Poem

Before any words are spokenI can hear you in the dark

I can hear the snap as your tongue dislodges from the roof of your mouth

I can hear your lips as they separate

I swear I can hear your muscles moving as

you start to shape your mouth around a word

In the dark of my room miles away from the dark of yours, these sounds alone arouse me

Your voice bouncing down from hundreds of miles north, late at night when we miss each other most makes me want to weep with pleasure

Unimpressed

With him. With her. With myself.

I hate that girl. That girl that lives inside this woman that I like to think I am and who screams to me, egged on by insecurities obviously not yet shed, that my worst fears are the most likely to come true.

I thought I was stronger and I thought I was better and I thought I could do it. I have done it many times but this round is a no go. Sex is sex and love is love and I do not pretend to confuse the two. That’s not a defence mechanism, its genuinely how I feel, but there is that case when there is both, on my end at least and I can not, despite my best efforts detach one from the other. I might be able to if the object of my affections were cold and clear but he is warm and murky… and I remain lulled and trapped by second-chances and maybes and what-ifs. These are the opiates of my heart and when they start to ease up I can see how addicted and stupid I am. But then I take another hit at the just-maybe-pipe and with a heavy fluttering of eye-lids I am under again.

 More then my frustration with the deer-in-headlights routine he pulled when being flirted with by a mutual friend, more than my current rage (no doubt to be simmered down slightly by morning) that I feel for the friend who was so forward with the man she knows very well ranks high in my esteem, more than  those is the combination of shame and anger and disappointment I feel with myself for letting it get to me.

I don’t think I can see him again. It never seems to be on my terms and I think the days of taking what I am given and smiling politely need to end. That no longer works for me, my soul, my heart.

The move might help with this; out of sight, right?

Sex Talk (part deux)

I have decided (for today at least) that sex for me is like food. Allow me to explain:

- Sometimes I find myself famished and could care less what I eat so long as I eat something.

- Sometimes I want to head out to market, slowly fondle the produce, wash it, chop it, simmer, boil, season, roast and present it lovingly and to perfection. I want to savour it and take my time.

- Sometimes I want someone to do the cooking for me.

- Sometimes I am hungry, know *exactly* what I want but would rather fast than settle on anything else.

- Sometimes I wait weeks, months even years for a seat at a special restaurant only to be disappointed.

- Sometimes I find the most amazing meals in the most unlikely of places.

I could go on but I think you get the point. I mentioned this at the Uni of the Streets tonight and the guest speaker said the following:

“Sex is a lot like food, except for one thing; you can live without sex, not without food. You may want to die without it, but you wont..”

Funny.

On My Mind

This poem creeps up on me, no that’s not true. This poem lives in my head all the time just most if the time it sleeps. Lately its been popping up more frequently. Spring fever? Second thoughts? Who knows… Its a kick-ass piece and the rest of her work is pretty dope too. Recommended.

http://www.hebrewmamita.com/poetry/PMFGA.htm

Sex Talk

Went to an open-forum style chat on sex tonight. I had high hopes that were all quickly dashed. Too bad because I think it could have been great. Like a drunken mistake though, all that happened was half-way through I was itching for an excuse to leave.

I consider myself fairly politically correct, excessively so if you ask my brother and a handful of others, but I just CAN NOT get on-board with A) validating every single thing, every single person says and B) being so careful not to offend that you end up saying nothing at all (and take a bloody long time doing it).

BDSM is rough. Bondage is not fluffy. Masochism is harsh. That’s why people who like it, like it. To deny this basic premise is to essentially deny those who take part in it any validation. By insisting that calling it harsh devalues or judges it negatively is to miss the point entirely and furthermore reinforces the notion that harsh = bad.

This was but one hyper-politically correct academic approach to a very visceral topic that made me crazy this evening. But I am too tired to write more. Sleep calls, perhaps more ranting tomorrow.