Pamphlet

Manila.
The walls were that washed out yellow.
Sick skin tone paint job.
Trying not to look at the walls, my eyes wandered over to the chairs.
Sharp, angular, metal and plastic.
Keeps you awake.
Anything more comfortable would put you to sleep, and we can’t be sleeping.
Have to remember all of this, they said.
It was too cold
Not cold enough to turn the walls blue.
And the crush crush crush of the wax paper underneath was starting to hurt.
Just the sound, ricocheting off raw nerves.
Crush Crush Crush.  
Manila manila manila.

There was a long waiting period.
Before he came back.
And I just lied there.
The tiles from the ceiling were going in and out of focus.
Count them.
One two three four…don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Five, Crush, Manila.

A magazine, with this smiling baby.
Toothless, grinning, mocking.
I could hear it talking.
“Mama. Mama. Mama.”
Shut up shut up shut up.

Air conditioning, it just kept humming.
Needed to keep moving to stay warm.
Medicinal frostbite is what they were doing.
Trying to freeze me. Trying to freeze it out. No no no.
Just stay in motion.
Crush. Crush.
Mama.

He came back.
No sleeping, he said.
No sleeping.
You’ll need to be awake.
To remember.
So it never happens again. So you don’t think this is ok.
Now LAY down!
I grabbed the sides of my hospital gown
and cried while whimpering, it hurts.
I don’t want to hear it, he said. Shut up shut up shut up.
Bleach, heavy bleach.
Disinfectant, steal, and antibacterial gunk in bottles, tubes, and dispensaries.
Clean, the counter tops were so brilliant.
Jar of dry cotton balls, cotton swabs, giving me
cotton mouth.
The corners caked with parched medical powder.
  They were dehydrating me.
  Freeze it out, dry it out.
Lips shredded, divided, sore and bleeding.
Constant licking, waiting for healing.  
It just makes it worse, he said. Stop that now. And please lay down.
The baby mocking the walls vomiting
Doctor says just sit still now.

And that machine, so angry and vibrant!
The buzz so loud and arrogant.
And me, just laying there, swearing, my fingers and toes were turning black.
            I was beginning to shrivel and sear.
            I was.
And Doctor said to a nurse I only now noticed,
She’ll have no idea what’s happened.
But I do.
Oh I do.
I remember them trying to mummify me.

A pinch, some pressure.
Suck suck suck.
That seaweed, that pissed off machine.
            It’s eating me!
Doctor said, LAY STILL!
Nurse just shook her head.
Almost over.

Don’t let it happen again, they said.
That baby shrugged and says “maybe next time”
Jeering toothless bastard.
You need to get clean they said.
Junkie swollen bellies
With addicted infants
Waiting lists for welfare.

Manila prison cemetery.
Don’t let it happen again young lady.
Just don’t let it happen again.

Not So Much Like Stamps

I guess I'd have to say...Bedrooms.
How?
Not so much like stamps in a book
or
Thimbles in a box
More like film canisters in the attic.


Have a favorite?
Many. Most.
There was one
that looked like a textbook
the way all of his photos were perpendicular and parallel and pasted tightly to the walls.
The corners of my canvas always curls
and are usually stained with coffee rings.
I've never been good at sticking things
to the wall.
I spent only one night there
under the purple light he had over his headboard.
He was an artist
-no. He was an art major.

He loved me methodically
   and then maliciously when he wanted nothing to do with me.
His roommates pretend they don't recognize me.
He had such bad tastes in movies.
Fucking Nickleback was on his Ipod.
He had an Ipod.
He had such a bad taste.
But I slept as if I were dead on his pillow.


And?
And, there's one that's the color of wax
sunbleached cotton
and honey gone bad.
I lay there some Sunday mornings
not able to scrape my eyes off his popcorn ceiling.
I just suspend in smeared bloodless dandelion.
I feel like an allergy.
There are messes in that room that have been there since the first day I came over.


How long?
I don't like to talk about that.
There are yearbooks
from April. Because I remember when he snuck into his parent's late at night.
I waited in the truck
in the middle of the street
in the middle of the night
in the middle of...all of it.
He brought back these yearbooks to show me
proof
he really didn't have braces.
And they're still laying on his floor.
They're still there?
Who am I to judge? I'm still there too. Like hay fever.


Another one.
There's this one
with Christmas lights.
....and?
I want this one.
You know I hate winter.
I dislike the layers, shirts over shirts and coats and scarves, mittens. Skin needs to inhale and it can't when it's so...brumal, and how dry the skin around my fingernails gets, I peel back the layers. Stick it in my mouth.
Suck.
But I probably could have left my car running for days.


