Tired and Turned On


What will help you in the  middle of your moving day?

How about a sexy picture from the man you made out with the night previous.  Holy shit batman, somebody goes to the gym.  And somebody also wears glasses!

I received the request from the gentleman as I stood outside of Optical Underground awaiting their opening, to send a picture of myself in my new frames, I got the call last night that they were in the store ready for pick up.  I was not too excited about that.  I know, I know, glasses are sexy.  So is stumbling over your own feet because your depth perception is all whacked out–the warning my optometrist had given me was spot on.

Suffice to say, I honored the request and set the pix.  I got a sweet response and a picture back from N_______ in glasses!  Yay, now I don’t feel so all alone in my dorkiness.

Side bar–holy shit, I can see.  Wow.  I can almost see too well!  I did not realize how soft and gentle and just slightly out of focus everything has been, how fuzzed out and subtle like romantic low lighting.  Now everything is super sharp and clear and made me wonder suddenly is I have been layering on the eye makeup a little too heavily.  Eek.  I believe I have.  I believe I will also be taming down the blush as well.

He replied to my positive response with a question about my abilities to be circumspect.  Uh, yeah, I can keep a secret.  And then I got the pix.  Fucking good thing I was not carrying anything, I would have dropped it.  As it stands I still audibly gasped.  He has to have the prettiest body I have ever laid eyes on.  That coupled with the instant replay of being kissed on the neck, all over body flush.

No, I am not pre-menopausal, but it has been confirmed, I am not dead downstairs.


And get your mind out of the gutter, it was not pornographic, but it was topless.  The man has a body.

Which led to, oh fuck, I do not.

I have a body.  I have a body I am extraordinarily grateful for.  I also have a body that has varicose veins, since high school, thanks genetics, and flabby tummy and flabby arms.

I look so much better than I have that I have no complaints, but I am not ripped, I am not rippled, I am softly padded.  Not fat, I’m certainly not overweight, but I have a loose skin from the weight loss.  The thought of taking off my clothes in front of N______ gave me another kind of bodily response, and it was not as pleasant as the first.

I have it upon good authority, his, that he finds me very attractive.  Further, that he likes me, and no body kisses some one the way he kissed me last night without being attracted to them.  I just don’t have that kind of body; I don’t have a gym built body (although I am pretty fucking proud of my bicycle bum, I do have a great ass).  I wouldn’t mind it, however.  I have been lusting after a yoga practise now for a while.  I would love to get more flexible or get into the pool and start swimming again.  But I don’t believe that I will ever have that kind of toned and taut musculature, at least not that you can see.

Being anxious about it is silly.  We have had two dates, and I believe there will be more, I have it on pretty good authority that I will be getting asked out to Boulevard here for steaks in the near future, but that does not mean that I will be stripping down anytime soon to flash my tummy around.

Then words of my good friend Scott arose in my mind when it was trying to get all sabotage on me, that it’s all the same under the covers.  Just ease up there brain, we have more dates to go on before any of that kind of undressing action will be happening (God is smart, I won’t be having any overnights anyhow being that I don’t have my own place to host an overnight).  Plus, there is also the responsible sex talk to be had.  I don’t know his history and he does not know mine and I respect myself enough to make sure I get it before proceeding full speed a head.

In the mean time I get to enjoy the gorgeousness of him and know that he took my hand, he stroked my face, he initiated the kiss.  All that cut muscle was there the entire time and it didn’t scare me off then.  I was a little too busy looking at his eyes anyhow.  That’s where I go.

They’re blue. A sort of crystalline see through corn flower blue with hints of agate.  Stunning.  And he’s tender-hearted.   He welled up in empathy when I was talking about how I started writing, Shadrach, which inevitably led to telling that story.  He actually knew him, briefly, from the neighborhood, and remembered when it had happened.  About a year after his friend Adrian had been killed by a MUNI bus.  I certainly had not meant to meander into that land, not exactly second date kind of conversation, but it happened and I was mesmerized to see the tears there standing in his eyes.  It felt really good to have some one be that connected to what I was saying.

I will recall that when I panic about not having the perfect body.  Fact is, I will never have the perfect body.  And when I am complaining about what I don’t have I am not enjoying what I do have–health and strength and vitality and beauty.  I am not blind, I am fortunate to have been blessed with beauty.  He joked with me about having perspective last night, that there are women out there who would kill to get the attention I have gotten and get.

Point taken.

I have been given many gifts.  The one thing that I also was given was the passion for writing.  Which when it came right down to it was what nailed it for me on the date.  He got me talking about my writing.  And he listened.  And I could hear the passion in my own voice when I talked about it, I could hear how I was engaging.  He was really interested and I realized, once again, how it is such an important part of my life.

I rather take for granted that I write everyday, twice a day.  I don’t think about it, I just do it.  But it does take a certain degree of commitment.  I commit daily to sit down and do it.  I got up early today, 7:30 a.m., to write before I started my day.  There are certain things I do every day.  Every day regardless of where I am, where my shit is going, and what is going to happen in that day.  I make time, I take half an hour and I open a notebook and pick up a pen and I dump the contents of my head onto the paper.

The heaviest thing to move today?  The bin full of notebooks that I have filled.  I was overwhelmed with how many of them there are.  I am a writer, regardless of my state of publication and I have to do it, I am compelled to do it.  It is a gift I will admit to having had struggles with.  I’m not good enough, I am.  I will never be published, not true.  I am afraid I will succeed, so what.  And the sneaky little devil that says, what happens when you run out of words?

But the fact is this, I don’t think about what I write.  I just do it.  I become a channel and the words come out.  They seemingly drop from the sky like blue birds on a suicide bombing.  Splat.  And there they are sharp and delineated.

Like his stomach muscles.

Oof.  God, I am in trouble.

And not in the least because I owned up verbally to how important it is for me to continue doing this.  I mean, I got it done last night, I packed and cleaned until 2:30 a.m., slept five hours and then got up to write before I continued further.  My fingers are trained.  I may be tired, I may have just loaded my life posessions into not one, not two, but three separate residences.  And what did I find myself compelled to do?

Check in with my host and get access to the computer so that I could write my blog.

I did not text the man, although I gandered at the photo one more time and I may, oh fuck me, of course I will, look again before going to sleeep, but I won’t take any other actions.  The only other action I am going to take is to make a cup of hot tea and crawl into my pajamas.

So that I can get up in the morning and write.

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2 Responses to “Tired and Turned On”

  1. sweetopiagirl Says:

    Reblogged this on inspiredweightloss.

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