by accident on the regular.

Meh.

Just gonna roll with it. And “big fucking thumb” has become part of our language with each other. I do so love it when he says ‘fuck’.

We talk, oh lord we talk for hours upon hours. I feel like I am in high school again, phone cord stretched to the limit out the back door so I can smoke and listen.

High school sweetheart went to juevie when we were god, like 17 maybe. I spent every night on the phone accepting collect calls and every day for the next month working to pay off the phone bill. He came home and dated someone that wasn’t me for the record. Why does my life get stuck on repeat? That was 25 years ago and I am still doing the same thing? And why do I have to have these moments mid-write?

And now that heaven is on fire, in the worst technicolor, oh and I’ve been chasing angels all my life. Amber Run, Heaven

There it is.

So now what us gonna do?

“This war won’t stand long, God won’t let it.”[1]

I am still fighting. I’m tired now.

“I am tellin’ all y’all it’s a sabotage.” [2]

Mercury is in retrograde, all phone lines to God are currently down, please try again later.

Day one. Shit is already slipping sideways.

My laptop decided to do an update shutdown and I lost 5 pieces I was working on. Microsoft Word had the audacity to dangle a carrot called “would you like to restore your previous documents” to which I replied YES. And no, not a thing. Just blank spaces where before there were words and feelings and thoughts and links.

“This is me breathing.” [3]

Jason had to tell me that yesterday. Breathe baby.

Somehow he knew. I was sitting in front of my laptop, mouth agape, tears rolling down my face.

I have a private album upon the Facebook called “holding area”. It’s where I put the things. Snippets, screenshots, inspirational shit. I was pulling screenshots off my phone looking for a conversation with Leah for an article. We fought, I was expecting a heartpunch. What I wasn’t expecting was uploading these tiny wee thumbnails that were not conversations with Leah.

Here come the Giant. Waltzing out of the past.

I wasn’t ready.

Sucker punch.

And this wasn’t the worst one. Not even close.

I have a self-defence mechanism, sharpened and honed over the last 3 years of dating ghosts.

More often I cut myself on the damned thing and baby do I bleed.

I decide I made them up in my head and he wasn’t that great, he didn’t really say those things and I am just a silly girl and look, everything is fine now.

And then time passes and I go looking for something else, innocently enough and I open their assigned oubliette.

And lo, he did say those things, and so much more.

I have got to learn how to label things better.

I also need to learn to stop looking back over my shoulder lest I trip, or worse. What if God sees and I become Job. Nothing grows on salted ground. I need to grow.

I said to Jason that I thought he deserved better, that I wasn’t coming into this clean. And he just stayed. Made a hundred excuses as to why this WILL work.

He doesn’t punish me for my past or even ask me to hide it. He works through it with me and looks for the why.

He doesn’t tell me to shut up. Quite the opposite actually.

He simply says “okay baby”. Let it out baby, give it some air and let’s work through this.

We did. We are. We will.

“Maybe what you think is you being a hurricane just feels like a light sprinkle to me.” He said.

I think so maybe, yesh baby.

This.

[1] Cold Mountain, Ruby Thewes

[2] Beastie Boys, Sabotage

[3] Grosse Pointe Blank, Martin Blank

Uncategorized

Okay Baby

April 28, 2016

Oh you did a buttload of drugs and you feel shitty and you need me to come get you so you can sleep in my bed and cry on my couch?
Okay baby. Love you be there in 20. What’s the address again?

Oh, you want to ride a mechanical bull with no panties on?
Okay baby. I will hold your purse, and film it.

I want to go swimming, can we get a hotel with an indoor pool?
Okay baby. (What no foot stomp required? Thanks baby.)
(See also, can we go shopping at Target for shit I don’t need so I can be supportive and then can you fuck me in a blanket fort…okay baby. Yesh)

Oh, you think its okay to bring your drug dealer to brunch and spend 3 days text screaming at me because I didn’t just say ‘okay baby?’
Okay baby, we done. That one wasn’t okay.

Which is weird considering…lately everything okay baby.

It’s my new mantra, whatever life hits me with, its just okay baby.

Once upon a time my dad was a shutdown coordinator for a huge company.
He would tally the man hours and outside hires to get everything running on budget within the time given. He worked with another man to whom he would show his well calculated specs to.
This man would look them over and religiously say at first “Okay Jonny”. Then it would all slide downhill. “Okay Jonny, I thinks so…I think so maybe. Um no. No Jonny. Just no.”

In my household it became part of our vernacular. Those inside jokes, movie quotes and song lyrics that become a private language between those you love and spend time with. The original back and forth got shortened. And any time the answer to anything was ‘no’, it became, “I think so maybe no.”