What's that got to do with anything?
Everything. There's no pollinosis. It's just too cold.
But never mind, tell me, what do you collect?

463 North 3rd Street

There was this winter night where I got a phone call after I got off of work from a boy named James telling me to meet him on the corner of such and such streets. Where he kidnapped me and took me across town to what he referred to as “not his bar” but a good one. He held my hand while we trekked through stiff snow that bit at my ankles in a group of strangers with even stranger faces and even stranger laughs. These people were my age but I felt so young trying to step in the footprints they made in the snow.

Into this bar we filed in and dispersed and James began giving me an acrimonious tour of the place. He pointed out who, at the time, were regulars. Who he had fucked, who he had tried to fuck, who had fucked him. Who was good, who was real good, and who had bad jokes and bad taste in music. Who could hold their drink, who pretended, who dressed the part and who was the part.

He ordered me a seven and seven. I’ve never had another since.

That night James got smashed and showed me a tattoo he said he never shows anybody. And almost got his ass kicked by a guy who had less to drink and better tattoos.

That was the first time.

There was another winter night nearly a year later where a girl came to me and asked me to take her to a bar. I made plans on going to what was my favorite barroom, a hole in the wall. Small, dark, seedy but not desperate. You come or you don’t. And most don’t, which is why I love this bar. Across from a dollar theater and always has a parking space, this is where I would take her. But she was not impressed by the empty parking lot, or the size of my bar. She was looking for people, she was dressed for people. So I took her to the same place James took me.

And there we shook off passes made to us, and declined the free drinks. Which I guess is what she was looking for.

This was all before he was 21.

On his 21^st birthday, at midnight he wanted to buy liqueur because he could now. And so I drove him straight to this bar because it was the closest one to his apartment that was still open. He handed over his ID and while the man looked it over for the birth date this boy got cocky and said “Don’t worry, it works out”.

After that this boy started showing up at this bar more and more and I found myself not wanting to show up so much because I don’t care for the way he ignores me when there are people around us breathing.

This is not my bar anyway, I concluded.

And then, there was this summer night where I walked with under the table consorts and we shared our stories of heart wreckage. We stumbled and trotted, catching our own limbs from under us until we found a back door to the infamous bar I’ve been going on about. We snuck in our 20 year old friend and decided to drink until we forgot everyone else in the world but the three of us.

This plan of harmonized amnesia would have been the exact medicine I needed only that was a night the boy was there, and decided not to ignore me. He bought me a drink and I rode on the handlebars of his bicycle to his apartment.

So I began showing up more regularly because there was a chance that night could be reenacted, or at least mocked in some drunken joke. And the girl joined me because we were not real friends, but just convenient friends, which I didn’t know at the time.

Then there was this night where all of us were at this bar, and this was a night he wasn’t pretending I was wallpaper. But it didn’t matter because this was a night she got trashed and pulled him aside to talk to him. I lost precious time with this boy to her, this girl who wasn’t my friend. Although I didn’t fully know this yet.

That was also the first night I noticed the man in the black suit who leaned against the wall with me while I stared at them through the window as they laughed together in the smoking section. The smoking section I can’t spend too much time in because my throat starts to close and I panic.

He looked on with me and told me what I already knew. And when I found another wall to disappear into, another pattern to dim myself with he’d come over and just blend in with me. We were bar scene chameleon’s and we were Siamese twins, and I just wanted to be left alone tonight, but he was there telling me what I could see for myself.

So I wasn’t going back to this bar.

But that never happens. You never stay away from the place you swear off from because there’s still that chance where your night’s going to turn into something improbable and euphoric all because you changed your mind and decided to walk down to that bar. Which somehow has become the only bar in town you ever go to.

After the girl and I parted ways due to a number of things that were never really reasons but more of excuses of why we just couldn’t be in the same room anymore, excuses I won’t argue, we would find ourselves in the same room of that bar. And so I vowed again. And again. And again. But kept finding myself there on the 3 days a week I always find myself there.

There was this night I sat at the bar and concentrated fully on how the edge of it tilts down just slightly enough to where you don’t notice until you about tip your drink into your lap. And every time I sit down at this bar it’s like I’m rediscovering it for the first time.

And the girl’s there, she’s dancing. She loves to dance. I love to watch her but right now the tilt of the counter is engrossing me. That and the fact that she hates me. I guess that’s keeping me from watching also, but right now it’s not that important as the angle of the glossed wood plateau.

