Repetition is the spice of strife. One’s persistent longing does not reveal any innate capacity to be loved. Intimacy may bespeak immediacy? But then commands a hope for the possibility of some small degree of lingering sharable empathy. One cannot truly be in love until they themselves are willing to step aside. Emptiness in its lack does not constitute a human existence. To expect one’s self to be known despite the high walls that are erected around them is to maintain a fiction of geniality of false security of an irresolute presence.
Cold. Nice boots and new jeans. Bad hair. “Just being me!“, she might have said to herself as she strode up to the counter. Silently passing under the gaze of older men. The art hanging about the walls bespeaking black rubber worms ‘cacked’ forth from abundantly large vulcanized assholes. A quiet little student of her cell phone’s daily musings sitting int he armor of her cheap floor length winter coat. Alone. She sits at the table just ahead. A semblance in a way from the scribbles on the glass facing outside. Individual offerings in wax pencil barely legible yet very human by design. What have I to offer life from my own play set of bankrupt toys! Save perhaps the ability to avoid danger? To avoid the living embodiment of the existence of life. Though we all exist within the jaws of a trap slowly sprung. The expressions of joy signifying arrival by errant ‘femmes‘ so vulnerable and in total emotional disarmament.
If any seek discovery in these words then they are mistaken. Weight distributed on two legs. The exclusively internal conversation without the blank page a room for of youthful strangers. The sustenance by the fiction that wisdom comes naturally with impressionable youth who are relieved from the pressures of life by leisure. Life is a chess game for some of those who consider themselves outsiders. The occasional expected ritual involving consumption of the sacrificial offering of flesh. “And my reaction was!“, she did not say, mumbling instead a colloquial “like“. The residue of the ever mounting atrophy of spoken English vocabulary further despoiled. “As I always say . . .“, inferring an inability to think differently over an indeterminate period of time. “Huh?“, an exclamation rather than a question. A grunt rather than an intelligent groan.
The reality for those being distant from all and not just from their own kind. The currently acceptable spark of individuality coming in well-tatooed meat. Armed with an eight pack of toilet tissues under the arm, it fully and firmly secured. Take creatures, white Masai and just about as aloof. Sensitivity within sensual areas more simply an itch to be scratched. Symbolic leisure wear well within the set of faux riding boots loudly proclaiming a desired caste to be judged by. Does one accept this silent declaration at face value? The stars from the heavens above are merely bright reflections upon the white enamel of the coffee cup of track lighting. A thick wad of paper snatched ceremoniously from the pocket assuming respect in the repeatable transactional ritual of coming out.
What would have been like to be in the arms of someone who loved you. Again? What! As if it had ever happened? Old memories buried in each other on a pile. A pyre. Locked in place and no longer available. But you’re here. Still? Aren’t ya! That’s it. Walking around like a ghost without a clue of what brought you to this haunt. What kind of love is that. Smelling the stains. Laying on an old broken down mattress. Pretending that you know something. Like something, someone knows you. Who is kidding who. Who has? Yourself. A thought after thought after thought after thought. Echo. Two mirrors! Someone’s truth lies between. Is it you. Your’s? You want her talk. Talk, talk, talk. You wanted them all to talk. Safe to talk. They did! Then they did! And it was all about something. Anything!Nothing. But not you! You couldn’t understand that. Not you. That you didn’t enter into the equation. You never did. Never! You were a ghost. A ghost of a dream. A ghost in a dream! Your dream. Never! Never, never, never. Neverland. You were a child tucked into pajamas. Not a man. No! Never. Sucking your thumb. Sucking their tits. Sucking and fucking. Fuck off! You might have felt their passing fury. Felt a tremble through their body. That tremble. Trembling? For a moment. For an instant? Never. But you were not available. Never were. That was you sin. The sin of self. You alone. The key that wouldn’t open any door. You were locked out. Out in the cold. Cold. Dead cold. Like dead. And so why? Why ask the questions. “Where’s my money?” Why ask. Why! You know the answer. Don’t you? You do! Now. Now is not the time. The time. No longer the time to ask.
There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.
