sexloveandgrace, Author at Our Lady of Lust and Grace - Page 50 of 70Our Lady of Lust and Grace

lost boys

Afternoon Delight

April 20, 2016

Oh, I know
I’m holding on
I’m holding on to a ghost

I know
I’m tangled up
I’m tangled up in your ropes

I know
I’m skippin’ work
I’m skippin’ work like a stone

I know
It’s ok I’m not a-ok right now
Ubiquitous Synergy Seeker, N/A OK

That happened, verbatim. And I got coconut oil on that dress, I love that dress.

I am not ok right now.

And for my next trick I will reach into my recently retired winter purse and pull out… a carrot peeler?

And resume my position of puddle girl crying on the floor.

Only in my head. Okay, truth. My eyes leaked a little, but the flood seems to have passed. Just waiting on a dove and an olive branch.

We are almost done, I swear it. I can’t even anymore.

Sorry my Sunshine. I have tried fucking this poison out, crying it out, toughing it out and it just keeps ending up here. Skip over this if you must, I will understand.

The pen is my sword, my blood is my ink and a carrot peeler has become a catalyst.

My dad gave it to me years ago.

It’s important to me. I have lost a lot in this life, not that though, never that.

And I kinda want my Tupperware back. I don’t want it back so much as I just want back in the house and upstairs. I will forever wash the Tupperware if I can just go back upstairs.

I still read his horoscope when I read mine.

This…

*Welcome to the Beauty and Truth Lab.
We’re coming to you live from your repressed memories of paradise, reminding you that you can have anything you want if you will just ask for it in an unselfish way.
Welcome to the end of your nightmares, beauty and truth fans!
The world is young, your soul is free, and a naked celebrity is dying to talk to you about your most intimate secrets right now.

Just kidding.

In fact, the world is young, your soul is free, and at any moment you will feel a flood of ecstatic compassion for salamanders, oak trees, clouds, toasters, convenience store clerks, and even the ocean itself.
I’m your host.
My name is the Sacred Janitor at the Edge of Time, and I’m proud to announce that this is a perfect moment.
It’s a perfect moment for many reasons, but especially because you are on the verge of finally figuring out exactly what it is you really want more than anything else . . .

Fucking Postcard from 1952 is playing again, seriously?

Hadn’t heard that song in a week, but twice in two days. Still a thunderpunch to the heart.

Add *Rob Brezsny and a carrot peeler and I have flashbacks galore.

The one I call Giggles and Human Serotonin was sitting with me at the bar one night, the Giant was messaging me. In an untoward and forward manner considering he has a girlfriend. But I was feeding it. Love does that, makes you bend. Sometimes at the knees.

I asked him to come get me and he didn’t. He’d been drinking.
She answered in her 19 year old way of making pouty dolphin noises.
For a minute I wished I was her, at least she had a shot with him if you considered their age.

She asked me why I couldn’t let go.
I told her I was in love with him.
“Well, have you told him that?” she asked.
“No, honey, I don’t know how.” I said (except here and now like this I suppose)

I vowed aloud to her the next day if that happened again I would walk out the door to him.

I had to wait 3 whole days.

He messaged on a Tuesday, said he was home asked if I wanted to watch a movie.
I didn’t even have to think about it.
I made some half-drunk bullshit excuse ran out the door of work and hopped in a cab before he changed his mind. Passed about 300 bucks worth of customers on my way out. Didn’t care, still don’t.

We were both drunky when he opened the door and I stumbled inside.

We had more drinks.

We giggled and laughed and talked and touched like we hadn’t spent the last month apart.

We fucked with reckless abandon and lightning bolts louder and brighter than before, to that damned song. Explosions in the Sky. The one that only previously reminded me he promised he would stay. After I promised him that if she wasn’t the one I would just take his hand and take him upstairs. I don’t break promises, I did exactly that, twice.

Now I reminds me of him, inside me. Us. Molten and moving.

The carrot peeler happened the next day. We had a lunch date planned. I brought over pasta and made parmesan curls with it, all fancy-like.

Whatever had been holding us back physically had dissipated the night before, never to return.

There was no music when we went upstairs, no false pretense of a movie. No cover of darkness. I got to see him in all his glory, holding me down and open, blocking out the sun. Like an eclipse, I stared too long and the image and halo are burned into my eyes and memory.

Earlier I danced in the kitchen to a live John Mayer album while he finished off renos in the dining room, occasionally sneaking peeks at the other through the doorway and smiling. I caught a glimpse of what life would be like if he had stayed with me and I floated around that fucking kitchen, doing dishes and grinning like an idiot. Idiot being the operative word.

Both of us.

And I say this with all kindness intended. My darling Giant. You are a fucking idiot. Who lets this go? Who lets me go?
At least I hope you are an idiot, it’s that or the world’s most beautiful liar. Please be an idiot and then stop doing that.

What if this storm ends and I don’t see you? (Snow Patrol)

gypsy travels

Bourbon Street and the Baskets of Fucks

April 18, 2016

I started writing an article yesterday about my trip.

I am under a gag order. Some of what happened in New Orleans has to stay there. It’s only fair and right, this is my blog about my adventures. Not a place to out anyone.

I had my Sunshine take a look to make sure no one was getting painted in a bad light. Then I re-read it myself.

It sucked.

I mean it wasn’t that bad. Just sounded like a travel journal entry. Meh.

