Posts Tagged ‘Good Vibrations’

Things That Are Taboo

May 21, 2015

Wanting to have sex with your ex boyfriend.

Or maybe, you know, just um, cuddle.

Yeah.

That.

My motives are shit right now and I know it and so I won’t be seeing my ex boyfriend any time soon.

It’s just in the air, the fog, the mist, the shiny, slippery streets–it’s so foggy out there that when I left the Sunset Youth Services a few moments ago I thought at first that it was raining.

But no.

Fog.

It’s lovely though and put me in the mood for snuggling.

I choose to snuggle with myself this evening.

Being in communication with my ex has been interesting and I have done some more work around me and how I respond and feelings and all that and why, gosh, it just turns out that I am human.

“You obviously had a strong bond,” he said to me over tea at the Church Street Cafe, “girl, you too were electric, there was chemistry there.”

“And that doesn’t necessarily go away, connection is connection, it’s when the instinct gets blown out of whack, that’s the problem.”

Yup.

So.

No calling up the ex, not inviting him over for a late night cup of tea.

If I were to see him it would best be in daylight across a table in a busy cafe.

No touching.

Ahem.

God.

I miss being touched.

I met someone tonight who I have seen around a little and we recognized one another from a different part of town.

He shook my hand and I just stood there.

Human contact.

Such a small thing and yet, so necessary.

I think about the failure to thrive orphanage video I watched in psychology class years and years and years ago, about the babies that had everything they needed, food, nutrition, a bed to sleep in, clothes, but no love.

And what happens?

They die.

I mean.

That’s serious.

I’m not there.

And I love myself enough to know that I won’t let myself get there.

But I can still get caught up in the what to wear thing and the being attractive thing and I was going to head out this evening after work and go straight to my place and do the deal in my pajamas after coming home from a long day at work and taking a smashing hot shower, but I got it in my head I would bump into the ex and boy, I better look cute.

Thanks brain.

Now I need to wash off the makeup.

But.

In reality, it helped, I like looking cute and you never know who you might run into, who might take your hand and squeeze it tight.

Of course.

I don’t remember his name, but the kind eyes were bright and the hand was strong and the arm covered in tattoos.

I like all of these things.

I like that he said he was in the neighborhood too, 48th and Kirkham.

I like that my brain also wondered, is he gay?

‘Cause I can pick ’em like that.

I like that he said, my class is done, I’ll be back here on Wednesday nights again.

Good.

So.

Something, someone to look forward to.

That’s been the other thing.

With the exception of someone from absolute left field who as it turns out, though attracted to me, though someone who has had a crush on me (!) reached out to me, he’s not available and I haven’t had anyone that I have been crushing on.

I haven’t had any zing.

Anything or anyone that makes me get all a quiver and excited.

I miss that feeling too.

That nice shiver of anticipation.

And kissing.

Oh.

I miss kissing.

I need to be kissed.

For reals.

It’s been four and a half months since the breakup.

There’s been no kissing, no sex, no snuggling, no cuddling, no nothing.

My bicycle seat’s been getting all the action.

And I look, good damn it.

In fact, I look better than when I was with my ex.

I dropped about five pounds and tightened up a bit, all the extra bicycle riding, went down a dress size, got my hair shaped up, and colored a fabulous pink, and I haven’t gotten any play.

Granted.

I could have.

That whole trying Tinder for a day was enough to let me know there are plenty of guys out there who have no interested in whether or not I can read a sentence in a book or carry a conversation, as long as I can bend over and lift my skirt.

Please.

You have to try a little harder.

I ride by Good Vibrations every day on my way back to my house, the one on Valencia at 17th, and I keep finding myself wondering if it’s just time for a new vibrator.

Sigh.

Nothing wrong with a new sex toy.

Let’s be adults here folks.

But my dildo can’t kiss the back of my neck while I play the soundtrack to Amelie and listen to the whisper of the fog horns off the coast herald the misty night swathing the neighborhood.

I wonder then if it’s time to climb back into the dating websites or if I just hold steady for a while yet.

See what happens when I’m not looking, just keep going about my day and my life and someone will notice, step forward, and say, yes, let me kiss you in the door way, press you against the orange painted gate of your house and run my hands though your wild pink hair.

I will here Yann Tiernan in my head and sigh and melt into the air and the fog will swirl my heart away out over the ocean.

I don’t want sex.

That’s the real taboo thing.

I can talk sex all day long, and I do want sex, don’t let my words mislead.

But I want the courtship first, the date, I want to pick up a book and hold his head in my lap and read to him and I want to be wrapped, tucked tight, really, in the crook of a man’s arm and held, guided, led through the mists out to the beach, where the love smashes itself on the sand and the electric blue jellyfish flay themselves on the sand, melting into the tide line like mermaid tears.

That’s what is taboo.

Wanting love.

To be loved.

To want romance.

That is the real deal breaker.

I wait for it.

The carousel will stop turning and I will grab the brass ring and sail around the perimeter of the square, while accordions play and the sun sprays on my face a calliope of desire and love.

Until then.

Another cup of tea.

A few more words on this page.

I open my heart to give and receive love.

I shall start with me.

And What Did You Do Today?

November 21, 2013

Not much.

Came home and ate a roasted Japanese sweet potato.

Took a hot, hot, hot shower.

Masturbated.

Yeah.

I know.

What ever, it’s there in my “about page” it happens.

Don’t tell me you don’t.

Liar.

“Oh where did that come from?”  I thought,” then, “whoa, who cares, that works.”