I have since changed my outlook on life the universe and everything due to a random trip to New Orleans with Miss No Rules.
There are no rules.

If I love you, I just love you. As is.

You wanna do a thing? Okay baby.

You hurt me? Shrug, okay baby.

Plans for hotel rendezvous? Okay baby.

It works for everything, like tabasco, perspective, duct tape and WD-40. And should be applied liberally.
This is some next level, ‘just roll with it’ shit. And I love it.

What happened is while I was waiting for life to happen, it was already happening. I panned out whilst watching the movie that is my life and saw that with little or no direction, everything was great. We lay in the road and get up if a car comes. Dance to no music or all of it. Life isn’t scripted, and I love the people playing star roles with me right now. Exactly the way they are, messy, funny, honest, belly laughs and sometimes out of control.
We have all survived everything up until this point. Those nights laying in bed with my heart ripped out, I wanted to die, thought I might. But at some point I got back up and back on with the business of living.
And as scary as the new stuff was, it was also really amazing. And it continues to be so, exponentially better.

I always loved this poem…so much that i wanted to be it, somewhere I lost my way.

Found it again and found the one who makes me feel like he is yesh, and I may…

Planned a vacation with Jason, we must have reorganized things, added and subtracted 1000 times, if once. Now he has to work 3/8 days. No breakdown, no subtext, no foot stomps. We can snuggle and watch movies when you get home and I’ll make dinner. Okay baby.

My friends are all at different points in their lives, most of them younger than me, some of them making right messes out of things BUT THOSE ARE THEIR MESSES TO MAKE. In retrospect all my messes had lessons buried in the shit. Why deny them the same thing just because I actually know better. If it gets dangerous I will pull them out, and they will come with me because they know that I am the Queen of Okaybabyland and if I have to say, no baby, there is a reason for it.

They say things like ‘I love him.’ and I just say “okay baby”. I am not the expert on love, I have a really good idea what it feels like to be accepted and wanted as is. Like a solid friendship, with lust on top. Closer than I have ever been. Feels like love to me. For them? I just know how I love them and hope they find something similar. Someone who just lets them be themselves and says ‘okay, that’s my baby.’

men

The Claiming

April 25, 2016

My relationship status on Facebook has been non-existent for over 5 years now.

I haven’t been single for 5 years mind you, but I left it blank.

I dated Pimp Daddy for 2 years and never felt the need to claim him, gee I wonder why.
(See the 3^rd word in the previous sentence.)

He never called me his girlfriend even after we moved in together, even after I got pregnant and then fired, rendering us gypsies. Even after I got us out of that mess and every subsequent mess after that.

He wasn’t that important.

End of story.

There was a method to my madness, or a reason for it.

I remember one day when ex hubby and I were fighting. I’d run away from home and was sequestered in a Pepto Bismol pink room above a strip club surrounded by everything I could possibly jam into my Jeep, including my laptop thank fuck. I was using it for evil, posting passive aggressive shit. Obsessively checking my relationship status on Facebook to see if maybe this was the time it would actually be over. It wasn’t. I mean, he DID dump me on Facebook that week, but it didn’t last.
And so it went, different locales, always the same game.
Is it my turn or hers?
Where am I sleeping tonight, and watching my status obsessively to assess how bad things were this time.

If I left 7 times I left 20. If he dumped me 17 times he dumped me 57. The center didn’t hold. It was never my circus and they weren’t my monkeys.

My monkeys fly.

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck them.

Every time I start shit talking my exes, I hear Sophia from the Color Purple.

“He ain’t worf it.”

“Don’t trade places with what I’ve been through. Sat in that jail, sat in that jail till I about done rot to death.”

I did. A few times. And I was always the key.

Hell can get pretty comfortable if you have been there long enough.

But I was the key, the key to leaving, the key to the locks in my life.

The secret is all inside your head she said to me. The answer is easy if you take it logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free. There must be 50 ways to leave your lover. ~ Paul Simon

The leaving, I have that down. Being left? Got that too, don’t want it but I get it.

But what about the in between?

How in the good lord’s name do I deal with that?

Where is that fine line between belonging with/to someone and territorial pissings?

Once upon a time I posted a profile pic of me in a doorway, wearing The grey dress. My corner of the internet exploded, compliments flying everywhere. But the one I fixated on was from Young Un. We had an inside joke about ‘man pants’, jeans I owned that hung off me rather than hugging my curves. He posted under said grey dress pic that I was beautiful no matter what I wore, even in my man pants.

It was the first time I had been claimed publicly by someone I was with, in what felt like forever.