He had her hypnotized her. But she silently complied. Going under at a countdown and then the instant orgasm produced at the snap of his fingers. A funny little game. “Oh“, she cooed, “Where are my clothes?“, as she rhythmically undulated her hips to and fro. The camera rolling its red light blinking. (Snap!) his fingers replied. Somewhere in the room a long deep moan easing out slowly like warm toothpaste from a newly flattened tube. She caught with her forefinger between her lips unconsciously tasting herself. “Where was that in my set of instructions?“, he quietly mused to himself? Her hips not skipping a cycle reciprocating constantly though more violently. The same eternal grin of that silly stupid smile breaking out on her features as it does with all women when they are doing something ‘naughty‘ and enjoying it to the max. (Snap!) once again. Her expression shagging. Transformed from the casement of pleasure into a fluttering sense of pleasurable distress. “You will keep dancing but when I snap my fingers again your orgasms will be one-hundred times stronger!“, he forcefully mumbled. An internal dialogue within before a bed sheet movie screen flickering forth a Keystone cop melodrama with him twirling his mustache in black cape and tall hat as the door is battered in and a row of nightstick wielding clowns tumble in after it. “I never touched her!“, being the initial defense disturbing the scene before him. (Snap!) (Snap!) That same low earthquake moan resounding once again as her two legs threatened to sink away towards the floor from their rhythm into an gratifying collapse. Somewhere from a distant past discarded thought reflecting an eddy of dissatisfaction in the possibility of by her own disclaimer her body being unworthy of desire. The apparition of those badly matched breasts dangling awkward before her narrowed eye’s interrogation fading away as quickly as it had been summoned up. “Tic Tock! Tick Tock, Tic Tock!” The Sine wave of her flanks resuming their constant wobbly pattern as before in time with the expectation of the resumption of that fluttering within. “Dirty louse!“, her mother’s voice suddenly echoed within her cranium from afar . “Getting his jolly’s is he!” Her eye catching his. The palpitations within suddenly ramping up at her own twinge of guilty shame. “Naked!” her brain declared from a distant window overhead. “I am finally naked to the world and I don’t care!” (Snap!), (Snap!), (Snap!) Pow! “Dirty louse!“, the little mouse-like voice ringing out softly again as it tumbled far away. The dance continuing forth throughout that coming night.
They had been in the hotel suite now for what must have been almost a half a day. The matter of clothes had been left at the foot of the bed. She had the tone of one that had just cleared adolescence even though she was numerically well beyond it. He looked at life from the other end of the scale of years. Naked in the mirror there could not have been more of a mismatch had one tried to imagine it. The ardor of their meeting had long past and passion was looking for an excuse to one again loom high above any judgement of time or places to be. She would be fired. That was obvious when the doors of the suite were open and she had to retrieve her street clothes and replace the hotel uniform that she had worn when she had delivered the room service to Mr. Manny. She looked at him as he sat on the edge of the bed staring into empty space. A second cigarette he had pulled from the pack that had been spirited away from inside the crumble of his sports jacket laying inside flap open on the carpet beside her undergarments. As a lay, he had been underwhelming. Though well-hung and no doubt exceedingly more vigorous in his youthful days, their encounter in coupling had been thankfully brief. More an alternating series of her serving him on her knees and then infrequently turning about to present herself to his ever flagging enthusiasm. Impotence not a matter of culinary excess in fine wine and spirits liberally laced with narcotics. His bull had been out to pasture for some time. The persistence that she had shown was more a matter of respect and politeness than any hope for the completion of a climax on either of their parts.
She watched him slowly exhale smoke as she wondered briefly if he found her more attractive for her youth than for her somewhat lanky feminine curves. Perhaps his ethnic Italian background felt more in tune with a heftier sort of female? “More to grab onto!”, as she had long ago heard some boys in her high school quip in their unabashed review prom dates barely sullied save for the imagination. She had to question her own attraction as she contemplated the strange nature that men ever seemed to present. Always in hot pursuit of you caught senseless in a frenzied chase like some half mad fox hound intoxicated by the scent of available prey lurking about the neighborhood. But their instincts, more times than not, quickly quenched after a brief introductory round of furtive coupling. Then an unapologetic excuse or mumble to avoid camping out with he on the wet spot. But maybe too it was her in some way? She had a way of beating them to the punch in the matter of her one self satisfaction. Making their attempts at foreplay served upon her a competition with her own ministrations to ensure her own pleasure. If they took the cue and worked a different ‘part of town’ it in some cases had been a plus. But some indeed were put off and were soon to lose interest in more than a brief round of satisfaction to honor their instincts that had been unleashed.