The man in the black suit is sitting only a stool away from me. He’s been here every night I’ve showed up. He’s drinking a seven and seven and telling me to get my face off the bar because it’s sticky and I don’t want to break out. I wave a hand at him, trying to tell him to mind his own business. There are fibers stuck under the varnish. Particles fixed here for eternity to watch girls like me eyeing them, and they wonder why I don’t get the fuck out of here. The man in the black suit agrees, why don’t I get the fuck out of here? I’m starting to wonder myself.

But I can’t move because I’m wasted off of root beer and sick from the candy cigarettes I couldn’t keep out of my mouth after the girl told me we were never really friends. Just two girls who annoyed each other.

While I’m mouthing to the dust stuck inside the enamel asylum “Don’t worry, I’m going to get you out of here” another regular sits in between me and the man in the black suit.

The man in the black suit tells me to get my head off the counter. Sit up straight. Only he’s more serious this time, and in fear he might make me drink his seven and seven I do as he says. The regular looks at me and I suddenly become very aware that half my face is probably red from the blood trapped under my cheek that I’ve been pressing into the sticky bar. The man in the black suit tells me not to worry about it, he’s drunker than I am and he doesn’t care because he thinks I’m pretty. The regular hasn’t said a word but I know the suit is telling the truth because the regular’s pulling my bangs apart Just. Like. So.

And the dance floor, the pool tables, the smoking section, they all just cave. People are probably screaming under the concrete and wood’s splintering like supernovas. Broken glass shards and ruptures through the red and gray brick dust that’s blooming up from the floor. I can see chalk, mirror pieces, and teeth flying past the three of us, the man in the black suit, the regular, and me. Yeah people are probably screaming.

I couldn’t hear anything though. Just felt the way he ran his fingers through my hair.

That was the night I claimed the bar as mine. 

I'll be waiting at the finish line.

It started in a crowded kitchen, early December. I haven’t seen Damian in weeks and he’s drunk. Offering me cake and burritos because that kid knows exactly how to make me fall in love. Everyone has their coats on, and there’s traffic going each way through the front door next to us. Damian’s leaning up against the oven and keeps accidently turning it on.

There’s this conversation about what it is to be the Nice Guy. To always finish last. At this age, being the nice guy is the last thing you want to be. And I can’t argue, because of this scene that took place minutes before I got here.

{In the street I’m walking to my car, where I run into Ship on his bike. He’s got his hair cut and I want to melt into the asphalt and ice. I think he can tell and in the middle of our conversation hits me with

“We’re not doing anything tonight. So just don’t think of it.”

Fuck. But it’s not a surprise when he says these things. Things that hurt but luckily I have that ego to bandaid me.}

I can’t argue with Damian because I know that after Ship gets drunk, he’s going to change his mind and he’s going to text me and ask me over. And I’ll go. Probably only for the sole fact that he’s not nice to me. (And I did).

Damian: We have one spokesperson for the Nice Guy. We got Michael Cera. That’s it. That’s fucking it.

I’m thinking, I’d do Michael Cera. But it’s not so much the point.

Damian would never tell me what to do. But, he makes a good argument on behalf of the Nice Guy. They never get the chance because in your early twenties it’s not what girls like me are looking for. Later, when we’re looking for baby batter, that’s when the Nice Guy gets his. But now, we need an asshole who’ll take us down a notch.

A few days later when a Nice Guy asks me out, I agreed.

So I go out with this really sweet kid. Really good looking, in college, has a job. But he’s timid, shy, and only 20 so I feel awkward. In conversation I feel like I have to censor myself because I’m afraid of offending him. I spend the whole night saying “freaking” and “gosh”, crossing my legs, keeping my hands to myself and trying to play Mormon.

It hits me, I am so used to the role of Nice Girl I’m not sure what my identity is when I’m with a Nice Guy. By the end of the date we’ve made plans to go out again.

Over the next week I’m reflecting, on my relationships. Who I am in relation to who I’m with. When I go out on my second date I don’t repress anything. And for 2 hours that kid sits and hears me talk about the jerks I go out with, the sex, douche bags I give my time to. Basically the only thing I ever talk about with anyone who wants to listen to me.

This guy, he’s amazing. A genuine great guy. And props to him for sitting and listening to my bullshit. But I couldn’t see myself getting involved with someone like him. So this was my way of avoiding the conversation “I don’t like you like that”. I’ve never been too keen on being brutally honest, even when I should, when it’s necessary.

After this second date I don’t think he’s interested in me anymore.

Same night I end up at the bar, feeling horrible about everything that just went down. Thinking I really shouldn’t have agreed to go out with him in the first place. Cause let’s face it, I’m that girl who digs the guy who’ll only care about her when he’s drunk and wants to get his dick wet. I’m that chick who’ll stay up for hours waiting for someone to decide if he wants me over or not…who’ll later slip up and say something that really hurts….such as mentioning the other girl he’d rather be with right now.

