Yesterday Was Dramatic

2009-12-02T23:16:00.000-08:00

She walks so lightly, tiptoeing for fear that he hears her and thinks her too loud, uncouth. At times she ventures a fleeting glance into his eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. The wild spiral that has slowly drawn her closer to him might have unsettled him into a dazed sense of weariness. He is always in motion, a weathervane of life’s circumstances, spontaneous and volatile. She is a slab of dense mineral, opalescent but so still, not of his world. The others are watching, pondering, so full of questions as they slouch on pleather sofas, protective and already prejudiced matter-of-factly. She almost wishes to lose the battle before even fighting it because it could be more romantic and nostalgic. She could tell him of things he has never dared imagine that might bedazzle him but that would be against the rules. She also knows that he is giving himself time which he doesn’t know he does not have. She brushes a very soft hand against his cheek, a secret goodbye and walks away from him and his life toward this strange lanky shadow down the street, ...a mere boy, ...a muse ....perhaps just a dream...

It would be hard to tell when she first noticed that she liked him. After all, like is akin to an illness, with its secret incubation span, its first symptoms and then outright fever and ailments. It does seem strange that it might have occurred at that very peculiar moment when she wished it least and as she daydreamed of a distant and unattainable serenity.
It did however take quite some time for her to see and know it.
It was nothing in particular and yet, an infinity of minute details; The way he tilted his head to one side while listening to someone speak, the way he stood so straight and tall but so thin and graceful. He sometimes was quite outspoken and spontaneous yet most often seemed lost in morose thoughts of a too serious nature. And though he was tenaciously stilted, he was also fluid and vivacious.
She could not have said whether it was his voice or his face, his eyes or his fingers that so fascinated her or if it was perhaps the sum of it all.
She accepted her like of him quite naturally, as soon as she caught herself thinking of him.
In the early afternoon, sipping green tea with honey in her sunlit kitchen, a frozen vision of him would arise out of nowhere, materializing itself in midair between the windows and the plants like an uncanny hologram. She did not think much of it but rather simply enjoyed his ethereal presence in her life. Thinking of him was soothing and not at all disturbing, rather like thinking of eating an especially elaborate and nice dish: A little exotic and sweet and sour at once, and not so colorful but subtle and with a tremendously rich after taste. Maybe like dark chocolate and wild wood strawberries, the kind one discovers in the forests of France that are so fruity and almost raspberry like yet subdued in their intense flavor.
She would wash dishes and suddenly see his silhouette dancing in the clubs or standing a little askew while speaking on his cell phone as he was staring intently at a particular spot of the pavement as if scanning for an unforeseen chasm to open that he did not wish to miss.
The like had made a cozy nest inside her heart and she could nourish it with details and smiles he might have inadvertently provided as if it was an infant entity growing slowly. She wondered if it might have been all in her head, an affection created for her own enjoyment and secret loneliness.
And, as she did ponder, little by little, her heart grew cooler.
Doubt had also made its dark lair inside of her and it fed on forgetfulness and sorrows. Slowly, it became cooler and then cold and colder still as he forgot to smile at her or even notice her. The sun was no longer laying its liquid golden fingers on the plants’ leaves that she would notice and his silhouette and gestures seemed to have become less articulate than a marionette. And though it was early Spring, the kitchen appeared somehow darker and murkier with dense shadows building spider web-like nets of obscurity.
Her heart grew so cold that it froze. And when it was so frozen it had hardened to a Crystal solidity, it burst into a million tiny fragments and slivers that lodged themselves inside her chest and into her blood stream making her more beautiful perhaps but also akin to a marble statue, lifeless and icy.