And it felt amazing.

The Poet did the same, a few times, and it always elevated me. I felt wanted, like he was announcing his presence in my life. And I liked it.

I realized, I had lived without it for so long that I no longer need it, but I kinda want it.

With the new one, good god I wanted to brag. But I would restrain myself, mull over the comments I was leaving out for the world to see, and if I felt they might offend someone…inbox or not at all.

We talked about it, he makes it easy to talk about everything.

“I’m scared.” I said.

“It’s okay baby.” He replied.

I wanted to climb the air traffic control tower at O’Hare and announce how smitten I am with this man.
I told him that too.

“Okay baby.” He said.

Shortly after we each got called out by mutual friends…”so you seem really happy, what’s his/her name?” They already knew. I am so transparent it’s like trying to hide elephants inside a greenhouse.

I don’t want to hide anything, I don’t keep secrets nor am I one.

So I said it, out loud. Posted upon the Facebook that “I am smitten as fuck with Jason King.”

Took him nanoseconds to comment underneath “and I am smitten right back.”

And in that moment I allowed myself to be happy. Still am.

men

Smitten as Fuck (airports and kudzu)

April 24, 2016

When you live 9 hours away from the one you are smitten as fuck with, date-night takes on a whole new meaning.

Netflix+sweats, yesh. But my show stayed on pause for 5 hours while we talked about the universe, life, exes, work, our children, parents and grandparents. Feelings growing like kudzu, about a foot a day, wrapping us us in happy green and changing the landscape. Then we belly laughed for about an hour and made plans.

And it came to me then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. (Death Cab for Cutie)

It is.

And with every new relationship we must battle the demons of what came before and the cold, cruel, pessimistic leader of their army, Sargent-at -Arms “What If”, his never-ending arsenal, bombs and bullets labeled ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’.

What if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he likes me and then stops?

I don’t have to pray to any God’s for that. They have given me the gift of ‘try one more time’. I am optimism walking around in human form. Now is blessed the rest remembered. 90% of the time I only remember the good anyways, so there is that then.

I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s either that or be a nun or a lesbian considering how I’ve been treated by men.
And men on the internet? Fugedaboudit.
And (gasp) another poet sailing into my inbox? Nope nope nope.
2 years of Chinese water torture under my belt there. The slow drip left me fucking Thirsty.

But I opened the door and invited him in. Didn’t think of any possible outcome beyond friends. He knows everything because I told him.

“2 years?” He said.

“Yesh.” I replied.

“Well that makes no sense.”

I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. I allowed myself to briefly imagine how much loving and living could have transpired between the Poet and I in 2 years, and suddenly I was kinda angry.
Who does that?

It’s easy to find all the ways something won’t work out, especially when nothing ever has.

I have the Giant as recent (I think he is still living) proof. Perfection and compatibility and magic mean nothing when you dangle a nice safe waitress in front of a boy. I mean nothing. It hurts.

Men are sweet as fuck to me and then they run.

This one is sweet as fuck and he may yet run.

But why would I deny myself the possibility contained in his eyes, the ones that crinkle at the corners when he looks at me, smile going all the way up and lighting tiny fires there. Why run from that voice? The one that sounds like a young Elvis…low, southern twang, wrapped in velvet and says wonderful things. Why deny the pull between us?
Why turn my back on the body that drove half a day to see me for an hour, the one that radiates heat and looks and feels like home.

Yes, him.

Once upon a time in New Orleans I gave a stripper a lap-dance on around midnight and so began the day of opposites. I stopped adulting. T’was I who suggested getting massages less than an hour before check out from the hotel. T’was I who took a cemetery tour with no way of telling time, just so I could say hello to Marie Laveau and the other ghosts that wander St. Louis. T’was I who said yes to shrimp and grits, knowing we had to be on a plane within the hour.

And it was I who stood under a pillar at O’Hare, tucked in between terminals, wearing a red dress as not to be missed. Eyes darting from the door to the road and back again, like a tennis match, simultaneously waiting on my PIC and him with 2% battery and not a care in the world. I just knew it would all work out.

I wasn’t wrong.

I saw him before he saw me, and I just knew.

“I’m here”, I called out. Head down, studying his phone. “Jason.”
He looked up and smiled, kept coming towards me.

My walk became a run, I totally forgot about watching the door. I forgot about everything beyond closing the gap between us. He opened his arms and I fell into them like I belonged there. Airport chaos forgotten when I asked him to hold my hand and not let go.

He still hasn’t let go.

https://www.facebook.com/KingsPoetry1/photos/pb.1723932144510357.-2207520000.1461513578./1763620803874824/?type=3&theater

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