I have to be the victim in my relationships, so I can play the nice girl. Otherwise I’m the asshole and it makes me feel uncomfortable.

I see Damian, I tell him about my catastrophic date. He apologizes, I shrug. It’s just the way the universe works.

Alright, now. My favorite part. Same night, after the bar closes. Jk and I are sitting in my car. Heater on blast, windows down, some guy pissing in the corner. I’m looking at Jonathan Kelley and for some reason I tell him I have a secret to spill. Some secret I’ve been keeping under my tongue for weeks. Before I can say anything he just starts laughing and says “Darlin, I know more than I should already”.

This secret, I like a boy. One of those Nice Guys, only one that could probably keep up with me. Not really a secret cause I can’t keep a god damn secret about myself to save my life. But JK was the first I admitted it to.

That night, the boy I like, kissed me.

So I’ve been hanging out with him a lot. No sex. Just 18,372 second conversations. No sex. Just mix cd exchanges. No sex. Because I’m not feeling pressured.

He left today, back to his hometown. I ended up back at Shipwreck’s apartment, on his couch, and he tells me about a girl who gave him her number, with the prospect of hooking up with him. Normally not a big deal but the girl just happens to be someone who was close to me…who’s not anymore due to personality conflicts. Ship smiles and makes a comment about what it’s going to be like after he fucks her. I tell him I won’t talk to him again if he does *pause* but it’s not like it’d effect you that much. He just sits there thinking about sleeping with her, doesn’t combat my remark.

Yeah he’s kidding…hopefully. Yeah he’s just trying to get me to react. Yeah actually I don’t know why the fuck he’s telling me this.

And that’s when it happened. I’m not one of those girls. Yes, I love Shipwreck. And I have for so god damn long. Every rude or fucked up thing he’s said to me, gets written off by the pure endearment I have for that kid. It’s not reciprocated in every way I want it to be but I put up with it because I just adore the guy unconditionally.

Yeah, I love him but not enough to forgive him for what he may or may not be thinking of doing. He said he wouldn’t tell me if it happens. Cause it can’t hurt me if I don’t know about it. Then says if I get upset over it, I’m letting her win. He has no idea how offensive he’s coming off right now, or how hurt I actually am. It’s my fault; I never express myself properly when I’m hurt. I just hold my breath and hope he stops talking so I can rationalize it in my head. Pet the ego better until she can get back up again.

It’s just this whole situation of Nice Guy vs. Asshole. Damian’s right, I always pick the asshole. For some reason I like to give out a lot of love to someone who doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’m fucking sick of it.

So here’s to the Nice Guy: Watch out. I’m coming for you.

This is hardly an apology.

He calls me.

He’s not the kind to call me. Never does. In the entirety of this relationship I’ve gotten one phone call from him that’s purpose was to communicate.
I was on speaker phone, he was bragging to his friends about sleeping with me.

Tonight, he called me. At three thirty in the morning. He’s drunk and has this story of his night, explaining perhaps why he came off such a dick at the bar.

Earlier I saw him, sitting against the wall. There’s this part of me that thinks he wants me to publically acknowledge him. As my ego is telling me to go over and say hi, the rest of me is saying don’t you fucking dare.

The ego wins.

“Hello.”

And he pulls away from me like he’s scared. Like he doesn’t know me. The ego dies a little and I don’t have time for this.

Later there’s an apology over text, where I tell him I don’t understand but I get it.

So now the phone call.

Something about something that led to something. Names I don’t know, names I don’t care about. I’m listening to him waiting for him to break my heart, because the ego always puts my heart over the train tracks. He’s not talking about me at all. I have to make everything about me and my hurt feelings. I can’t follow the story he’s telling me because I’m waiting to hear something traumatic.

He keeps pausing, setting the phone down. And there’s static that's hisses at me in intervals. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve taken too much cough medicine.

My point is, my ego has a point. There’s this mental emotional tug a war I have when he’s telling me these stories about him, about what he does. When I let my guard down and just listen, he pulls out some sentence that’ll wreck me for a week. I hate it. It’s so hard to hear. So there’s this defense mechanism, where I blog while he’s talking. 

The Game

You (21 years old, jondice blonde, elementary speech impediment traces, perfect straight teeth without the evidence of braces. Weak vocabulary, arms that pin me up against walls, arms that never shake. Boy with grey sweater, calloused hands and childish laugh. Not sober.) ask me (Brunette nebula, French Kiss Rocket Scientist with cigarette calorie kryptonite. Acne scar and freckle constellations. Girl who loves you, would never tell you, out loud.) to meet you, in the park outside my apartment at 2 in the morning simply because you know I’ll show up.  
           