I had a moment of self-discovery yesterday right after my welcome home brunch.

I was a little jealous of my traveling partner, my PIC.

At one point the second morning, while discussing the night before with her I said the words, “I am a mom, I can’t turn it off.”

She is a high-maintenance-party-girl over a decade younger than I. We are not well matched at all. But somehow we work.

I wasn’t jealous of the attention she was getting, which was a vast amount, she was happy and I was happy for her. I am not a fan of attention from strangers.

It was her amazing lack of fucks.

We each carried a proverbial basket. Mine was full of all the fucks to give and hers had none. Mine was heavy and she floated around like a helium balloon with me holding the string.

I am the writer and the documentarian and the mom. It’s just what I am.

But I am also a heavily tattooed mildly enlightened stripper that drinks like it’s my job at my job.

There has to be some balance here.

Night two, we finally found it.

When she rolled into my nice quiet dinner the second evening, smashed, I (almost) burst into tears.
I wanted so badly to relax and enjoy at least a part of the night.

But…wait…that wasn’t her responsibility, it was mine.

My tears and her shenanigans got us free garlic bread and a staff discount on our /my dinner…so that was okay.

I had a mini epiphany after she jumped on a random party bus and left me standing on Canal. Well first I chased the bus four blocks and chewed her out, then I had an epiphany.

What if, once we hit Bourbon Street, I just let her do her thing? No rules.

I knew our final destination, I knew I would feel safe and happy there, we weren’t in a rush.

I uncrossed my arms, unfurrowed my brow and let my guard down. I danced a bit too, did a few free shots, hugged some bouncers and staff from the night before. They said “she’s at it again huh…you okay?” and the answer was a sincere “yes”. And suddenly the dynamic shifted.

She would look to me before doing much of anything and I would nod. Then we would both smile and she would do her thing. Sometimes I would snap a pic or shoot some video, sometimes I would just watch or strike up a conversation of my own, then it was time to move on to the next thing.

When we got to where I wanted to be, we were greeted like long lost friends. Free drinks started flowing, at one point a blue shooter got spilled down my white dress and the purveyor of said shot braced for impact, I just smiled and said it was fine. It was fine, it’s just a dress. I have plenty.

I stayed sober enough to get us in a cab (just barely), but by then we had a legion of new friends wanting to make sure we got home okay. At some point my dress was all the way up, all good, I had nice panties on. There is a snapchat video of me giving a stripper a lap dance floating around in the ether and that is alright too.

I was warned about her, my instructions were ‘don’t let her get raped arrested or killed.’

Mission accomplished.

Truth be told, I needed her. I couldn’t have enjoyed myself as much as I did without her. I would have played it safe the whole time and missed out on way too much fun.

Just no twerking or talking on Canal Street.

dancing girls

Adventures on Whore Island

April 12, 2016

“Don’t date a mystic, if you want the life you have. If you are comfortable and cozy, stay away. Whatever you have built around yourself to create comfort: it cannot stand in the blazing fire of a mystical woman. She is no trophy. She is no bodily pleasure-maker. She is the seer of souls. She is the womb that births the divine into the flesh and bone of matter. She doesn’t mean to burn your village to the ground, but she has seen what you are meant to become. You are not a peasant sheering sheep, as you have thought. You are a king dressed in rags who has amnesia.”
~ Alison Nappi

Love that almost as much as Lessons on Loving a Prophet.

No actual post today. Save these words.

I have failed to find an adultier adult and thereby must become one.

I leave for NOLA in less than 2 days. Gone for 3.

I need to recharge. Absorb some magic from elsewhere to bring back home.

Promised the Giant I would procure a voodoo doll and name after him, and so I shall.

Before I leave I must do things like get an oil change and climb Laundry Mountain, and work I gotta work work work work work.

I was out with a dear friend the other day. Talking over twin stone bowls at the Owl of Minerva, a Korean restaurant with a name that pleases me to no end. The food is amazing, as was the company.

We were talking about the last straws in abusive relationships. She said if you can leave in less than 7 attempts you are doing well. First two took me over 20, this last one…just once.

I was beaten so badly once that when I got to work the other strippers in my change room believed I had been in a car wreck, save one who asked when they started making cars with fists.

Led to some other stripper war stories. She asked if I had published any…not the ones I was telling…no. Too graphic, Angel Heart versus 9 1/2 Weeks.

Hmmm, I felt an idea tickling the back of my brain.

I’m working on an erotica novella, very genre specific and although loosely based in real life, it is fictitious. Not the kind of thing I post here. But…

The one who inspired my aforementioned Opus also used to play a game with me called ‘fact or fiction’. He would ask about my past or get me to make something up and I’d send whichever he chose. The real life ones have no place in the novella…but…

I have archives of lovers past. Starting around age 17, and never ending if I can help it.

More idea tickles, I’m giggling now.

So, starting soon, there will be a new page to this website. Pay-per-view so to speak. I give you, my darling readers, a one paragraph teaser and if you want more you have to subscribe or pay a nominal fee.

I promise to be worth it.

Full disclosure stories about my lovers and strip club shenanigans.
Way less metaphors, way more sex and all absolute truth.
Thinking it should be called “The xxx Files” or “Adventures on Whore Island” yep, there it is.