The Fashion Victim

2009-11-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

Stitch..., stitch..., the thick curvy needle dove into the leather in a swift motion and the two flaps united in a perfect seam. Monsieur R. looked up, his face suddenly moved by a strange emotion; sentimentalism, nostalgia, fondness, perhaps all of these, merged into one. In his mind's eye, he could see Valentina smiling at him with that strange equine smile of hers, gauche but somehow charming and her eyes sparkling with some inner glee. All things considered, he thought, he might have loved Valentina, but with something of a brotherly breed, innocent and surely platonic.
The beige thread made its sinuous way through the leather, shaping it into a most exquisite corset. For this time only, he had wanted to use true whale bones, the way corsets had been built in bygone days as opposed to the nylon replacement of later decades.
The boots were already standing by the mannequin, thigh high creations of creamy smoothness with their curious rear lacing and hooks and grommets not normally used in fashion design but rather in body-piercing parlors. The hot pants were taped to the fiber glass hips of the mannequin with the embroidery of a heart on one of the rear pockets. But not the stylized heart of cartoons and lovers, instead, the beautifully accomplished stitched representation of the organ itself, its blood red hue, in contrast with the pale beige of the leather. The long opera gloves rested on the display table nearby, stuffed with silk paper to shape them perfectly. Next to them lay a glass jewelry box with several items such as gem rings and bracelets which he meant to decorate the gloves with, when the outfit was entirely completed.

* * *

The first time Monsieur R. saw Valentina, he had been in awe of her porcelain-like complexion and her onyx hair that cascaded in thick locks over her shoulders and breasts. She was not by any means beautiful with a face a little too long, a graceless nose and large lips, though her eyes were quite enticing. She was a tall girl, a little clumsy with a boyish gait, thin-limbed and the classic pear-shaped body of these females destined to breed robust children, but of the still thin variety. She had applied for the position of in-house model for fittings and had been instantly hired, along with a few other girls. Height was a prerequisite for the job as well as thinness, but facial features were completely irrelevant.
Monsieur R. had been instantly fascinated by her because she fulfilled a strange longing which he had never been able to quite explore. She had a childlike mind, a little more than a simpleton and from their initial meeting, she had placed her entire trust in him. She was completely smitten by him. Willing from the start to indulge him in platonic companionship, though she might have dreamt of a little more. He had easily convinced her of the necessity to keep their relationship secret so as not to cause any disturbance in the harmony of the atelier where he was seen as a minor deity by most of his staff.
She was aware of his interest in her and perhaps she thought that he was taking his time to appraise her justly or that he might be old-fashioned, a anachronism from a conservative and obsolete era. She allowed him to lead her in his deliberate dance of mysterious rendez-vous and late night dates.
Right from the start, Monsieur R. had encouraged her to attend to her personal beauty. He had bought her the most luxurious lotions, creams, buffing stones and brushes, scented, natural soaps and oils, sugar scrubs, salt polish, loofahs, and velvety towels, all sorts of exfoliating pastes and emollient, hydrating balms. Slowly, he had accustomed her to his patient ministrations which she accepted as the symptoms of an untold worship.
She adored him as though he was the essence of her adolescence's dreams. His lovely boyish face with almond eyes, a decisive nose and full sensuous lips, long blond curls of soft hair and the gaze of a doe. He was thin and perfectly shaped and he gave the impression of intense focus turned inward, into a wondrous world of his own making that others could only wish to get a glance of, perchance, if he ever deigned to reveal it.
When he spoke to Valentina, he never looked at her face but rather focused at her figure; her long arms, her legs, her gentle hands and most of all, he loved to stare at the peculiar insect tattoo on her mid-drift. He spoke softly, searching for perfect words which he would turn into beautiful mantras that enthralled her. He would envelop her of his green gaze and make her feel safe and..., loved.
It is true that in some peculiar way, he did love her. Though one could hardly find any notion of romance in his passion. Rather, it was fueled by the cold fire of pure esthetics, for his eyes could only see with his mind but not with his heart.
The affair had lasted barely a few weeks when, on a balmy night, he killed her. Softly, gently even, while she was asleep, with one tiny droplet of air injected into her vein. She hadn't even awakened and there was a lovely smile on her lips.
Then, delicately and most precisely, he had cut her limbs and head and carefully peeled the entire skin off her body. He had incinerated the rest in the furnace of his remote country house and buried whatever little else remained.
Then, patiently, he had scraped the last fibers off the skin with sharpened razor blades, pinned the various parts to wood planks and caressed oil and tanning lotions into them. Timelessly, he had applied layer after layer of oil to render the texture more perfect. While he concentrated on his task, he could visualize the girl as she had been when he had attended to her beauty treatments and it was now almost the same except that no flesh or muscle could alter the flawlessness of her skin. It was now absolutely perfect and taunt and somehow much more alive in his eyes than when it had covered her body.