The park, my park, is dark dry and tumored with red maple, elm and pine. I’m staring into inside from the street under a light so you can see me, but nothing moves. You’re hiding. No. You’re inviting. You run in the background, dodging tree trunks, trash cans, and playground equipment. You, inebriated apparition, butcher of slumber. Boy who expands my ribcage, gorges my pink lungs with ugly white smoke, whose name I breathe cough and choke, are playing a game.
           

Street light halo, sleep walking red riding hood (me) I hear vivid and ghastly “come find me.” And I take off into the park. Drop dead sprint, heels kissing asphalt, concrete, and then dirt, pine needles and sawdust. And I can hear you sense the chase and your sneakers smacking against the ground from eleven different directions.
           

You, champagne hallucination, breathing heavy and laughing are leaving audio fingerprints which my ears are obsessing. Under my red hood I’m searching, racing, climbing, trying to decipher the difference between what is wood, bark, pulp and what is blush skin cells, intoxicated muscle fiber, and boy consciousness.  You, drunken shadow poltergeist, are haunting me on this playground. And I, eager and faint valentine wonder to myself: when did this autumn night become so hot?
           

The soil beneath my flats begins to tip, and I swallowed into inertia suddenly recognize every pound of me, which is falling hard into grass and dirt. We (limbs, bones, synapses, brain and breath) are fainting. And for the next 12 seconds, as a single unit will envelope into horrid black secret.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

           

You, green center hazel iris, have rushed out of underground to rescue me. This was how I won the game, with low blood sugar and organic adrenaline.
           

You say: Red Riding Hood, I’m sorry.
           

I say: You’re killing me. Now, what is it you want at 2:14 in the morning?

Dear Monday

Autumn Equinox Spill Your Guts Horror Show Phantasm.
I wear my heart, held in front
use it as body armor.
It catches all battle scars
and bruises.
I wear my ego, resting on hips
use it as a weapon.
You'd be appalled by the damage it can do.
She says, I can get through this fall without tucking heart strings
into the back pocket jeans
of those college boys.
[she lied]
She wakes up and gets out those rusty garden shears.
Pauses before she severs.


How much longer until they've used her up?
and she becomes a girl so angry
no boy will want to play?


How much longer until there's nothing left to use.


"Hey so um....i'm not used to going out with someone and then not having them make an effort to see me again. I'm assuming you're busy cause it hurts a lot less than thinking this was a hit it and quit it kind of deal...which if it was, that's ok. I just regret paying for your sushi....jokes. I'm not the kind of girl that can do casual sex and not get hurt. I'm way too sensitive. so when I text you with no response and you appear to have stopped making any efforts to get to know me better, i just start feeling pathetic. I just don't want to bother you if you're not planning on seeing me again. you don't have to respond, you're lack of an answer will let me know and i can just stop thinking about it. no hard feelings, whatever you're reason, i understand"


and Cut.

7 rules: A Cautionary Tale

     There are rules to this you know. Rules made by asshole ex's and the angriest girls. Rules that are born in between wet red faces and damp pillows. Never again we say. Never Again.

     I hate the term "booty call". It cheapen it. This is how I look at it, there are people in this world who lay in bed, stare up at their ceilings, and make the decision: I'm not spending tonight alone. People who take control of their hormones, or loneliness, or just feel like fucking someone.
*Note: I'm not referring to a one night stand. I'm talking about a series of one night stands. Nights of spontaneous sex that keep reoccurring with one other person. No strings attached.

     It doesn't matter the reason why we do it. Some of us just have too much personality, too much love, you have to find someone to rub it off on to...into...and some carry too much trauma and are looking for a legitimate distraction. What's more distracting than sticking your dick into something?

     Rule One: Get something out of it. Don't venture into something you're not coming out a little bit more profited by. I'm serious, don't do it for the other person. They're not doing it for you. You'll lose and with stakes like these you'd be an idiot to gamble.

"You want to maybe come over tonight. I know it's late."

                                 "Of course" I say

"Just a heads up, I might just want to go to bed, I'm down to fuck, but I might just want to sleep"

                                    "That works" I say

     Rule Two: Keep a distance, The closer you get to the trainwreck,the uglier it gets. The messier it becomes. Sit tight in your recliner and just watch vicariously on your TV set. You can admire, but you won't feel it. You'll stay in awe, you won't go into shock, don't attach yourself to something disastrous. 

Standing there, watching him soak in beats and bass, watching him translate it through limbs, shoulders, hips and smile, I know I'm fucked.