All me, All nude, All the time.
See if I can hire Cheech Marin to stand outside and be my barker “PUSSY PUSSY PUSSY”. There may or may not be vampires and snakes inside, mariachi band…check. We did have a live tiger on the pool table every Friday for a while. Her name was Tasha, I think.

See you on the other side.

men

Hot Neighbor and Humble Pie

April 10, 2016

It seems that I’ve been chasing angels
for what seems the entire of my life.
Amber, Run Heaven

See also “angel came down from heaven yesterday, (s) he stayed just long enough to rescue me”.
Jimi Hendrix

Hot Neighbor brought pie and wine the first time he came over.

We were both kinda awkward, didn’t know each other very well.

My how things have changed. We now eat cheesecake.

We do however, still call sex ‘pie’.

I re-posted The Dress a few weeks ago, and contained within is “An Ode to Hot Neighbor” wherein I hadn’t met him yet, but he looked at me like I was a goddess even in my sweatiest sweats. He still does that. He came over last Saturday right after the Hulk apartment incident. I opened the door, crying and he lunged forward and caught me in the best hug, he then drove me and my Sunshine to work.

I looked at her that night and said “I am not doing right by him, making him listen to me cry over other boys when he is right here and treats me like gold.”

“He doesn’t seem to mind” she said. And for a second I believed her.

He was here through the Giant recovery, just holding me and listening. Giving me pep talks and much needed perspective.

I’ve been standing in the forest screaming at the trees again.

I fucked up.

Is no bad. I make fix now.

I wrote an article yesterday about all this wonderful unconditional love I get from my girls, and I do. We all deserve a love like we have for each other, as messy and strange as it is and we are.

But, um wait. I have boys in my life like that too. Men actually, good ones.

Hot Neighbor. The one I call Home. And a new one, the Blue-collar to my Ballerina.

Blue-collar messaged me shortly after I put up the aforementioned article.

Him: I just wanted you to know I love your newest writing….and I know you’re still having some good and bad moments….but I am enjoying seeing you with that fire in you more….very proud and happy for you Flash….

Me: It’s you too. You treat me like gold.

Him: Love you’re more precious than any gold.

Me: As are you darling

Him: Thanks sugarpants

He calls me Flash. He is the factory worker to my stripper and together we make the premise for Flashdance. I could spend the rest of the article explaining the subtle private language we have begun to develop, but it’s ours. He makes me smile and giggle and sigh on the regular. Yesh, yesh he does.

He is also making an 11 hour pilgrimage to buy me tacos in Chicago whilst I have a two hour layover. That is the stuff memes and dreams are made of.

The one I call Home maintains vigil. Popping in every now and again when my Facebook statuses or profile pics get too morose. He keeps up with this blog. (Hi honey). He was with me when the false soldier/bouncer debacle happened, offering advice and keeping me from beating myself up too badly. I came to peace with that horrid situation in lightning speed thanks to him. Actually the article I wrote about him called Sexual Healing was the catalyst that launched me out of that relationship. Thank you honey.

And what of Hot Neighbor?

He was here last night for proverbial pie. We broke in my new We-Vibe.

I had a mini epiphany while we were talking and smoking in the afterglow.

“I can sex friend like a champion” yes, I meant to put the R in there. “But if I get an inkling of ‘relationship potential’ I turn into a retard.” (The way Zach Galifianakis says it in the Hangover)

I do, I become less of myself, I start pulling back and trying to be what my idea of what they want, and I am normally wrong, because um…THEY PICKED ME IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE. Old conditioning makes me feel like they want a watered down version of me, but I don’t like me watered down, neither should any man I want around. Its science.

I slipped up and cited the Giant again, after I promised myself I wouldn’t.

I apologized immediately to Hot Neighbor. Said I felt like I misused him and took advantage.

His response? “Sarah, you treat me like a prince.” And here I was thinking I was being douche aka myself, my messy crying self.

Geographically speaking it is impossible for me to always look cute when he is around. We live across the alley from each other, he does see me in my sweaty sweats, morning hair, racoon eyes from the night before. He has held me while I cry and shake and get boogers on his shirt and he just keeps coming back, checking in and serenading me.

Also geographically speaking it is impossible for me to be around the other two, but if they were here I think we would make fine sex friends.

So basically I have 3 men in my life who actually love me as is. Why was I sad again?

I am smiling as I eat this piece of humble pie, washing it down with good coffee and good karma.

Uncategorized

Step Up or Stay Down

April 9, 2016

You met me at a strange time in my life.

Cue the Pixies Where is my Mind and watch them einstürzende neubauten (Tall buildings falling down)

Where is my mind?

Seriously.

I am in a perpetual state of losing it.

On a long enough timeline, the men I’ve loved come back to me.

And when they do, their credit goes back to zero. Full reset. Oh you hurt me and ignored me? It’s fine. Come on in and do it again.

Like I live in the factory where they make get out of jail free cards and I hand them out like Halloween candy, all willy fucking nilly. That is the tall building that needs to come crashing down.

Do right by me or get the fuck out and stay out.

I’m having barbed wire installed around my hearts blanket fort and teaching her how to use a knife.

Samesies is the theme of the week.

Ghosts I forgot about coming out of the machine.

