Thursday, June 27, 2013

silent L, dreaming M

Outside of James's southern window is snow: scattered, piled, drifts. It is imaginary snow, of course, but it's what he sees when he feels desperate or nervous. Sometimes the hot summer sky turns blizzard and he can't even make out the street below. He pulls imagery from memory, taste of a different coast, taste of cold and snow, and he blends this memory into present. Imposes it over present. But he does not think about this operation any longer: now when he feels a certain way, a certain range of ways, he looks out the window and it is snow. And sometimes he feels chilled enough to put on a sweater, or on exceptional occasions, a coat.

And so James did not stir from his sleep last night while he watched himself throw snowballs with M in the street below. She was bundled, as a novice to cold would be bundled, the scarf so tight around the throat that if she was not dream imagery she might struggle for air. But she is dream imagery and so not only did she not gasp to inhale air, her exhaled hot breath shot an exaggerated three feet or so in front of her body. And not in puffs. More continuous, as if breathing has become entirely exhale to her. Like the stream above a sewer grate. An impolite analogy, but apt.

James and M stood a half block or so apart, facing each other. Muffled words were also thrown that they both had no trouble deciphering. The occasional nod or hand wave. And then a continuous barrage of snow in both directions. James always tossing short of target, as if a force field drops his bombs at her feet. M always tossing long. Some majestic launching strikes - five stories high? Ten? And her so small from the aerial view, but a tiny little launcher from James's window, where, of course, he watches himself and M snow fight. Snow play? He thinks they look happy, that he and she look happy. But she is so tightly bundled and his snow keeps falling short and so he beats on the window, first slowly, then rapidly, first with fingers, then with fists. He can't be sure of what he witnesses and he can't make them look up. They are oblivious. Again, James is but a spectator of his own events.

What James notices last is L taking notes on the sofa, in that furiously rapid manner of hers - the little fingers blurring across the page or keypad, this time page, her lips moving at similar speed to her fingers, words come, crisp words that James so wants to hear, but he can not. Her words sail all around him like M's snowballs sail over his head below, and James knows that if he could just hear what L is saying then everything will be Okay, everything in his life will fall into order. Everything. He also knows that if he would just stop pounding on the window he could hear L, clearly. But he can not corral himself. Can not harness this overwhelming need to pound on the window, to make those below him in the snow see him, listen to what he must tell them so their snow would reach each other, so they can play this game correctly. L becomes but a distraction, an annoyance,  and then a greater urgency arrives like the flush of a nice belt of bourbon and so he pounds faster and harder, of course it seems he should have shattered the window by this point, but it is a dream and sometimes dream windows are not made of glass. Eventually L was no more upon the couch. It was if she was never there, as if she never said a word. But L was there. James woke knowing L was there. More importantly, M knows it. And that is when M unraveled her scarf and tossed it like a lasso in James's direction.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

M, M, the second M, and more M

Another time we can hear about the woman whose hands open energy channels in the body. The woman who spent two hours on James and moved him from a mental state of depression and anguish to tentatively optimistic. That was on Friday. Yesterday he exercised in the gym for an hour, the first time since the latest surgery almost six months ago. It did not hurt as he had feared. He then jumped in the pool and splashed about for half an hour. He didn't drown.

Before the gym James got two solid hours of quiet. Writing time and he felt emptied afterwards. The one workout went as well as the other. Body and mind and spirit functioning as James has come to expect. Though not recently. James afraid those days of ableness lost. James embarrassed by the gusting of change, the unanticipated speed, his own bystander at his own crash. The sudden wreckage, the turned heads, the splatter and the screams. James the only observer of his sudden gradual demise. The weight of it.

So on this day James can leave those thoughts elsewhere. From coffee to computer to gym to pool and now watch him dance (a very loose interpretation of his awkward movements - what other word to use?) to loud pirated music on his computer, or, maybe it is loud pirate music on his computer - either way, he clearly doesn't give a damn.

Then a shave and an elongated shower, no concern with how much of the expensive as hell shampoo to use, several white shirts auditioned and rejected, the unexpected wrinkle, the too tight fit, eventually the winner, and then the auditioning of ties, the jacket and slacks choice obvious, and finally enter the celebratory shoes, the ones worn only when the mood is appropriately high. James will pay The Man today, but he will arrive looking as he feels.

Work work work. Calls, a visitor, emails, decisions, coffee pot banter, a lesson for a newb, an exchange of texts, a story for Nina, a flirtation, an appointment, paperwork. Four fifteen comes and James has had enough. He has grown unaccustomed to work and the fullness of his day now has him tired. Grocery store and home. Breakfast for dinner: pork chops, eggs over easy, whole grain toast, orange juice. Baseball on the television and some internets and so very drowsy. Off to bed by ten, asleep by ten oh five.