* * *

Monsieur R. had become a famous fashion designer upon the initial shock wave his first full blown collection had induced in the media. Single-handedly, he had merged the classic severity of fetish-wear with elegantly feminine garments. His models wore frightening abstract masks, their hair transformed into sculptures that crowned lengthy bodies garbed in seemingly dangerous fabrics and designs while perched on tall stilettos, with thin legs sheathed in rubber stockings.
It was as though his women were beautifully and mysteriously deadly, the fatal Venus Flytraps of femininity, delicate but so exceedingly powerful in some occult manner that most men would never grasp and only shrink from, while being thoroughly fascinated.
For a while, he had loved the smooth consistency of rubber clinging to their limbs because he could not abide the texture, often flabby or blotchy, of natural skin. Until that is, he had met Valentina. She had been his epiphany of sort, a revelation unnoticed by his entourage. One moment he cast a glance in her direction and the next he could not look away or think of anything besides her skin. It was a strange moment when he knew that the only way his life could go on was to own that very skin all to himself.
But he did not care about the girl, about her liveliness so to speak. In his mind, anything that was not the precious envelope was gross matter to be cast away.
There had been no ethical questions of murder as he had cleverly convinced himself that art mattered more than a life as insignificant and mediocre as hers. There had been no guilt either, but an intense satisfaction, a sense of achievement as one feels when one has reaped his due reward.
The tanning process had taken him weeks, firstly because he had never done it before and had needed to educate himself thoroughly on the subject, and secondly because he had wanted to do a perfect job of it. Once that was done, he had sat at his easel, painstakingly striving to design what would do justice to the perfection of the material. He was well aware that this was his only chance at such a creation and he wanted to surpass himself.
He had kept the making of the corset for last because of his fascination with the insect tattoo that promised to make it a masterpiece. Night after night, away from inquisitive eyes, he tolled at his creation while speaking to Valentina's skin as though it was the girl herself, paying rapt attention to his every word.
Singularly, he could not find any difference because he had never really talked to the living being she once was. Neither had he ever touched a person while he was rubbing her body with lotion but only a shapely epidermis.
The insect tattoo was a shiny green and gold scarab which Monsieur R. had enhanced with special ink to make its tone more vibrant and shimmering. It stood out on the right side of the waist, a tiny bejeweled creature to which he had added onyx colored rhinestones in the place of the eyes. He had accentuated its perspective so that the insect looked more alive and almost about to crawl further up toward the breast.
He had also concealed the holes left by the nipples with gold leaf applied in a thick layer over some animal patch of leather.
Once finished, the whole thing was beautiful.
He had dressed his mannequin with it and adorned it with various jewels and was now in awe of his achievement. He kept it in his flat which was notoriously out of bound for family, friends and staff alike and everyone knew better than to try to invade his sacrosanct retreat. It had made it easy for him to conceal Valentina alive and then dead from everyone's knowledge.
At first, he had been so pleased with himself, happy to be the sole keeper of his secret but, as time passed, he longed to share his vision with the world, to reap universal acclaim for his originality and talent which he now felt could only be seen with this very piece.
He was able to hold out for quite some time but ambition and pride got the better of him and conspired to the collapse of his carelessly built empire of fame and trend.
On a fateful morning, unable to keep his lips sealed any longer, he transported the dressed mannequin to his atelier and exposed it in the midst of his latest collection.
And, to his stunned puzzlement, what greeted him were not applause and exclamations of wonder, but horrified screams of terror and disgust. All eyes were glued to the green golden scarab which all had recognized from seeing Valentina practically naked during fittings.