And let’s get off.

Ah.

I was going to go do the deal in the Inner Sunset, but I got done with work a bit earlier than I expected, I was in the Castro and I turned down 18th toward Good Vibes, I had an errand to do that had been on my plate for a little while.

Well.

Hello.

Aren’t you all clean and tidy and re-arranged.

The store has been re-organized since I last visited their outpost on Valencia.

“Oh that’s a great one, but don’t put it in your mouth,” the clerk said, “it tastes horrible.”

Good to know.

Not that I have ever squirted any lube in my mouth.

Yick.

That’s what saliva is for, people, duh.

“Have you tried,” insert some name I have never heard before, “it’s great!”

The clerk, a young gay man, blonde hair, horn rimmed glasses, tidy little beard, jeans with a slight sag, but skinny at the ankles, your basic “gipster” look, gay hipster,  showed me another little bottle at the register.

We talked shop for a few minutes, but I was in and out, no pun intended, heh, and just got what I needed.

I am pretty set up at home.

“Uh, yeah, I saw a light on in there,” he said with a nervous laugh underneath the words.

Oops.

I just was directing him to the condoms, but he stumbled across the rechargeable vibrator.

God bless the Germans, kinky fucks they are, rechargeable and with a handle.

“Only the Germans would come up with the idea of putting a handle on a vibrator,” my lover said to me once, half-joking, half serious, insert dash of admiration.

I suppose I should have put my disclaimer in at the beginning, but…

IF YOU’RE RELATED TO ME STOP FUCKING READING.

Thanks.

I have been debating on and off for a little while about starting another blog, just a secret say it all blog.

But then I realized I just don’t have the time.

Or the energy.

That’s what my morning pages are for, the absolute honesty, although, even there I find myself lapsing, as though if I write it down I will be discovered.

Oh, I still have feelings for…

Oh, I want…

Oh, I don’t want to think about that…

I sometimes don’t write about something as well because I have such a solid picture of it in my mind that I don’t need to.

I can look at the date or the page and know, just know what happened and how I felt.

This afternoon as the rain was falling and I was sitting scrolling through my old Instagram feed, I looked over all sorts of photographs I took while I was in Paris.

Home of the sexy sexy.

Although I never did hook up with a Frenchman.

I had a crush on an English man and a Scots man.

There was that.

And another American I met right before I left.

The possibility of hooking up was often negated by living in such a close space with my room-mate.

Though I know him pretty well and I hazard had I asked he would have vacated the premises to give me some privacy.

It never happened though.

“French men just don’t know what to do with you,” an acquaintance said to me, “you’re too much, so colorful, the tattoos, the hair, I think they are just too afraid to pursue it.” He was occupied in a relationship with a, in his words, challenging French woman, but I knew he had always admire me, and I him.

I suppose that may have been true.

I think that’s just the aura I put out there which, face facts, is just subterfuge.

I am just a big scared pussycat.

But as I scrolled through those photographs I wondered how many other things marked me the way those photos do.

Music.

I also set a tone when I take care of the self and I like to listen to some music, some times it’s rock and roll, I don’t know why, but Rolling Stones Emotional Rescue album gets to me.

Underworld, Dubnobasswithmyheadman, is also a hot standby.

Brings all sorts of old dreamy fantasies to mind.

Music, photographs, love.

Sex.

All wrapped up in piles of words as I sort through them and wonder when, and if that, then, or could be, or hmmm, how about.

The weather did hold on my ride back to the Sunset, although the fog was dense and heavy, the rain did not fall again and were I not carrying precious cargo with me and pre-occupied with what I was going to do with it, I was tempted to walk down to the ocean.

I could hear the ocean crashing from the street and the wild smell of eucalyptus from the last arm of the park mingled with the dark ocean scent was über compelling.

I slowed for the last turn on Lincoln Avenue, thinking suddenly that I was going to get hit from behind, a car sliding on the wet pavement, making that sound, that squeal that seems to presage hydroplaning and I felt my stomach clench.

“I don’t want to die before knowing love,” I thought.

A voice sang out in me, “you have experienced more love than you know what to do with, love of parents, father, mother, love of a sibling, sister, love of grandparents, love of boyfriends, lovers, friends, self, the children you take care of, how many have had the love you have had?”

I could not argue with that.

I felt blessed suddenly and slowed a little to take the turn in a safe way.

I still did not cotton to the idea of being hit on a fog slick street with the high-beams of the on coming traffic gliding up Lincoln, but as  turned, the truth of the wind at my back and the flat pockmarked street on 46th greeted me cheerful even in the waning light.

Here to live another day of love.

What I had meant, and the little voice knew it, but I needed to hear what had been said in my heart.

What I meant was.

I meant I want to be partnered before I die.

Is that a lot to ask?

But then, too, I realize I have known so much love that to foolishly believe that just because I was coming home alone to come alone, ahem, did not mean that state was a permanent state.

It is just a way to care for myself while in this hallway.

“Have you thought about forgiving yourself for being single,” she asked.

It just is an act of self-love and it just meant that I was in for the night, safe to take a hot shower and have a hot meal after a little hot action.

Heh.

Anyway.

Before this heads further south, oops, uh, I should sign off.

Make some tea, relax with my music, go to bed a little early.

The rain is passing for the rest of the week and I look forward to being busy.

Not just getting busy.

Filling my life with more love and taking it, gratefully, greedily, and thankfully, from where ever it comes from.

Me.

Myself.

And I.

Or from you.

And you and you and you.

And yes, oh yes, you.


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