My ex-husband resuming his king of the cock blocking robots status. I abdicated my throne and he jumped right back in it. Stay down fucker.

http://live.ezezine.com/ezine/archives/3_11/3_11-2016.04.04.22.23.archive.html

GEMINI (May 21-June 20):

For a time, pioneer physicist Albert Einstein served as a professor at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, NJ. On one occasion, a student complained to him, “The questions on this year’s exam are the same as last year’s.” Einstein agreed that they were, then added, “But this year all the answers are different.” I’m seeing a similar situation in your life, Gemini. For you, too, the questions on this year’s final exam are virtually identical to last year’s final exam — and yet every one of the answers has changed. Enjoy the riddle.

I am not enjoying the riddle, not one tiny little fucking bit. But I figured it out.

For me…the answers are the same but the question is different.

I need to teach my heart about tenses. Past present and future.

I need to keep my standard of how I allow myself to be treated as gender neutral. And my girls have set the bar high. Clear it.

My Magic Mamawolf heard my soul screeching and messaged to check on me. I told her about walking into the Hulk’s house and losing my shit, and that it wouldn’t have been so bad if the Giant hadn’t left me 2 days before. And yet another new/old one cancelling a date…we are referring to him as Sparks* (galore)

I have love coming from far and wide, but it’s so fucking far and I need you so much closer.

Her: Places where strong memories live are hard and can be sneaky.

Me: It was bad. It was the culmination of the 3 things.

Her: Well spark him. Hard, anyone walking the earth with eyes that belong in the face of an archangel should be touched like lighting.*

Me: Yesh. But I’m not chasing anyone anymore. (I wish she hadn’t said lightning)

Her: Not chase… seduce. Subtle yet BIG difference between the two

Me: Damn mama

Truth

Testify

Her: It is a hell of a truth

Me: Needed it

Her: You just needed reminder, your legs are shaky had a couple of rough rounds

Me: Also truth

Her: It happens and we forget ourselves, which is why we have touch stones that love us.

Me: Yesh

She is a mountain of a touchstone for me, and also very far away. I would drive 16 hours to sit in her kitchen and have coffee while being climbed by her perfect pixie kids though.

Her youngest pronounces my name as Share-wa. And says Yesh for yes. It is now a permanent part of my bizarre secret language.

I had an epiphany last night at work, surrounded by my best girls. Wrote it down as it was one of those 8:30pm epiphanies that tends to get lost before 1am, they drown in coolers along with my liver and sobriety.

The epiphany was this.

I have the best girlfriends in the world. They understand me as much as they are able. They love me as is. Even though I rarely go out to the myriad of things they invite me to, they know they can always come here and get warm food, warm bed and warm love from me when needed.

The balance of communication is pretty perfect. We talk when we talk and I never feel ignored.

That being said, when I was going through my transformation, I lost a few really good girlfriends, they had been with me through thick and more thick and me super thin.

At one point I considered she who was to become my sisterwife and her evil best friend, my friends.
I have since ended my toxic relationships with women.

They were bad for me and I knew it, so I cut them off or in one case got cut off, nice and clean.
Do I miss them? Yes from time to time. I mostly just wish them well…far, far away from me.

I got rid of the poisoned ones and cultivated better drama-free relationships with the women who stayed with me and found new.

It hurts to actively be interested in anyone and be actively ignored.
My girls don’t make me feel secondary, abandoned, lost nor neglected. Nor do I ever allow anyone around me to feel that way.

I have said before any man is lucky to have any one of us. We hold each other up and lighten his load immensely.

I keep joking that my love life is built on cursed ground.

It isn’t. I just have to start treating the men in my life how I treat my girls and accept nothing less from the mens than I get from my women.
Just be here, why is this hard?

I am not chasing anyone anymore. I can’t. I don’t care if you can do that thing with your tongue, hips, fingertips.

I do deserve to be loved the way I love. I’m really fucking good at it. Ask my girls, they know.

lost boys

The Head and the Heart…Shake

April 8, 2016

I have been falsely crying ‘writer’s block’. I don’t have writer’s block.

I have a mental block and it is fucking HUGE.

I want to stop talking/thinking about the Giant and I can’t.

I tried.

I tried to write about other things and it all kept wrapping back around to this.

There is some scientific research that states that sometimes you have to hear a song 10 times before you like it.

Happened to me with the Biebs, “Where are You Now?” mind you we were driving fast in Leah’s car laughing and smiling in the late summer warm.

Sometimes you just know.

I knew.

Also my life is a double entendre so keep that in mind while reading.

I told a lie.

I said “I hesitated to give you these songs because I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to say things with the lyrics, you know having feelings and whatnot.”

Walking After You was strategically placed and I meant every word. And I hunted down that version of Comfortable by John Mayer because it’s important.

I retracted the lie, but only partway. I have feelings, it is entirely possible I am made of pure feels.

Which is going to make this next part harder to believe. S’okay.

There is a girl at work, I call her Giggles because, ya, she giggles and it’s the sweetest thing, she is the sweetest thing. Baby strippers can go one of two ways in the first month, crazy or cute. She remains, totally adorable. She makes me think it is possible that serotonin can walk around in human form, just looking at her makes me happy.

One night whilst texting with the Giant, I asked him to come rescue me from work. She knew what was happening and was shaking invisible pompoms hoping he would show. I told her I would walk right out the damn door with him.
I wonder if she thinks my life is some kind of romance novel, I wish I could write her a better ending, but we are still in that conflict/shit is not working out right now, middle portion of the story.

He didn’t, but she watched the door for me and we played a rousing game of ‘that’s not him’.