I'm such a sucker for boys who can dance.

     Rule Three: Both of you have to be on the same page. It's not a relationship, it can be void of trust and communication. But at some point, you're going to have to say "I'm here, where are you?"

December:

"I don't want you thinking this is like a thing. I don't want to date you" he says

"Oh please honey, that's not who I am. I'm already someone's girlfriend. It's a mutual thing. I'm using you. I'm only choosing you because you're putting out. I don't care why you're choosing me, I just want you tonight" I say

July:

She asks: "Do you still feel that way?"

I answer: "I kind of have to. But no, I haven't for awhile."

     Rule Five: Don't do this with someone you're not willing to drop in a heart beat. Don't pick friends. In the end, when it ends, you're left without the inexpensive sex AND the shoulder to cry on. It's never worth it.

Sitting on the couch, watching TV with him, and I realize I feel on edge. I couldn't sit still, couldn't be comfortable. Then it hits me. I'm waiting for him to make a move. I've driven all the way over here, I reapplied my make up, my ass is hanging out of these shorts and damnit he's just sitting there, totally respecting me.

That's when it becomes clear, I'm that douche guy I'm always complaining about. The dude who can't just watch a movie with me. Cock bag. I'm supposed to be your friend. Just chill, enjoy my company or get the fuck out. I'm such a hypocrite. 

And then...dun dun dun, the big reveal: I'm not seeing him as a piece, he's becoming my friend.

     Rule Six: Don't attempt this if you don't have the stomach for it.

Sitting here, his head's on my lap and I'm running my fingers through his blonde hair. I know I'm breaking rule number seven. Right here, I know, I'm messing all this up.

Transcript of pure Assholery

Girl: 

I write, and I pioneer polyamory in young people. I paint, I draw. I take waay too long of baths. I read and collect too many things. I'm amazing, and totally full of myself especially when it's very impolite to be so.

Stranger: 

Haha sounds like my kind of girl but what is polywhatever????

Girl:

I'm a total slut.

It means carrying on multiple relationships simultaneously, but they all know about each other, that's what makes me different from a cheater. I don't sleep around though. It's hard to explain, I just fall in love all over the place.

Stranger:

Wow...ok...uhhh..."To each his own"

Girl:

Not everyone agrees with me. I'm not asking for approval. Just don't judge me, be nice to me. So yeah, to each his own.

Stranger:

Hey I don't knock it till I try it....besides you should know I don't want any relationship with anyone right now anyways just friends maybe a lil lovin is nice

Girl:

I have too much on my plate as it is ha, but I love getting to know people which is why I gave you my number

Stranger:

Well then lets get to know each other...but if we go out one night I don't share, you should know....

Girl:

It's cool, I totally understand. I just like to be upfront about it so I'm never being accused of lying or sneaking around. I'm still amazing though. so yeah befriend me haha

Stranger:

Ok cause I'm awesome so you should feel lucky to of met me and does the word fuck buddy offend you??

Girl:

it's doesn't at all

Stranger: 

So we should try and hang out maybe wednesday...? 

Girl:

I work late but I'm down if you doing mind being up late

Stranger:

Not at all I work Wednesday night at my aunts restaurant till 9. I help serve. It's easy just smile and have fun. I used to bartend.

Girl:

I've always wanted to bartend

Stranger: 

Yeah I also have my barbers license....I told you I'm something of a big deal...hahahaha

Girl:

Awesome. Nothing I dig more than a huge ego :] jk

Stranger:

okok so why are we still texting do you live with your parents and are not supposed  to be on the phone? cause everyone should get free minutes around this time....

Girl:

I'm doing homework. I can't talk and do homework at the same time. I can text though. And no, I don't live with my rents. I live with my boyfriend.

Stranger:

For Real????

Girl:

For real. I'm complicated but really fucking honest. Sorry if it bothers you.

Stranger:

Ya that's where you lost me..so is complicated and crazy in the same guidelines for you and what's this bf do? Bother me? No. I was just trying to fuck but that puts a roadblock in the way...hmmmm

Girl:

I'm engaged, in an open relationship. I see other people. I have another guy I see on a regular basis, and I date a few others but they tend not to last because I don't have time to spare for guys who can't wrap their mind around the concept or just bring me bullshit. but i'm a brilliant friend. and I never cut those ties loose. I wasn't raised to be monogamous, so this is normal for me. People my age who only see one person and decide they only want to be with that one person for the rest of their lives, is foreign to me and something i can't understand. but i try not to place blame on them for being different. I just don't get it.

and you told me you won't share. you can't fuck me if you can't share. besides i only sleep with guys who'll invest in a relationship and you said it's not what you're looking for which is totally cool. I need more friends than fuck buddies.

