Rabbit Droppings
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Nothing matters because my friend died.
But if it did, I would tell you that I feel like nothing.
I feel like I lost something very important and I will never get it back.
I dreamt last night I was invisible, and I followed it around, and I tried to destroy it, but even in my dreams, I could only affect it as a dream. I couldn’t fathom being real.
But, that is wrong, for I am real, but it is not. But none the less it destroys me. And I wish I’d never known it.
A crush
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you came to me with warm lips and I was surprised.
I told you that I loved you. I’m sorry that I lied to you, but I did like you.
I came to you with cold lips and you were surprised.
I’m sorry that you hate me now, but I did like you.
And now we aren’t friends, and we may never speak again.
It’s surprising how much trouble liking you got me in.
Pretty Woman
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You, who Love to be meaningful at the expense of my existence.
You, who Loved to be Loved, no matter your true feelings.
Sex feels good when it’s dirty, but when it’s over, basking in the indecision, the rot begins. Somewhere near my lower intestines, I start to decompose.
You, don’t Love dirty things, now finds me shameful, won’t kiss me in disgust.
And I hate you more than you matter.
He, drugged me, drug me here, and insisted on doing what he will.
No. We, came here on drugs, and slipped into doing what we did.
We, burning with pharmaceutical passion, writhing on the bed, touching tentatively, disgustingly, with sweat, dirt, and very dry mouths.
Passion sounds too intimate, too sexy, desire too specific, Need, desperate need for physical contact, insertion, consecration. But I let you go, and you pulled me back, or just pulled my hair.
You, made so many assumptions, and
I assumed you were sane.
Assumed we were living in real time, real lives, with real consequences.
But reality wanted no part in this sordid affair.
Dramatic words.
I apologize for the dramatic presentation, but plain words won’t do.
They can’t convey
a warm motel room in the snow,
while God watched on.
As he kept his mouth to himself,
convinced it was more honest this way.
As I slept with a man who carried himself as a prostitute
and in doing so, turned me into the same.
Credit
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I feel nauseous and short of breath, some of the lesser known symptoms of poverty. I just went online to pay a credit card bill to find an alert that I’m behind one payment. Not only is this a 39$ charge, but it also presents the threat that they will raise my finance fee like my other credit card did. This has the added effect of dampening my hope of transferring debt from a higher to lower interest rate card in some small effort to curb what is coming close to a hundred dollars a month in interest fees.
My hatred of the people who allow me the luxuries of this life is growing to ulcer creating proportions. And my debt load is small compared to most of my friends. These people, who allow us the simplicities of not hauling our hard earned cash from place to place, are making money on all conceivable ends. Not only do they get extra money for every month you put off paying for that burger you had last Wednesday, but they get a cut straight off the top from the restaurant who is charged a service fee for providing the service of allowing you to pay in plastic, and you know what else? You pay for that too. As credit card usage increases merchants are forced to pass that fee along to you in the form of more expensive burgers. You can see this directly reflected in a growing trend at gas stations charging more per gallon for credit card than cash.
People are making so much money off of money in non investment type ways it’s breathtaking. You pay for banks, and checks, and credit cards, and none of these things do anything for you other than allowing you to transfer money all over the place with relative ease.
My desire to pay off my credit cards and put them away has grown to such it can better be described as lust. But even when I get there I can’t get rid of them completely, no no, they are not merely conveniences anymore, they are how the world judges your worth as an investment. You need to show you can use these things wisely or you’re not only going to have problems getting a home, but you might also have problems getting a job. It’s becoming more and more common for employers to do credit checks on prospect employees.
Tyler Durden is starting to seem like a pretty level headed guy.
I’m filing this under bad sex cuz in sure feels like I’m getting f%cked in an uncomfortable place.