And yes, there is now a second M. She is unrelated to the first M, probably couldn't be much more different. Maybe another time details wills be given. The second M is only mentioned now because in the midst of James' busy day it was she, not the first M, who was texting him, and, with great urgency and emotion. Drama, they call it these days. Drama seems to have engulfed poor second M. Work drama and home drama. Fortunately, unlike James, she has no health or beauty drama - she is spectacularly good looking. A tiny package of soft hair and smiles and firm curves, almost like a doll.  But a doll with dark brazen eyes and always moist lips. Come take me to lunch, James? Please come soon. Tell me you'll come soon.

And everywhere else was M.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

M joins the Game while the Whore whores

Johnny has been placed over there, off to the side, out of the game. It was foreseeable and he would admit he was in too deep. Beyond his measure. I think he feels relieved to be done with her. But then Johnny doesn't understand the game. She is done with him when she is done with him. That time hasn't come yet. Enjoy the pause, Johnny. Make use of the time off to wise up. Stop being such an idiot.

She's on a plane soon. The long weekend here. The guest room hers if she wants. For her luggage, she said. And I imagine her pleased with the speed of her answer, the precision of its thrust, the winning parry. And it's now clear to me she has no idea who she bargains with. Does she think she can so easily break down the game that I've built over years of dedication?

They sit on her sofa and drink white wine. Her left leg in his lap, one of the bra straps loose at her shoulder. She speaks crisply. Precise words chosen, like an instructor. She calls him Billy, asks for his homework. His thin crummy pale face instantly flushes. Hot cheeks. He mumbles some words. Give me your chocolate milk then, and she holds out her hand. An insistent shake. He offers his wine glass, half full. Stand up, and so he does as told and faces her. She unstraps his buckle and unzips his pants, let's them fall to the floor. Let's see what you did bring for me. 

I count eighteen emails from M yesterday. There has been an escalation. Of course I noticed it. And Yes, while it was happening. So maybe M has more game than I originally thought. So what? She could never game at my pace. I can grift in my sleep. I do grift in my sleep. Dreams made of culls and false runs and slips. Unknowable colors, unless you know. She wouldn't know unless I showed her. She would have to get inside my dreams. 

She has finished with the little man with the thin crummy face. His time spent while no one was watching. Well, she was watching. And she kept her eyes on him. Showing him how grateful she was for his thin crummy cock. And when he had enough she easily took his convulsions, letting some of his dribble slide out the side of her mouth. Holding her head tilted up, like a pose. It is a pose. A snapshot for the little man to take with him. A remembrance of how hot it was. What a good time he had. His sick twisted little thin crummy snapshot. She doesn't care about any of that. She liked the taste of his dribble, the feel of his thin little crummy cock. She liked it so much she orgasmed while sucking him, which, not surprisingly, sped up the proceedings. 

It is morning and I drink my first cup of coffee. Three messages from M already. She is wordy this morning. She tells me the story of a weak game run by a weak player, a truly pitiful player. I offer sympathy, an inappropriate amount of sympathy - M can handle her shit, but, still, it just feels so wrong and I can't help but feel bad for her. Fuck him though. Loser. And M is wise enough not to attempt to exploit this show of compassion, to not even whisper a hint of the obvious - I am not impenetrable.

It all has been noted: his hygiene, length, taste, duration, specific stimuli, reaction, pre-dialogue, post-dialogue, fetish opportunities, donation and gratuity. Her penmanship is crisp and strikingly fluid. The occasional flourish. She will shower now. Freshen for her next guest. First hang the clipboard full of notes in the kitchen on the wall next to the telephone.   

More messages. M thinks me funny. Sublime funny. Guffaw funny. I send her words that are decidedly not funny, might be considered the opposite of funny. Perhaps not funny their only true meaning. She sends pictures - M in various poses. M with clothes and without. I write in progressively uglier detail and more messages follow. Why does she not back the fuck up? Why does she not quit already? Doesn't she know quit is a big part of the game? It's an end move, often a winning feign. Doesn't she know so few games make it through to winner time? Almost none, that I've heard of.

Monday, June 24, 2013

distasteful people

Sylvia's mother says she's too busy to come to the phone but thank you for calling. Do call again. Do call again after Sylvia's married. After Sylvia is (safely) gone. It is good to hear your voice and I will tell Sylvia you inquired after her. She will be pleased. Do call again. Not too soon, but do call again. (and the operator says forty cents more for - what?) Do call again. Do.