Stranger:

Well good luck with that....not sure where to go from here....but yeah

Girl:

were you only talking to me because you wanted to sleep with me?

Stranger:

well if i said no that would be a lie and i don't believe in lies or breaking promises but i'm an awesome guy just maybe a few bad habits....but don't judge me on those

Girl:

I'm not. Everyone's that guy. I've been that guy. Sorry to disappoint though, its not upsetting to me...flattering even because I'm such the fucking optimist. I don't judge, I'm in no position to.

Stranger: 

SO you really wouldn't fuck me hmmm ouch....shot through the heart and you're to blame darling you give love....a bad name...hahahahaha

Girl: 

I try not to involve myself with people who aren't looking for a relationship. I have a hard time doing sex with no strings. which makes me such a girl. Its not anything against you though. I'm just too needy.

Stranger:

I'm not worried if i need companionship i'll go down town....i was just really curious about your whole ordeal

Girl:

Did I satisfy your curiosity?

Stranger:

Satisfy??? No. Intrige possilbly....arouse...more soo.....

Girl:

damn

Stranger:

So tell me you have some sexy pics you want to send me...or is that a no no on your checklist too???

Girl:

That's a no no for anybody.  I really don't have any sexy pics on my phone. Not for boyfriends, swings, or strangers. I just don't take them

Stranger:

Yawn...well since we can't fuck or send pics...it means being friends kinda sucks...is that too blunt?

Girl:

Nah just you being honest. Sorry again for not being that type of girl. Better to find out now rather than later no? Thanks for the honesty. Saves time.

Stranger:

True true.

*Like he had a chance with me.

**Not sure what's worse, the guy who's straight up with being an asshole or the guy who charades in front of me all night pretending not to be this guy.

***This helped me feel better about the guy who took me out last week and hasn't been too responsive since. It's not me, it's them.

Miss Jet Pack

I understand a bigger picture. It's sex and death. I take both to heart. They say "This is my passion. This is what I live for". I say you live for those things for pussy. You've been playing guitar for fourteen years cause you wanted some hot blonde number to remember your name. Not to degrade what you've devoted your life to, but really, think of why you started...now think of why you really started. Tell me I'm wrong.

I'm talented. I know this. But I'm not an expert at anything, at least not to anything useful in public. I cut out the messenger, the middleman. I saw the two motivating factors of life and I just chose to put everything I have into one of them. Sex. Not sex in general, just my sex. Finding my sexual identity is my priority. I want to be able to lay in bed with a boy I haven't ever kissed in my life and immediately be able to pick up on if he's going to be good for me. And my vagina.

I want to be a god damn fuck psychic superhero.

How does one go about gaining slutty extrasensory perception? Just know your body. What you like. How this feels.

Boys have it easy. You have your body to encourage you with physical evidence during puberty. Waking up in wet shorts says "Hey, pay attention to me". Getting random erections in the most inappropriate of times "Kid, come on. I'm not going away. Get to know me, Take care of me."

Girls aren't so lucky. We are shown little if any evidence of our bodies trying to get acquainted with us while we're changing. We have to dig for it. At 12 I lacked the attention of boys. So I spent a lot of time digging.

"I don't masturbate." She says. If she's being honest, I feel so sorry for her. I imagine if God gave us built in Jet Packs she's the type who'd refuse to use the thing. Once I knew how to operate my own Jet Pack, I was able to become familiar with the workings of other Jet Packs. You can sense it on a person, when they understand the gears and switches of their own bodies. We tend to trust those people with ours. I'm trusted. Usually immediately.

My talents lack audience. Individuals privileged enough to be witness of my craft should consider themselves lucky. Yes, I'm greedy. But I'm picky. What I devote passion, time, energy, and love into isn't open to the public. My performances are secrets. I am the most intimate of girls.

They say, she must hate herself. She must be traumatized. She must be in order to be so obsessed with something to shameful. To degrade herself to a boy she doesn't know--they couldn't be more wrong.

Lay with me. I'll know you well enough. The trick:

I know myself. I'm generous with myself. I love myself.

And that is why, on your bed, in your clean text book bedroom, with a smoke-filled head, when you lean in to kiss me, reach up my skirt, and slide curious fingers up under my Jet Pack, I am the least bit surprised.

Being Dangerous

Stoned.

Went to wash off my make up
looked in the mirror.
Felt insanely pretty.
Grabbed my camera and just kept taking pictures.
My vanity is the best anti-depressant.

The Ambush

Met her at a birthday party

Neither of us knew whose.

“I just walked in from the street. Heard music, saw a black light”

She said.

