Misconstrued Message

Misconstrued Message

I had the swagger of a 70’s era pimp as I strolled through her front door. Only she knew it was a humble limp caused by back pain, hidden by my self assurance. She didn’t judge. In fact she was eager, no time for small talk. Just a quick “How ya doin’?” and then she beckoned me to follow her to her room. Her sanctuary. I submissively gave into her command and my cocky stride evolved back to a simple hitch in my step. Now trailing her, I was hypnotized by her every step. She walked on air, treading lightly. Not like eggshells, but buoyant and content. Toes curled, calves tightened, hamstrings stretched, with her jaunty gait. Which obviously lead my eyes to her flawless posterior. It would be unprofessional to say it was sexy, but I couldn’t help myself. Her upright torso was more pompous than my feigned pimp limp. As we reached her room, she pirouetted and motioned me inside with the skill of vehicle spokes model. I could see the strength in her arms, and moreover I already knew she had magic fingers. Which reminded me of an old X-Files episode (Bad Blood, one of my favs) where Mulder and Scully are in a dirt bag motel room that has a coin operated “Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed”. After watching that episode, I spent a whole weekend calling hotels and motels asking for a room with a “Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed”. But I digress… As I peeked into her domain, I could see she already dimmed the lights, and soft relaxing music was playing in the background. She set the tone so to speak and was sympathetic to my needs, asking me exactly what I wanted, even though she already knew. Taking charge, she ordered me to disrobe, exited the room, and said she’d be right back. She returned with just enough time to build my anticipation. She was gentle when I needed it, and rough when I didn’t want her to stop. All in all, the whole experience left me peaceful and spent…

* All those with their minds in the gutter will be happy to know the title was misspelled…the title should read “Misconstrued Massage”

Eargasm

Eargasm

Melodic acoustics chime and strum inside my cranium like a ricochet note flying off a guitar string now hugging the rim of the jazzy jazzy funky funky trumpet blown like Dizzy Gillespie launching high rainbow arc bouncing from snare to cymbal thereupon booted by the kick of the bass drum hooking the mic stand spinning like a horseshoe ringer only to make it's way up to be sucked in with her inhale before being exhaled simultaneously with her voice through the speakers to my ear pounding softly...melodic

Reply hazy, try again

Reply hazy, try again

She sat surrounded by the interior doorway staring at me with her fuck me eyes. Only not the fuck me eyes your thinking of. More like fuck you eyes. She was diagonally squatted, left foot on the hinged jam, right hip and shoulder just the opposite with a slight lean, feet pointed in my direction. Balanced atop her knobby kneecaps sat the magic 8 ball teetering on thumb, then forefinger, then pinky, and back again with no gravitational equilibrium. All the while asking the same question in her head, and echoing telepathically in mine, bouncing off what she would call my thick skull, trapped in gray matter quick sand. As I watched her spin what looked to be a mini bowling ball, it sparked a memory of my “Advanced Calculus and Probability” class in college. 20 answers floating unannounced inside the black orb. Mattel put the odds in my favor with 10 results affirmative, 5 negative, and 5 non-committal not unlike myself, as she would say. We both knew an answer was inevitable, needed, but not necessarily wanted due to it's possible outcome. The magic 8 ball would be a servant of fate disguised as a children's toy. It all seemed logical since we had used all 20 responses to cloud the truth or lies to suit our purpose, without the sphere. Same as looking in that murky window awaiting a random guess to glaze the viewing area only to realize it wasn't the answer we were looking for, and shaking it again. My mind drifted away from math class back to the jaded look on her face, eyes fighting back tears from anger or emotional pain, I couldn't tell which. But what I could see, was her about to let destiny roll. Although the world was riding on our shoulders, happenstance wobbled across her patella. After a short hesitation, her hands parted, as if it made her ill to have held it in the first place. The rotation started slowly, but gained speed as it traveled down her shin. As it reached her foot I could see her perfectly painted toes raise then curl under to shape a small incline. It was only airborne a short second, then bounced and rolled to a complete stop at my feet. I wanted to ignore that it was even there, but her stare said pick it up. My unsteady hand reached out for the hard black plastic in fear an hope. F.E.A.R Fuck Everything And Run. Hope. Hold On, Postpone Exit. My one hand palming made it easier to flip around to the smoky, somber porthole. I moved it closer to decipher through the glaze, and it read...

Love is Chasing Bubbles

Love is Chasing Bubbles

Delicate as a soap bubble floating inevitably to the ground, a slave to gravity soon after leaving the wand, but as innocent as the child who's exhale propelled the air cavity. Optimistic like the child that dips back into the soapy water knowing he or she will spawn a new translucent ball of breath. Free & finickly as the child who chases down the lofted spheres to handpick the one that stays within reach and facilitates bliss. Soothing and liberating as the child who covets what he or she has yearned to seize. Disappointment & vexation warms over the child as the orb bursts;vanishes. Resilant & forgiving as the child who submerges the staff of hope and is relieved to forge another. Even a child will eventually learn that these globes of captured atmosphere cannot be apprehended. So is love. That is why i don't chase bubbles.

A Man Sitting In The Rain...(my first post back in 2003)

A Man Sitting In The Rain...

One day I'm living in normalcy, the next, I'm perched on what one used to call a curb, on a vacant street corner, ankle deep in a murky, overflowing pothole. The rain is beating down so heavy, not only am i soaked from head to toe, but emotional flood insurance would have been a great investment. I tilt my head, tuck between my knees, and catch my reflection in the puddle that accompanied my sopping feet and the now brimming water. The visual echo shows the precipitation roll down my face mixing with my uncontrollable weeping. You couldn't differntiate between the two. I flipped through my Rolodex of emotional band aids and crutches. Was Mother Nature cleansing my soul? Was Jesus washing away my sin? Was Karma calling to mind the 3rd grade, when i stole Mary Jane's umbrella. Was Buddha raining down perfect enlightenment from the great rain cloud? Was Confucius saying "One who sits in the rain, gets wet"? Was Satan giving me my last taste of rain and cold, before fire and brimstone? Or is it just what it is, A man sitting in the rain...

My new home for scribbling...

Thanks to a friends advice, I will move my illustrious writing career here and give it a whirl...A rebirth...There will be no promises of drinking the magic koolaid or free comet rides to the mothership, but since i'm starting from scratch I need followers/readers. I will promise to waste your time with my random scribblings and maybe just maybe if your lucky you might just be entertained, but I doubt it...