Sooner than I think
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Standing here naked and old
My skin falling from my bones
Not pleasantly plump like when
you walked in on your grandma while she was taking a bath
But thin, and not emaciated, but looking so just the same
My breasts sag down the fat long ago left my chest
and fallen into my nipples, till the whole formally erotic package
turns down and my nipples watch my toes
My hips abandoned by estrogen, no longer full and fattened
and held round by tautly stretched skin
Now hangs round just under the bones
like a sagging pair of panties
And the hair- scraggly, no longer shaved neatly
hides that place that used to rule my life,
dry and tired, but not useless, not yet.
And I am BEAUTIFUL.
For every wrinkle I have earned
and estrogen is like an hourglass
the sand slowly falling through
never to be turned over again, except through our progeny
Skin falling off
Pigment fading away
We’ll fade away together- our generation
When we spawn no more
You will rest your head where my breast used to be
Your jowls sagging under your chin
and I will pet your thin thinning hair,
once grey, now white
and we’ll laugh at those who chase the young
Who yearn for soft lush skin
Yet when they’re finally naked he
looks down ashamed before popping the pill
that enables the scene its pornographic desires
When it’s over, sweat dripping off his chin,
there’s nothing more to say
But he is proud
And that is why we laugh
because we’re mean.
And afraid.
Deafening Pleasure
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I can’t believe we’re going through this again, she left her purse at my house, it was as simple as that, and now we’re f%cking on my couch- what’s worse, we’re both sober. I don’t know if I can do this anymore, she’s not even a very good lay. Well, I take that back, she’s a great lay, in fact that’s all she does- lay there.
I get up and start putting the contents of her purse back together, it’s been knocked over in our carelessness.
“What are you doing,” her voice quickly hysterical.
“We can’t do this anymore.”
“So that’s it? You’re just going to stop?”
“Well f*ck, you never started.” Oops, I should’ve left that last part out, it’s times like this I wish I shared my sister’s sense of diplomacy, and not just her girlfriend.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just that you don’t really move, I don’t even think you enjoy it. I don’t even know why you do it except some f*cked up revenge to Mellisa.”
“Don’t bring her into this.”
“Well, what is it then?” She sits and puts her head in her hands. She looks beautiful sitting there in some unknown torture- I must admit, Mellisa has good taste.
Oh, f*ck it.
“Look, I’m sorry.” I kneel in front of her, “I just don’t know what I’m- what we’re doing sometimes, but I was out of line.” I stroke her hair, lift her chin, and look into her eyes, they are wet and I almost feel guilty. I kiss her eyes, then I kiss her mouth, then I turn her over the couch and continue. It’s pretty tacky, but it’s what she wants, and I wouldn’t mind finishing myself.
She reaches down to masturbate, and after she finishes I pull out and come on her back. It’s one of those porn star moments that offers little of the release I expected. I collapse onto her, more out of effect than exhaustion.
In the background Bright Eyes is playing, he’s talking about deafening pleasure- I could use a little of that. What is this girl doing here, what am I doing on top of her, and why doesn’t Mellisa stop us? I know she knows, I think her vengeance is leaving us to out own devices. I don’t know what could possible be in this for Michelle. She starts crying below me, I move off of her and pull her into my arms; she takes solace for a moment before pushing away and getting up. As she puts on her clothes I admire her body, and notice, not for the first time, bruises on her arms and legs- never careful, that one.
She picks up her purse and looks at me her eyes dripping with meaning I’ll never understand. She turns and leaves without a word- always dramatic, that one.
I hope I never see her again, I can’t see her again. I haven’t even cleaned up and I’m starting to cool off, so I wipe off and get dressed.
It’s times like these I suspect reality TV isn’t staged at all, I can’t help it, I can’t turn down sex, I never have, sh*t if Mellisa came onto me, I’d probably go for it. It used to be worth it. I used to experience deafening pleasure complete with fireworks and partial blindness, but now I’m lucky if I don’t get nauseous. I don’t know why I keep trying, it’s like a junkie always reaching for that first high. No, I know why; anything to escape the monotony of existence. Anything to feel passion, Love, lust, anything, anything but this deadening numbness.
