Fuck Yourself

It begins over a friendly disagreement, during which you smile, roll your eyes, and say, “Go fuck yourself.”

“But, Ma’am, that’s physically impossible.”

You smirk and ask how certain I am. On a roll, I launch into a  smug and tangential rant about the anatomical impossibility of an individual’s being capable of fucking oneself. Your response is to merely shrug, smile, and make a cryptic statement:

“Don’t be so sure…”

Later that evening, you tell me bedtime will be early, an hour early to be exact. The amused look on your face says it would be in my best interests not to argue. (more…)


Revving In Neutral

Sometimes I fall into a vicious cycle where I’m mentally and emotionally frustrated and cannot manage to channel that energy into productive avenues. In the old days, this would lead to drinking or drugs, but I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I try to go about my day, generally fail to complete mundane tasks, and end up feeling ‘stuck.’ This progresses into a cycle of mild depression, feelings of inertia, guilt over said inertia, and on and on it goes until something snaps me out of it.

It feels like I’m seated in a car stuck in neutral yet compelled to rev the engine until it screams. (more…)

Not Tonight

When did I last curl up in her lap? It’s been so long, I cannot recall. Despite numbered boxcars on the calendar and the disinterested faces of clocks, a concrete memory eludes me. Time, location, and date, they’re merely three dimensions after all.

That number, it could be a trinity – secure, owned, loved.

Instead, it feels abstract.

As a probability, It should be some comfort to expect these feelings again “someday.” I should be cheered by the likelihood of laying my head on her thigh, the gentle yet possessive finger hooked through my collar. Her lips inches from my ear reminding me what I already know: “You are owned. You are loved. You are mine.”

Three phrases I have heard, all of them as sincere, concrete, and real as the walls around me. By that logic, these dimensions I can measure, pace, curse, and strike – they should be some comfort.

They are not, tonight anyway.

Sanctuary and Leather-Clad Thighs

Feeling a tad nostalgic this evening and found The Cult meandering down memory lane. I’ve always loved this song in equal proportion to all the hedonistic acts that took place while listening to it – privately, in night clubs, and two live performances. Unsurpisingly, The best memories were made behind closed doors.

Well, most of them. Because then I found this video and remembered Bike Week, 1995. It was a ‘working vacation’ for yours truly, but that never stopped me from having a good time. Bike Week was always crazy, probably still is, but 95 was the most insane trips to Daytona I ever made.