Posts Tagged ‘taboo’

Shake It Off

October 17, 2016

Dance it out.

Grind it out.

Jump around.

My blood is up.

Happens sometimes, sometimes when I least expect it and I am suddenly inundated with energy.

Might have something to do with writing a lot of pages today.

I got my Child Therapy assessment paper written.

Twelve pages, over 2,300 words.

It actually didn’t feel like it was that long, it wasn’t scintillating writing, it didn’t make me excited per se, although I did have some trouble falling asleep last night as I was thinking about the case assessment and the history I was making up to do the paper.

But.

Sleep I did.

And it didn’t hurt that I saw a lover last night and got the kinks worked out.

Not enough, to tell the truth.

Sometimes my blood runs high and I could well.

ER.

Ahem.

What was I writing about?

Oh yes.

Graduate school.

That.

That thing I do on weekends.

I didn’t do all that much reading, today it was mostly the writing.

Again I am rather shocked that I wrote twelve pages, that I am writing now, that there are still words to write, they just fall off the ends of my fingers and onto the page.

I have so much I want to write about.

And so much that I don’t.

Oh the stories I could tell.

The flirtations with life and narrative and the long lines of elongated tales tripping down my head, all the sexy words and heart navigations.

The flush on my face.

The small red bite mark on my collar bone, faded softly after a night pressed into a pillow case.

Were you here.

Mouth on my neck I would stand asunder at the thunderous applause of heat on my face.

I distract myself.

I look at the heap and stacks of books and the reading and the comprehending and I can get hooked onto fantasy.

Not that there’s a damn thing wrong with fantasy.

Especially since I don’t have a boyfriend.

I have pondered the mystery of it all so many times and I just don’t even know.

The ones that really want to be with me aren’t available for one reason or another and the ones I want to be with aren’t interested and then I’m just doing this dance.

The dance around my house by myself.

And.

That’s ok too.

It’s just life.

And it doesn’t always mean forever and when I’m honest.

I mean brutal in my honesty.

I have had more lovers than my due.

I have had more than my fair share and maybe your fair share too.

I haven’t always gotten what I want.

I have not had a long-term relationship in a while.

But I have had too many friends tell me how jealous they are of my single life.

Of my ability to choose or not choose how I spend my time.

“So why are you dating him if you want something else?” My friend asked me last night.

“Because no one else is interested in me,” I said flippantly.

Truth.

I don’t know how I responded, but my friend arched his eyebrow at me and said, “oh really?”

“No, it’s because I don’t think I’m good enough” I said, and delightfully, surprisingly, gently, I only teared up a little.

I have teared up a lot more prior to this.

And.

I actually have started to believe, fake it til you make it, yo, that I am good enough.

That I’m not irreparably damaged.

Yeah.

I’m a pervert.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

But I think that’s ok.

I’m a deviant.

So be it.

I can embrace it and love it just as much as everything else about me.

I’m interesting.

And deviant sounds, well, deviant.

But I am thinking that I’m just not of the norm and I think the norm is well.

Boring.

I am grateful I have gotten to explore who I am and allow for all of it to be there, all the good, the bad, “the bad” whatever, it’s all good, the nuances and shades and colors.

The sunset more glorious for the obfuscation of the clouds.

So much life there is to live.

It rained today, the smoke of evergreen pine needles in the air, the fog of sea salt water and the warmth of it, the humidity, the full moon in the eves of the morning when I woke up startled by a dream and fell back asleep pressed into the warm scent of roses on my pillow.

As though your hands were in my hair and tugged me back down into sleep and soft repose.

I wonder at myself, my heart, my desires, the awe with which I still find myself mesmerized with when I think about how lucky I am to live in this world.

When I can get my mind off of myself and into the moment.

When I can let the moon just be the moon in the sky.

Or an owl hovering over me is just hunting a snack in the dark dunes.

But.

I prefer the magic.

The mystification.

I heard him swallow the “I love you” as I hung up the phone, it was there and gone, a soft undertone of story that lines a narrative older than all my desires, old friend.

I love you too.

The romance of the unrequited longing for love.

It still dances next to my skin.

Here.

Then gone.

A ghost.

An imprint.

A kiss of sunshine through a butterfly wing.

A memory of sky blue outside the window of school bus rolling through the barren hills of late autumn, the cold hard frost on the ground belittling the eternal summer inside my heart.

I will continue to dance to French house music in my room, candles lit up around me, cheeks flushed, and even if I am alone.

I know that you see me.

And for that I am grateful.

To be seen.

To be acknowledged.

There is glory there.

Love.

Love.

It’s always.

Just.

There.

Fluttering across my face.

Sauntering in the smile on my lips.

Alive in and to this moment.

Graced.

Yes.

Graced.

And that is all.

For now.

Anyway.

 

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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.


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