Faster now. Acceleration. Volume up now and windows down now. Cabin turbulence. Acceleration. One hand wheel one hand sky roof open. A swirl. Acceleration. Slow moving lane hogging motherfucker. Horn and finger. More volume now. Louder. Louder still. Turbulence. Motherfuckers everywhere. Horns and fingers raised. So many motherfuckers. Acceleration then. Speed.  

She greets him at the door in bra garter stocking. Half naked. She pours two glasses of Pinot Grigio, tastes her wine first before offering the other glass. He notices. He pulls her tight to him with his free hand. Cool skin. Surprisingly so. As if she is bloodless. He wants hot. He expects hot. "Open." He pours half of his wine into her mouth in a rush. She doesn't choke or gag, but wine runs down her chin, down her throat, between her breasts, over her panties and down to the floor. Now look at what you've made me do. Lick it up. 

Just last week we saw a Sylvia look alike at the coffee shop. She made our Cafe Americanos. I called you in from the patio to point her out. You seemed more confused than anything and I understood because I so poorly explained who Sylvia was. I can't explain it now either. But would it help to mention that she aborted our child? And then a few months later got on a plane and flew hours and hours to me with the expectation that she would be loved as if nothing had happened? As if she hadn't ripped me out of her at the same time? And would you understand if I said that I had to make her cry, to feel at least a little of what I felt? 

She is fully naked now. Claims, when asked, to weigh one oh seven. Plausible. She looks good. Looks like she works at it. Nice firm titties. What he likes, although he's had plenty that were fatter. A couple of sticks too. Variety, he says, and all that. He is annoyed that her skin remains cool. The implication a failure on his part. Maybe this is why he lacks playfulness when he slaps her ass. Beat some heat into that meat. 

Your disapproval was palpable when I told you that Sylvia wanted to be a flight attendant but couldn't gain the three pounds needed to make the minimum weight requirement. I was flustered seeing the look alike. And now I feel silly synopsizing her in that way. Surely she came across as banal. I didn't explain that Sylvia just wanted to fly, to get in the air, to walk the clouds, to say, Fuck you, to the limitations of the ground, or to some first class asshole. She didn't aspire to be a waitress in a flying box. It was an interlude, a phase, a whim. It was her teasing me that she could fly away and be gone. It was a warning that a couple of pounds could change everything.

The whore has a son from when she was married to the shrink. The shrink would inspect the house every evening when he came home. Meticulously followed a typed checklist he kept on a clipboard that hung in the kitchen by the telephone. And he expected a roast for dinner and later a naked wife that weighed 100 pounds when put on the scale. When in a good mood he would allow for plus or minus two pounds. His displeasure was occasionally violent but more often he used words. Fat stupid worthless disgusting and the like. At the dinner table he ate with gusto while observing every morsel that crossed her lips. He would nod when it was time for her to stop.

And the operator said forty cents more. For the next thirty years. Forty fucking cents. And he thinks it as if he hears these words for the first time. Like an instruction now. Like a command now. Acceleration now. Ignore the motherfuckers everywhere. More volume. The whirl. The beautiful fucking whirl.  

At his instruction she turns up the volume on the stereo. Louder. Louder. There. He feels the nut getting closer and he is afraid this time tears will follow and so he wants it loud enough so that the whore doesn't hear. Shameful shit if a man cries in front of his whore. But now she's got it too loud. He needs to hear the smacking flesh. The moans and yelps. Turn it down. Down. He can hear his voice over the music giving direction. This is most important. There. I said there. 

Michelle my belle. The words I know so well. Since you left me, my Michelle. My belle.

The music was not loud enough to prevent the whore from hearing his childlike bleating. His whimpering. He knew it sounded pathetic. He knew it made him pathetic. 

His weight upon her now intolerable. She can not writhe free. His weight covers her. Like a smell, she thinks. Like a stink. It is everywhere. She struggles which causes him to grip harder. To hold on, like a beguiled memory. Like it must be. Like it should be. 

The whore stops her struggle. There are worse things than stink. She will move on. And on and on and on. No looking back. On and on and on. And she might be singing. Humming lightly, at least. 

Sunday, June 23, 2013

enter: M

Her fingers stretch across miles. And this fellow I know, we will call him Johnny, quivers. He shakes and he chatters and he looks so pale to me, like he's about to lose his lunch. What ails ye so, Brother? and Yes, I said it just like that, hoping for a bit of levity, maybe hoping to break the taut stretch of her that I too could feel. She had arrived, and I now caught his case of the nerves.