Now look at me, wallowing as the sun goes down, well screw this, I need to get out. I brush my teeth and head out to Delirium. I see Danielle as I walk in and take a seat next to her at the bar.
“Hey,” she says looking about four cocktails into her evening. She kisses my cheek and rests her head on my shoulder.
“I saw Michelle tonight.”
“You’re-a-fu-cking-dumb-@ss,” she sings to me trying to suppress giggles. Trying, and failing.
“Thanks, that’s helpful.”
“I do what I can. How was it, did you do it?”
“Yah, and it was beautiful, as always.”
“I don’t get you. Why do you keep doing it of it’s so awful?”
Bad Lunch
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it’s something I thought would never happen to me, awkward fumblings in the dark, hair in mouth, or under hand. But here we are and we are on that slope that always seems to end up slipping straight into my vagina. Though I am uncertain at this point how anything could slip anywhere near my vagina without some extra curricular lubrication.
his hand ventures down between my legs, and I turn around and throw up on his bed. “oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Are you ok, what happened, are you pregnant?” he spews as he scrambles backwards off the bed.
“I don’t know, I feel fine, I’m so sorry.”
Hmm… if only that’s what happened, but instead I tried to enjoy myself so he wouldn’t feel bad about himself, don’t feel too bad for me, most girls I know did it, and I usually managed to orgasm.
I had a boyfriend who tried to compare sex to lunch, like it’s just something you do with someone else, but the problem is bad sex isn’t like a bad lunch, because bad sex has this way of making you feel like a worse person. Like, if you are going to bother flouting societal mores then it should be worth it, especially if you are going to cheat on someone, bad infidelity is the worst. Bad sex feels like instant karma, you suspected you were doing something wrong and now you are being punished, and not with babies or STD’s, but with the longest ten minutes of your life, or worse, they’re going for the long hall, and now I have to moan my way through it.
Maybe it’s my Christian upbringing that makes me feel like it’s my duty to grin and bear it when things slowly depart into the realm of torture, no, I’m really not being overly dramatic here, bad sex is inevitably painful in some way or another. But that is one thing we never went over in communication class: how to change the course of making out. Now, of course kissing doesn’t need to lead to sex, but in certain situations it almost always does.
Like the time I was drunk with a couple that I dated, and another friend and we all started making out and sex was just inevitable. All I wanted to do was go to sleep, but I went along with it to be polite. So I climbed on top of my female friend and her boyfriend climbed on top of my other friend, who said something sarcastic like “the tops are taking over,” which offended me so I rolled over and gave into my true desires to just go to sleep, till, when who many would consider the luckiest male alive, as he was rolling around naked in bed with three girls, tried to cajole me back into the festivities so I turned over to kiss him, and then I was being fingered, and I realised I’m in this incredibly hot seeming scene, yet I just can’t crawl out of my head long enough to care. And it doesn’t help that whoever is fingering me, is actually hurting me, and wondering why it is I won’t come. At some point the other two girls have come and have turned to watch me have sex with the boy and every time I’m about to come they make some comment, and my lesbian friend makes a joke about straight sex, and I give up, and he comes inside me. Frustrated, I go to the bathroom to clean up, and find myself masturbating, and have three orgasms in a row!!! I felt like I could continue coming forever, but I didn’t want to admit to masturbating in the bathroom and I didn’t want my friends to get suspicious. So it turned out ok in the end, no thanks to sex.
And later on, when we discussed it we realised that none of us really wanted to have sex that night, but being fun loving young drunk kids, it just happened. And we yearned for the days when making out was an end in and of itself.
Most bad sex isn’t so exciting. Most bad sex involves one other person, who thinks that fingering me as hard as he or she (I am amazed at how awful in bed many females are) can, is the sure way to my eventual climax. And it is partially my fault as I can’t quite bring myself to teach someone how to eat cunt. Don’t get me wrong, I give clues, I move away, I stop moaning, I move their heads, but I can’t bring myself to look down and say, “MY GOD, what are you doing?” And really, that’s what some people seem to need.