In fact, all tall people now beg the question, “is that him?” I think she will just know if and when he ever shows up.

I gotta digress a bit.

I loathe a good portion of the music at work. We call the place “Tommy’s Hungarian Disco.” Lots of dance music, I realize there are different genres and subtle nuances to that shite but it’s lost on me, it all sounds like a headache waiting to happen, or the muzak in one of the seven levels of hell.

When I was on my staying away from anything remotely emotion kick post Giant, I stole some music from Giggles. A rather rapey, grindy tune by SoMo called Ride On.

She dances to a vast array of whatever she fucking feels like.

One song is called Shake, by The Head and the Heart.

I had to ask her 27 times what it was called. It was one of those songs I ‘just knew’ I liked.

I stopped talking to the Giant for 3 weeks, when I messaged him again he said he had burned through one of the cds I made him, played it so much it was starting to skip.

Oh ya I totally did that.

That was the lie. I made him 3 or 4 mixed cds, 19 songs each. Labeled them funny things like I tend to do. Lightning in a Jar was the one he warped, it was all instrumental. Oh the irony isn’t lost.

So, when we decided to meet for coffee of course I made him a new copy, and two new ones.

Upon which just so happened to be Shake. Song 5.

I swear it didn’t know what it said, and everybody knows I drink too much at work to retain lyrics.

But if the perfect song fits…

Well the ink in my pen ran dry long before your smile
And the pages have always been blank like the trees in the wild
But the wind yes the wind keeps pushing you to me
Time being time I know when it’s time to leave

And the memories we’ve made
Will never be lost, no
And the look on your face
We both knew the cost
But the wind yes the wind keeps
Howlin’

I put in the pictures, you put in the time
You put all those memories so deep inside my mind
Now the wind yes the wind keeps pushing you to me
Time being time I know when it’s time to leave

And the memories we’ve made
Will never be lost, no
And the look on your face
We both knew the cost
But the wind yes the wind keeps
Howlin’

Even if it was a mistake, I can’t forget your face
Even if it was just a day, you won’t forget the one
Who’s making you shake

Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see
Come around, I lost my way to see

Even if it was a mistake, I can’t forget your face
Even if it was just a day, you won’t forget the man
Who’s making you shake

Who’s making you shake
You shake
I’m making you shake
You shake
I’m making you shake

He’s making me shake.

The last thing he said is that the things we’d done would be hard to forget.

Why would you even try?

I can’t Taylor Swift and “shake, shake shake it off.”

I cannae Florence and her glorious Machine neither “And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back. So shake him off”.

Maybe it isn’t so much of an I can’t, as an I don’t fucking want to.

What if this storm ends and I don’t see you? Snow Patrol, song 7.

I fucking miss you.

lost boys, Uncategorized

Good Riddance and the Poltergeist

April 5, 2016

I did that. I am Alice and Wonderland and the Queen of Hearts and the Cheshire Cat and sometimes the Mad Hatter.

Today I am just mad.

Good riddance.

I think that is about the shittiest thing you can say to/about a person.

Breaks my fucking heart, and yet here I am thinking it so hard it is bleeding out onto paper.

In all fairness, he caused the gaping chest wound that is providing the fresh flow of blood for ink.

Writing effigies, trying to close doors and change the locks, yesterday he went and stuck his foot in it.

The fuck?

Please, let me go.

Don’t post my picture on your Instagram. It’s tacky. Stop salting the wound, it stings enough.

Just cauterize the thing already and be done with it. Use the matches you normally burn bridges with honey.

He said he wrote volumes for me but I never got to read a word of it. I am wondering if there is any truth to it. My truth is tattooed on my skin for the world to see. I showed my love.

I showed him everything and then…

He said he didn’t want me. That myself and my friends are narcissists, arguing and dragging through the mud anyone who doesn’t agree with us.

No mud honey.

They were defending me and I defended him.

I knew what he meant because he called me and explained himself.

I didn’t get such a luxury. Just an unanswered text, one in a sea of hundreds that I am drowning in.

As always she is a prisoner of her ghosts.

I am in prison, locked in here, they come and go as they please and leave me stuck.

Why the fuck am I always the one leaving the door open?

I was the last to message the Poet, 88, Young Un … god the list goes on and on and basically reads ‘all of them’.

I know what it is like to be abandoned and I cannae visit that wretchedness on another human being, especially not those I let into my bed and my heart.

I always double check. I always forgive. I always listen to the explanations when they wander back. And they do wander back. I make excuses for them, like maybe time passes differently where they are. But what about me and my time?

“Oh where have you been my blue-eyed son, oh where have you been my darling young one?
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans, been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard.”
~Bob Dylan, A Hard Rains Gonna Fall

That is where I live. The mouth of a fucking graveyard. My love life seems to have been built upon an ancient burial ground and the land is cursed.

And that is what I need, a hard fucking rain. Wash all this shit away.

I can’t anymore.

Whether it is the message they mean to convey or not, all it spells out on my tombstone is ‘she didn’t matter enough to stay/try/fight/love/nothing.’

{See also good riddance.}

I am the common denominator. I see this.

I am so tired of feeling disposable. I am anything but.

Things have got to change, and by things I mean me, and how I do things.

I am not a priest in a box. I don’t have to absolve anyone anymore.

If someone says you hurt them you do not get to decide that you didn’t.
~Louis CK.