I’m a friend of a friend of a friend.

Just another body, filling up the room.

Outside it was raining

Leaving every sole wet.

And she’s standing in the kitchen

Being offered shot after shot

And I’m just watching her

Knock shot after shot back

She grabbed me by the hand and says

“Up into the attic, I can hear the music”

The stairs are steep

Up at the top she stumbled into a bean bag and wrapped herself into a blanket.

On the bag we’re facing each other

Under the blanket we’re not touching.

She’s breathing heavy

Asks me if I want to play a game.

She explains

This game, by tucking her hands under the blanket

Tucking her hands in between her thighs

Tucking her hands into her panties.

And I watch her eyes

Begin to roll.

Play with me she says.

Speechless.

I can’t move.

Just another body filling up the room.

She says my name, drawing out each vowel.

Her knees touch mine

I say “Shhh don’t be so loud”

Truth is, she’s not making a sound.

But if any other body in the room were to look over at us…

She sings

“It starts at the bottom of my feet

And travels up like a toxin

Turning off certain nerves

And switching other’s on.”

Please don’t stop talking.

Her eyelids fall and then open wide.

Her lips slightly part and then her teeth begin to bite

This girl, this stranger

I met on this rainy night

Is making love right in front of me.

“It’s the best kept secret

The kind they all want to know about

It’s like being kissed by God

The finale.

And baby I’m getting close.”

I can see her shoulder peeking in and out of the blanket

I can see her

Seeing me

In shock, awe, and curiosity.

It’s the hysteria that gets her off

It’s the ambush

The trauma.

And then

“Oh god”

Just like that

All nerves on, then all nerves off.

The machine begins to recuperate.

She rolls onto her back

Breathing to the beat of the music.

“You’re the kind of boy who leaves my soul wet.”

She left in search of more black lights.

You're such an Asshole. I'm such an Actress.

Just once I want to be that psycho chick
Who walks up to the both of you at the bar
Who grabs her hair from the back and slams her teeth into the wall
Who smashes a bottle over the top of your head
Spits in your mouth
Starts a riot
Starts a massacre.
Because my friends say "Hey baby, isn't that like you're boyfriend?"
No.
He's not.

Because had I let my ego, do what it wanted
I wouldn't be lying here tonight with you
Listening to you go on about
how much you like her
how you stood up for her
and this crush you got for her.
Fuck.

And I know, It's my fault
I shouldn't play any cooler than I actually am.
That's what gets me in trouble.
I write "Doormat" on my forearms and really, you can't be blamed.

I just have a fear of being that girl
who's stuck in the bar bathroom stall
crying her eyes out
spilling her guts out
and her friends shaking their heads saying "He's just an asshole baby. Come back out and we'll make it all better baby"

But Jesus, I would have given anything to be that girl that night.
A black eye, long neck broken bottle cuts, and a punch in the stomach
wouldn't hurt nearly as bad as lying here with you,
Just go on.

And yeah, of course, I'm going to get on top.
And yeah of course, I'm going to help you unhook my bra.
Because I'm down for the count
Cucumber Concubine.
This girl has no nerve.
This spineless twist only feels between her legs.
This slut, has no name.

And my friends just watch and think to themselves "My god, poor baby."

Before I die, I want to have sex

We came up with the list when I was 14. Still a virgin, despite what they might have told you. The list, constructed by me and my best friend, both of us had no idea what we were doing.  Young girls, hungry girls. Girls that boys wouldn't look at for a few more years.

Girls that gravitate towards epiphany.

The Awkward and Loud. 

Clumsy, and Happy. 

The Anti-Proud. 

We were ugly ducklings, we were well aware of it.
We made the list for boys who were undeserving, boys who were ignorant to our meticulous planning,

Before I die I want to have sex:

In the backseat of a police car

In my bosses office

On a ferris wheel

In a public park

On a football field

In a library

In a church

On a rooftop

While on my period

In your boyfriend's bed (not with your boyfriend)

On top of a mountain

At a rest stop

In an elevator 

In costume

At a concert

In a hospital bed

In a stranger's house

In a dressing room

In every state

With a woman

On railroad tracks

At 12:00 am on New Years

In an ocean

With a mother

In a grocery store

On a school bus

In a phone booth

Covered in paint

(this continues)

    --the list went on in journals and notebooks. In the margins of text books, and convenient napkins. When an idea came up, we jotted it down to remember so we could discuss the how, with who, and why. 

Almost ten years later, I still refer back to that list. With every boy who's crawled in between my legs, parted my lips with pink tongue and slid fingers up under the lace of my bra, I still think to myself "What's left on that list?".