Johnny had said all of the things you would expect: he is happy, excited, thrilled, turned-on. She has come for him and I believe he feels these things. But he is now two or three shades paler, the look of after the lunch has been thrown, after the dry heaves, after the exhaustion of it all and the body slumps, slackens into unnatural contortions, the blood retreated into the heart. Watching his lips move under these circumstances reminds me of the ventriloquist's dummy, how the lips are always larger and active, the head and body unnaturally proportioned, decidedly phony. And as I feed him words, provocative?  stunning? alluring? mesmerizing? his lips chatter as if those words originated in his brain not mine, whilst the rest of him remains but a puddle of expulsion.

My phone rings, louder and more urgent than its setting. It is M. She doesn't have my number but I am not surprised. I expected she would have demands of me, the next, the one over, the plus one. She wants a description of Johnny so that she might prepare. Who would know better than I? He is tall, pale, two ten or so. Write it all down, she says. Make it appealing. Make it palatable. Make it plausible. I can do that. Give me a day. Give me him. I want Johnny.

Some men feel uncomfortable looking too closely at other men, describing them in any meaningful way. I would suppose because some account of their erotic nature must be given in any honest assessment and, for me at least, I do not wish to feel in any way connected to another man's sexuality. But I have showered next to Johnny at the gym, conversed naturally with him while he towel dried his genitals. I have spread suntan lotion on his back at the beach and at the swimming pool and thought nothing about it. I have always viewed him as if he were an extension of me: I watch me towel dry my genitalia; I apply lotion to my back. We have been this way, at least from my perspective (and should Johnny ever come up from under M I will have to inquire into his perspective) for as long as I can remember. And now that I consider it, I wish for no change. And I feel intruded upon by M. What does Johnny feel?

You will notice his eyes first. I could not tell you the color but they house the evidence of the spirit, the brain (his lovely brain!), and they peer and they stare, but also they laugh. While his lips remain closed, perhaps even twisted into what would seem a scowl, watch the eyes - as I said, they laugh, they sometimes almost strain with mirth. And when you speak he will train those eyes upon you as if he would climb into your skull, or snuggle inside your chest cavity, beside your beating heart, share the breathes of your lungs. If you contain but a spark of interest he will not be satisfied until he has penetrated you. Repeatedly, if you are interesting. (Note: the retreat will also be found in the eyes, should it come to that.)

The rest of the face and head is nondescript. Full head of hair clipped and goatee trimmed - yawn. The occasional grin. The neck is interesting, but only if you take note of the scar where they slit his throat. If he tilts his head back it presents, otherwise you have to seek it out. Ugly thing, really. Of course go lower and now you'll really find ugly. A veritable battlefield. Shoulder scars from multiple tears and incisions. Chest cavity opened and closed. Abdomen scars, knife and bullet wounds. Plus the muscle atrophy and the extra layer around the midsection from lazy overeating after the most recent procedures that immobilized Johnny for several months. Suffice to say it's better for all involved if he keeps on his shirt.

I will take the time I would have used to describe his lower half to comment on his scars. He has more than those already mentioned - they are literally all over. Ankle, knee, thigh, perineum, forearm, wrist, eyebrow, chin, scalp - too many on the scalp to detail. Like railroad tracks is how Johnny describes it. He has been shot and stabbed and cut and dashed with a brick, twice. He has been opened and closed, multiple times, and yet he reaches towards you, dear M, as he has reached towards me. And I him, and do forgive me if the description I have detailed is not entirely accurate (you will know for yourself soon enough) as some of it may belong to me instead of him. I can not be entirely sure without him beside me to note and compare. But you will see for yourself soon enough. You will see then.

Monday, June 3, 2013

string thing sing

While she confirmed my theory on breasts, improved it actually, firmed it up, my mind wandered into thoughts of melons, the taste of a freshly cut cantaloupe, not too soft, but fully ripened. Always a little juice moistens the lips, sometimes down the chin. The fingers need licking. More juicy than the honeydew, which ought be juicier, by name. Honey drips. Dew is wet. At least the watermelon is aptly named. But I didn't think about watermelons. As a rule I don't think about watermelons. I strongly dislike them and never consider them. Well occasionally. But then only to be dismissive.

It is an odd friendship. We are occasional, sporadic. She is here and then she is not. And we are still learning what games to play. Today we type and think and create and occasionally talk and laugh. She reads to me something she likes. I am smiling but I'm not listening. I like her too much to listen to her voice repeat someone else's words. So I focus on just her voice, not the words. The pitch, the speed, the volume. It's a fun game, and if I can close my eyes I can build a song around it. Our secret music. Or just mine, I guess, truth be told. Unless I tell her about it, which I won't.