I take responsibility for my actions, especially if they are shitty. I own it. I make amends. I say “I am sorry I made you feel that way”, and vow to never do it or anything like it again. I carry every hurt given and every sin committed as a reminder of what not to do again or unto others.

Where are my amends? My forgiveness. My unconditional love.

When is it my turn?

How about now.

Squint your eyes and look closer
I’m not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am thirty-two flavors and then some
and I’m beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
cause someday you’re going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said
~
Both my parents taught me about good will
and I have done well by their names
just the kindness I’ve lavished on strangers
is more than I can explain
still there’s many who’ve turned out their porch lights
just so I would think they were not home
and hid in the dark of their windows
til I’d passed and left them alone
~Ani DiFranco, 32 flavors

{See also ‘fuck you and your untouchable face’.}

I am making a new covenant with the universe.

If I catch the slightest whiff of fuckboi coming off them I am slamming the fucking door and smudging the house.

I hereby renounce my ‘keep striking and I’ll forgive you’ policy to 2 strikes and you are out.
One if you are new or I am annoyed.

I am fucking done.

I am burying my own dead here to appease the restless spirits and re-fertilize the sacred ground.

I want my swagger, juju and magic back and the one that is my equal.

Everything else is in my rearview.

Yes, I am bulletproof, but why the fuck are you shooting at me? Friendly-fire is the worst of the oxymorons.
Please stop shooting at me, my shield is broken and I’m tired.

I don’t need an exorcism, I just need to do what that family in Poltergeist ought to have done.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE.

I am on my way back from the dead.

*If there is one among you whom I have NOT provided closure for, or a reasonable explanation for my absence please speak now or forever hold your peace. Lift your curse or I will do it for you. Nothing weighs as much as this shit I’ve been carrying around and 99% of this baggage doesn’t belong to me.

unable to even

After the Flood

April 4, 2016

I have cried and come enough the last few weeks to end up drowning in all of it.

The levies broke and I got washed away. Trying to get my bearings and figure out where I am and where I want to be.

Now everything is a salty/sex-and-tear stained soaked mess and I’m trying to figure out what, if anything, is worth salvaging. Picking through the flotsam, hanging some of it out to dry. Fighting the urge to throw it all away.

Ain’t nothing making any sort of immediate sense at all and I’m losing my mind.

Saturn has gone retrograde and the life lessons and déjà vu are coming in such rapid succession I can’t pull back far enough out of the feels to see the big picture.

8 planets are heading into retrograde. That’s a lot of planets. Honestly, I don’t know what it all means to have them moving backwards like this, except I feel like I am running up the down escalator. Fighting for every inch of climb. It just started and I am already tired.

Like a heartbeat… drives you mad…In the stillness of remembering what you had…And what you lost…And what you had…And what you lost.*

Forgive me father for I have sinned and I have no plans on stopping anytime soon. In fact, I think I want to stop being so fucking virtuous and start thinking/believing that I deserve some happiness too. Taking it when it presents itself. Being a good girl and worrying about people who couldn’t give a fuck about me is no longer serving me, nor my ego/heart/logic/vagina aka the Royal We.

I am not a saint, at some point every saint had a choice.

If Saturn goes retrograde, and he has, does that mean he stops being an asshole?

Sadly, the answer is no. If it’s even at all possible Cronos the Titan becomes and even more titanic alcoholic dad swinging a belt with ferocious strength and deadly accuracy.

Ow.

The fuck?

The actual fuck, seriously now. Not cool universe.

“Oh baby you almost got a hysterical tear filled panic attack induced ear full of crying girl yesterday. I hit a fucking wall, after I thought I couldn’t hit it any harder. I sprained my soul I cried so hard.” I said.

“Next time….call me. Cry and wail and scream….we don’t even have to talk….just know you won’t be alone. And those walls serve a purpose….” He replied.

“It is time for a big upheaval methinks violently tearing things down so I can rebuild and the universe is swinging the wrecking ball with my name in it.” (Please let this be the truth.)

“Let that fucker swing baby.” (I love it when he calls me that).
He proceeded to send me his phone number, just in case. The world needs more of him, MY world needs more of him.

I didn’t post on a Sunday, I think I have missed maybe one other Sunday ever. I didn’t know what to say.

I have 14 documents open on my laptop. 15 if you count my Opus, but the filth and the fury contained in there is for print only.

All these tidbits and opening paragraphs, some just a link to a meme and a working title.

I can’t seem to make sense of anything. And everything is so rapidly changing. Things that were the truth last Monday morning have ceased to be tangible or real.

I drunk texted the Poet in one last attempt to free his head from his ass, to no avail.

I slept with the Giant for an extra week to attempt the same thing and also because um …mind boggling lightning sex. Nope, just got passed over yet again for the safehaven of a traveling waitress.

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions, I keep my visions to myself. It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and…Have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness…

(Of what you had and what you lost)*

Friday/Saturday were cluster-fucks of epic proportions.

Took a Friday night off work to go to a birthday party with friends. Got lost, got rescued by a man I have harboured a tiny crush on for a decade. We were flirting, then we weren’t, then we were again. We had a date and then we didn’t and now we do again.

I went out for lunch the next day with friends from the previous night’s birthday revelry. With the intention of going to a tattoo shop re-opening. Said shop has taken over the Hulk’s old apartment and converted it beautifully into a tattoo studio. I haven’t been there since he left last July. Thought I was okay.