There was something very compelling to her having had a television icon from her youth. Something that violated a basic sense of family propriety akin to being too long bouncing legs a straddle upon her elder uncle’s bony knees. That didn’t seem right. Not that she could ever recall any incident from her own family on either side! It was just the idea of it now remotely caught in the recesses of her own head. The role play of being bad and doing something forbidden that made her stir hot and warm deep down low. The idea also that she like some native American savage of ancient plains combat had now counted coup and could add this experience to her psychological lodge pole. Mr. Manny had been deposed. The experience of the completion of this seduction had stolen the novelty of his name and fame. And he had been left just an old pathetic man who had the good fortune to enjoy the experience of a young female once more. A pleasure that he had no shame in claiming even though it was based upon a measure of fame that had long ago gone into permanent hibernation in the province of late night series reruns. How many women had he briefly and intimately known in the course of his career she wondered? It was obvious that she would not be remembered past the night. She felt a firm nudge at her side and she looked down to see his well-jeweled paw with two hundreds twixt its stubby fingers. He tapping her gently again as she politely took the bills.
It was just past the second shift and she knew that it was a good time to go. Without a sentence she gathered up her portion of the piled clothing. Maybe she would have better luck in keeping her position than she suspected? His gravely voice issued a casual relaxed, “thanks.”, From behind her. As if he had just simply tipped a masseuse after the conclusion of a rub down session. It seemed a funny way to look at their sojourn. Simply a session to garner a little relaxation. Something that she conjectured kept him focus in the present instead of dwelling on the long lost past. A form of therapy. Strange too think of it that way? What life would be like for her when it was her time? A women caught far past any ability to enjoy her own hormones anymore when a persistent nagging feeling of a need to be comforted would rise in importance above the need for achieving a solid orgasm? For men it seemed holding hands was never enough. Always something more to prove to themselves. Lost little boys caught in misshapen aged weary forms that defied the former vitality of youth. Dirty little boys poking and pressing their nasty parts onto you. More to impress themselves than you that they were still there and very much alive. For her it seemed, a pair of older more experienced hands that were confidently sure in their routines speaking volumes in a slow pagination of seduction. Those well-versed with the intricate folds and creases of a woman. And how to apply themselves without becoming embarrassingly awkward. A form of abandon that suited that lingering little girl inside and her constant craving for perfection. One that she was still reluctant to acknowledge in finding herself fully cast as just another woman.
For whatever had occurred in the course of the night’s s,umber I cannot now recall. The nature of my dreaming at this point in life being single pointed generally upon a final scene. To my surprise when returning down the sidewalk passage to a house that though strange stood in for my own. I looked over to my left over a low cyclone fence and saw my ex-wife sunbathing. How sad I thought instinctively that I was so happy? Like an old friend restored to that empty space in my world. I lay down upon my front upon an unfolded lawn chair and just took in the distant sight of her dome fifty feet away in her sunglasses laying face down quietly sunning. It was thus a glorious day. It was only a dream unfortunately. But one that was inordinately positive. A fell good experience of the joy of the heart redeemed. Something I never had the occasion to experience outside feelings for my immediate family. This eternal pairing taking hold. Something to make me wonder on all counts. Me the foolish young boy transitioned into the equally foolish old man. How beautiful is the simple beauty of love for a woman to a man. Even if it takes the centuries to prove it? Perhaps this gender of my own have more in common with canines than we are willing to admit? Loyal in some enigmatic manner that is as unpredictable as it is in unexpected longevity? Can I trust the surety of my own conjuring of words considering the long gap of action?
Maybe it was the experience of unexpectedly returning to the same neighborhood that for me never was nor never had been. Someone who had not believed truly in others including himself? His concoction in stories and analogies that had no force beyond his own legs and the power to brashly employ them to his own detriment? How long it has been beyond the power of memory to recall a sense of natural well-being? The embankment of the sins committed against myself in absence of any truly meaningful sense of happiness. To ply my life beneath the covers in sleep pathetic enough in comparison with those older years of youth so ineptly trying to find same within the inequities of of a perpetually insecure society. Where was the stability? Certainly not within me! I have proven myself a ‘bad pick’ and have had to contend with that notion all along ever since. A failure to all women in transgressing against their basic principle of staying with them no matter what. My pressure cooker vessel having a steam realize valve called escape. Intolerable to the hopes and fears of any female who dares to not honor my own game in the ruthless pursuit of their own. Eventual enemies but never friends. How very sad for all?