I like how she walks. Her steps fit her frame, her balance good. We haven't yet established comfortable walking protocols, the pace and space is still quite jagged, which implies boundary confusion. Sex has neither been ruled out nor ruled in. We haven't discussed it for obvious reasons: it makes me nervous. If she were a lesbian I believe we would walk beautifully together. We might even hold hands.

And she fits nicely into a chair. Slightly tilted back when reading. More erect when sipping her coffee or taking a bite of pastry. A lovely little wipe with the napkin. (It's worth mentioning that many women transmit sexual signals here, with the wiping; she is very careful to transmit nothing, almost to the point of being considered asexual, but I am not fooled as easily as most others.) She politely leans in when conversing, a touch more if I amuse. It encourages more amusement and I comply. I can recite amusing on cue and this allows me to wonder how much lean I can acquire. Can I bend her over fully? It becomes another game and we play it merrily.

Perhaps another time I will describe her laugh. Just let me summarize it as: worth pursuing. Eventually she will withhold her laughs, insist I give her organic material. That time is so far away as to not be worth considering. We could all be dead before then. And I have such a stuffed queue. Like a silo after harvest. (Is that analogy overly overtly phallic? and then you've got the seeds spilling and all of that


Sunday, June 2, 2013

Salon Girls

I've been thinking of Charlie Malta recently. I suppose he knew more about pain than anyone I've ever met. He was the Rambo story they didn't show: the great soldier returned home, his honor left behind, his pain of existence only assuaged by breaking someone. By inflicting his hurt. Charlie asked me once, "What do you do when the pain is too much?" And it was not rhetorical, he expected an answer. He expected a good answer.

The woman with man strong hands leans into my legs, pushing my feet towards my head, straining the hamstrings and also my lower back. Shit! Stop already. A little more, she says - think about something else. Fuck! Now my neck hurts, feels like one of the titanium rods has come loose and is pushing into my right shoulder. Christ.

I feel stuck to the mat, and with her weight on top of me I suppose I am. Stuck. I feel stuck. I try thinking of a Greek goddess as Charlie Malta suggested all those years ago. That was his answer to me and I believe he truly believed it at those moments when he could pause. I suck in some air, she pushes it out of me. Again, she says. Again. You're doing good, she says. And again. Again. She mocks, I think. Charlie Malta had crazy fierce eyes. Pain riddled. And each hand the size of two. Hard, battered. She leans in again, driving out air and an involuntary squeak. More like a squeal. Like a little bitch.  

She's thirty two and tells me about her fifty five year old. He's coming over later and she slides under my nose the whip she's going to use on him. Fresh leather smell. Soft, almost gentle. I feel the increased pressure of her hands as she stretches my left leg over her shoulder. I change the subject, segue from her boyfriend to Roger Sterling's penchant for younger women to the rubenesque Joan to my God! all they do is drink and smoke all day. She giggles like a little girl. She thinks Roger is a beautiful man. I want a cigarette now but would settle for a double bourbon, neat.

I can't roll over. My back won't let me bend at the abdomen and my right shoulder is on fire at the slightest movement. Breathe and rest, she says. Take a pause. Want some water now? You must be thirsty. How would I drink it? I can't fucking move my head. I'll pour, you swallow. Okay?

She asks about the salon girls and our Saturday night on the town. I admitted to her that Giggles was in constant contact, leaning in, pulling at me. Foxx too, although not as much. They fit so easily, so quickly. Maybe because of the hours they've already spent with their hands on you? But that's different. Not so much.  Let's get you rolled over.

She sits on my legs, just above the knees, pulls on each arm. Range of motion work. Small pain before the worst that is soon to come. Her raising both legs and driving them into my lower spine. I always think it will snap. She says break up the pair, choose one and ask her out to dinner. I'm not really listening, distracted by the pain and the feeling of constraint caused by her pinning my legs with her weight. Vulnerable. Exposed. Lacking argument or strength or mobility. Charlie Malta preferred his goddess wear white silk, flowing to the toes, with the blackest hair and only spots for eyes. I can never forget the look on his face as he leaned in close to describe what he saw in those darkest times. He chose the words so slowly, breaths short in between. And now I agree, it is a spectacular picture what he saw. She is a revelation, her lips moist and lightly pursed. A blush of pink on the cheeks. Nothing shocking or unbecoming. Otherwise pale, but not deathlike. You shouldn't draw that conclusion. But to be fair, her hands are cool and damp when I finally touch her.