Nope.

I made it up the stairs. Everything was so different. Eyes wide open, taking everything in. Every time I blinked flashing right back to couch snuggles and kitchen renos, unpacking boxes and then packing them again. Face love from his brown dog. Knees shaking at the bottom of the stairs, confessions into his jacket on the back steps. Biting my hand to stifle moans having afternoon sex and knowing how thin the walls were. Choking back tears when he left.

Caught a mutual friend’s gaze in the middle of this. He was looking at me with that “are you okay?” stare. His eyes and mouth conveying pity mixed with concern. I turned on my heel and ran down the stairs. I was not okay with this.

Took me 45 minutes sitting in the parking lot to start seeing/breathing normally enough to leave.

I think my writer’s block yesterday came from my inability to articulate the why I was so sad. I still don’t know exactly. Each snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty (Stanisław Jerzy Lec ) so does every drop of rain in a flood.

When the rain washes you clean… you’ll know, you’ll know*

Time to get clean, learn to swim in this or else I’ll drown.

I’m ready for things to make sense right about … now.

(*Dreams, Fleetwood Mac)

dancing girls

Hotel California

March 31, 2016

I work in Hotel California.

I check out often, but I have yet to leave.

Truth be told I have been checking out way too often as of late.

I had a girl thank me for sending her over to a man the other night. I have no recollection of doing this. Sounds like something I would do.

Sometimes I am hard pressed to recall the cab ride home, or the 3-4 hours proceeding it.

I had a focal seizure at the bar the other night, well before I got drunky. My drinking makes it hard to tell the difference but I knew. I am wondering now how many times that happens in a night and I am just too full of booze to notice.

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

I dance because I love being on stage. I don’t drink to forget, I drink to cushion my knees from the hard surface of the stage, and to buffer my shyness. I am shy. I know it sounds unbelievable for a girl who spends 5 nights a week naked on a stage in front of strangers, but it’s true.

I don’t look past the stage, the lights get in my eyes and I let them. The music carries me away somewhere else and I let it. I snap back to the here and now when there is applause. Some days I shut out the cat-calling and commentary and sometimes I fight back with righteous fury. Depends on the day, my mood, how many drinks I have had.

I don’t actually know what I look like up there. Every club I have ever worked at has a mirror behind the stage and I just don’t look. I take a Stevie Wonder approach and do what feels good.

People clap, an entire conference of 200+ men once did the wave for all 5 of my 3 song shows. The starting line-up of a football team both cheered for me and sang karaoke once. I get tipped more than average. Other girls tell me they like the way I look. Queen of the Plastics said she loves my show last night, not my music but the way I move.

I love and hate my job.

Last night the DJ looked at me, took his thumb and tried to smooth out the vexed ‘I want’ dent I get in the middle of my forehead when I am thinking real hard on something.
We talked for a bit about my dilemma, he absolved me like a priest in a box, reminded me my happiness was important too and then proceeded to add…”if I was single”
I thought I knew what was coming, but the end was “I would go fuck her so you could have your boy back.”

This is what friendship looks like.

This is why it is hard to leave.

This could be Heaven or this could be Hell

The comradery. Feeding each other, watching Jeopardy with my bartender, belly laughs with my girls.

6 weeks ago I showed up at work, eyes swollen from crying, broken toe, broken heart, uterus in protest and trying to exit my body. Hadn’t eaten or slept in 2 days. And there was a great rallying around me. My little nudist colony playing music I liked, feeding me homemade tidbits of this and that, just holding me in the change room while I rocked back and forth and cried in a high keening wail.

And then last week I got in a fight with a girl and it almost came to blows.
That night too my stage shows were lackluster, just counting the seconds until I could walk off and retreat back to the bar, my back to everyone.

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night

I don’t want to be here anymore.

My soul isn’t happy there anymore. Used to be, not now.

I know exactly what happened.

End of December it went back to the way it was in the time called before. Way back in the day when a $400 night was reason for pouting and protest and $700 was average. Where I had a hard time leaving the back room to make it to stage or out for a smoke because there was a line up waiting for me. All these men moving geographically closer to the dance lounge hoping I would emerge and they could catch my eye. When the tips and drinks were flying like murmurations of sparrows.

We haven’t had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine

We had exactly 3 days of this and now it’s dead again and its killing me.

I don’t hustle, that is my hustle. I walk around, I say hello and then I walk away and let them come to me. And they do.

I find it tacky as fuck to try and ask a man for a dance before he has even gotten a beer. That is not what we are here for. I rarely ask, I make them feel like it was their idea, and what a good idea it was honey.

The other girls do not function this way. I am as cool as a cucumber until someone disrespects me to my face. I went a decade without a single fight with a girl. Sure I had to choke out a customer or two, but that doesn’t count. I firmly believe in sisterhood, and as with all sisters, we may not get along, but we are in this fucked up little family together. But apparently I will still cut a bitch.

I mentioned said almost-fight to the Giant the other day, he said “How would you feel if I said I wasn’t surprised?”

Weird. I felt weird sweetheart.

17 years and 4 girl fights. 2 of them in the last 3 months.

I sunk to my lowest and dated that god awful bouncer with severe mental illness, I think I didn’t notice because I was drunk the entire time. I have got to get out of there, this isn’t me.

It is a riptide and I am getting tired of swimming.