So at this late date, dreams take hold. And I suppose provide that which I have for so long been in short supply of. Hope to rouse me from the waiting room where I have for some time been expectant for the call of a final demise. A failure by virtue of being drained of useful desires. This predatory culture of constant lascivious sexual innuendo barely veiling greed having eaten me alive like it has so many others. Like it had my poor poor wife. How I wish I could have saved her? Mea culpa! I could not have even saved myself. .
It was a subject that he didn’t like to talk about anymore. He’d been in love with her in high school. His first love. Or really, he couldn’t make that claim. She’d never been in love with him. Never in the mood to reciprocate the assumption of passion that he felt duty bound to perform. Too many Saturday afternoon Hollywood scripts! In any case he played the good companion and bit his lip through all of it until he had had enough and couldn’t take anymore. He could still remember that night when he had obliged her with his car. Taken her on a trip to north of the river at the center of town. And she got out on a corner by a hotel and yelled and screamed and raged at the indifference of her absent father. He would only care to recall that last impromptu ride with her across the state at night with his dwindling hopes renewed only to be dashed when the final destination brought her to the bed of what had once been up to that point his friend. It wasn’t long until he put two and two together and realized some things about divorce. Thirty years after. Some nine years after his own divorce to that bright flame that quickly burned out. Now he wondered what would have happened had his first infatuation had indeed thought about him that he very occasionally was reminded not to indulge in thinking about her. Solitude was its own disease. An addiction that one picked up when it was just too damn tiresome to connect anymore. It wasn’t her. But all the others in-between that he continued the thought with. The ones that in some masculine way he replayed the that ongoing disappointment. Something along the lines of being denied the opportunity when it really meant something. And piece by piece getting small parts here and there when it no longer could. Those movie scripts came in handy after the fact. He became so addicted in the intervening years. A mental closet to keep his emotional Pyhrric victories. But now there was no love left. No fiction of love like an eternal flame to fan. His moth knew enough to keep close on certain occasions but stay clear. What if he realized that those women who were so skilled at overlooking you in youth might at the end of their year be capable of wanting to know you once again? Know you when it was safely too late when they had felt that they had lost everything else. Devalued currency. Confederate money.
“Worthless if not damaging!“, he thought. He couldn’t believe in the emotions of women anymore. They seemed to have no faith in conviction themselves. There physical beauty that once suggested some mighty universal power of creation and constancy abrogated by the fault of being just as human and just as lost as he had turned out to be. Two minuses not easily making a plus when forced together contraposed. That linear function of being linear and male not wanting him to go off the highway of what he supposed life would be from this point one and risk more rocks and gravel. He could not imagine the terror he would face if two of the earliest showed up pen night at his door? How hard and vulnerable it might make him. Crazy enough to contemplate murder? Or some form of emotional suicide to end the past. The worst part being the realization that he had given up and he was just mortal. That things had not gone anywhere since. In fact they had descended into the convenient desert of emptiness. The story that lingered on after the greater story of “One day!“. “One day.“, when he would finally fine that perfect one. The one that if he could have been honest along the way he would have known never existed. And for that fact, never could. It was all a crapshoot. People died on you after letting you down in every way possible for years. It didn’t lessen that time bomb of fidelity and attachment that ticked on within. So . . . That other world of the emotions that he had left in others. All the unrequited hopes that he had generated by the promise of his indefinite presence in their lives. Their fantasies and not his . . . Who’s fantasies meant more? How pathetic to think that any of them, especially the first one in that long line, might be thinking of him this very same night and wondering how it might have turned out otherwise? One day long overdue and now judged D.O.A
“Thank God!“, he thought in that empty room with all the lights turned off. Thank God that he was now buried in the blanket of failure. As if that would have made a difference either way to one or two that might have had some real heart behind the effort. How sad and pathetic was life. Is life! Fire and brimstone! “Did cavemen and women have such convoluted existences?”, he thought? It was dark and he lay on his bad hearing the fading melodies of the old melodrama making its way from his mental auditorium back out to where such things go when they seem long forgotten. It told him that women were not clowns or villains or even emotional refrigerators that waited patiently at one’s pleasure. It remind him if that which he did not want to know. That he daily avoided. That all were pathetic or vulnerable whiteout that other. Rusty wrecks with engines, cars without wheels. Going nowhere for yet another day farther past where they should have been. With that someone that they so successfully avoided but should should have been with. The irreparable lesson of life.