We are all just prisoners here, of our own device

I know I fucked up. I took a year off when I should have been busting my ass and banking everything. I made two major purchases and lost money. I have downsized my life substantially. I now know I can make it as a waitress.

I have a choice between fight or flight.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before

(all italics from The Eagles, Hotel California)

Boys

Happiness is a Warm Bed

March 29, 2016

This is important.

And now for my next trick I will use quantum physics to justify my happiness.

I am my own cock blocking robot from outer space. From out near one of Saturn’s moons I presume. Atlas sounds correct, carrying all this weight around with me when I should just be shrugging.

What is wrong with me?

I put poor vagina on lockdown around the whole Giant debacle.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Albert Einstein

So I tried something different.
I denied myself my usual human Band-Aid and chose to just let the hurt heal on its own.
It did, not even the slightest hint of scar tissue, it wasn’t like that. He isn’t like that.

Sometimes we must fast to get closer to god.
In so doing, I remembered I have been gifted by the gods.
I’m activating one of my superpowers. This one is called “I can sugarcoat/ justify anyone’s behavior” now with an added twist it’s MY turn.

I do that. Read anything here about Young Un and you would think he has a halo.
Um, he left me too, in a less than majestic manner. But we are okay now.
I painted Ex Hubby a saint as well, we are not okay now.

Everything changes, everything is temporary and all I have is right now and the stories I write here to remind me of what ‘now’ felt like.

I also remember the time called “before”.

Once upon a time there lived Sisterwife, Bad Kitty and Jesus.

If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear it does it still make a sound?

It’s a cat in a box, we really don’t know for sure.

Double slit theory proves that all matter behaves differently when observed.

So if I fuck him and she never finds out, am I really hurting her?

Nope.

The atoms I am composed of do behave much differently when I am with him, ecstatically actually, and his thrum rather harmoniously with mine.

Do what thou wilt, this shall be the whole of the law. Aleister Crowley

The witch in me has to add ‘Do no harm’.

I can’t. I am not that girl.

I slept with Jesus for the most of the 90’s into the oughts’ while he dated his her. She still doesn’t know.

I’ve spoken with him about ‘us’ at great length. I was really happy, pouty but happy. He was really happy, guilty but happy.
Her? She was blissfully oblivious. I needed him to tell me one more time that I was a good girl. He did, I was. Amen.

After the 6 year internment-camp/prison/cheatfest that was my marriage I vowed I would never ever do that to another woman.

But I never did. I am not capable of that cruelty, never was.

The Jesus tree crashed down in my bed once a week, sometimes twice and his girlfriend never heard it. I didn’t make a sound outside of my room, just enjoyed the time we were given.

Sisterwife, was all hacking and chainsaws. She made it a clear cutting competition. Bragged, harassed. Used Facebook as a weapon and a wedge trying to and succeeding in cutting me down. We took turns throwing each other under the bus.

When Bad Kitty was actively pursuing her married Monster I helped her move physically closer to him. I had to grit my teeth for sure, some of my old wounds started to open and weep. But I genuinely cared about her and I wanted her to be happy. I have an ingrained need to contribute to the happiness of others, so I justified her behavior. Until she attacked his wife then I cut her off with the same axe I defended her with.

I know I am only in control of myself and my actions. I am not here to judge anyone. I have my own moral code and my own way of doing things. Louis CK calls them his ‘believies’ and he lives by none of them. He is my power animal.

You see kids. I want someone who does not belong to me. And he wants me too.

I had to ask myself why myself and the Giant deserved less happiness than what I’d helped Bad Kitty attain.

I have never and would never behave the way Bad Kitty and Sisterwife did. I behave the way I do. Loving, nurturing, constantly putting the happiness of others before my own. His happiness happens to be linked to mine.

What if someone throws me under a literal bus tomorrow and I missed out on amazing conversation, snuggles, backrubs and lightning sex with this colossal giant of a man that I feel amazing just being in the same room with?

Fuck it.

I went to his house. Matching bra and panties, freshly showered with every intention of fucking him.

I was afraid I’d slipped out of my goody-goody-two-shoes and he had found a pair of his own, but as his slid my underwear down over my ass and flipped me over to massage my front, that panic subsided. I looked up at him, my leg slung over his shoulder so he could work the knots out of my thigh and saw his eyes half closed in a blissed-out state that matched my own…no guilt, just cake and lightning sex.

I watched him smiling all the way up into his eyes, immediately shed guilt I’d been carrying.

I wrote the rulebook for lovin’ young uns. And he is young.

Thou shall not covet the young uns. If they come, let them, but don’t try to keep them. (It is actually more rewarding that way, having them return over and over without implied obligation or imaginary lockdown)
This too shall pass. Bask in the now, don’t think ahead. Or else the consequences will be yours to suffer alone.

My girl just got back from Burning Man. Explained the policies which allow this to continue. Sooooo unlike other festivals that leave chaos in their wake, this one has a carry-it-in carry-it-out policy. MOOP (material out of place) is forbidden. Nothing is left behind, the hardpack is squared off and fine combed for the last little bit of glitter and feathers. Leaving it as pristine as it was before 70 000 people did their thing in the desert. Ensuring the reverie can happen again the next time.

Too bad we can’t do this with people. Come in, enjoy, camp out and then leave with just memories, without scarring the landscape.

Too bad? No, exactly this. Leave no trace except the lingering lightning under our skin.