* * *

Monsieur R. was taken away to a quiet establishment where he is still unable to perceive the solid bars that seal the windows from the world and where he is given imaginary needles and thread to sew strange garments and wondrous fashion designs of invisible gossamer which he only can touch, and of course..., lots of medications.

What Kind of Breeze Do You Blow?

2009-11-09T02:07:00.001-08:00

Tonight, I danced in the street, the pavement wet with new rain and clicking delightfully under my heavy soles. I spun and the world became a blur, familiar and somehow very distant though it was all around me. I'm dizzy now, the dull ache in my head creating an annoying reminder of last nights' drinking habits. I think about how I haven't smoked all day, save for one painful cigarette before I left his place; the first of the day, the one that is torturous after a night of heavy drinking and chain smoking, but an unfortunate five minutes of discomfort in order to get on with the rest of them.

I am sluggish and cold, puffing on my Marlboro. I'm not even paying attention to where I ash, as I found out later that my arm got the most of it. I am deep in thought, headphones cranked high, feet tapping and body swaying slightly to the beat all while I wait for the bus. Fuck Portland, sometimes it's too cold and it stinks in it's cleanliness. I smell the slow decomposition of lost souls becoming comfortable in their routines and slowly dieing blind, without ambition or desire for anything more in their lives than painlessness and mundane convenience. Those types of thoughts are crushing and depressing for me so I choose not to dwell and instead focus on the blurry headlights meandering in the distance or an occasional animal that scurries across the street.

Before I know it, as I am lost in my own mind, the bus arrives and I board. It's a bit steamy inside, not quite full, and it's nearly silent. I watch a man with three large shopping bags piled around him begin to nod off to sleep as soon as the bus begins to roll again. Sitting there, watching him, I feel an intense wave of fatigue sink into me and I am suddenly saturated in it's muck and mire. Oh goddamn it, I think to myself, this is gonna be a long journey home.

In all actuality, it wasn't. My mind made it so much longer because there is so much to think about these days. I am fucked up, really fucked up, and the more I admit this to myself the easier I'm finding it to release these feelings. One day I'm gonna cry about it, I keep repeating this sarcastically to my cat or the plate of food in front of me or in the mirror before I go to a clients house. One day I'm gonna cry so hard I can't breathe and I will melt into the floor and cease to exist.

Hush and Be Still

2009-11-06T22:47:00.000-08:00

I was told that returning to the place that you are from is a bad idea, and since returning I have been inclined to agree with that piece of sensibility. While things have changed, the people have not and that is where the majority of my disappointment has come from. Perhaps, within personal perspective, things have not changed so much here as I have changed. I am far from the person I was when I left this city and I am grateful.

It's so strange to see people completely content to stand in the rain while waiting for a bus or taxi. While before I moved it would not have even phased me, as I sit in the Powell's Bookstore cafe I become amazed at myself and those others getting wet. I am amazed at their seeming oblivion to rain, and my shock to it. I am from here, I should understand, I think. I'm going to cut out the fluff-- it's unnecessary.

I'm reading Precious. It's a trite piece of uninspiring inner-city preggo-girl literature, but I find it amusing so I keep reading. Easy read, except when she says shit like 'I ain't neva ax muver fo nothin. she git welfare for MY chile!' What is that? It's like reading A Million Little Pieces, but in Ebonics. Meh.

Suddenly he's there, sitting across from me. Just like that. A little late, as warned, but right there. Oh, good! I put Precious down and he smiles. Brilliant teeth, love those teeth.

Hey, hi, small talk. Let's fast forward through the shitty-shit now-- We are at Wimpy's. I like this bar, I think he likes it, too; he requested it in his polite and non-aggressive way. Service is bad in here tonight, though. What the fuck? Who is the loud-mouthed twenty-something hipster bitch behind the bar? Never seen her before. She's wearing a shiny vintage sweater with the sleeves hiked up to her elbows and a pair of white horn-rimmed glasses. Mean bitch eyes glaring at me from behind those glasses. I don't like her accusing glares disguised as non-impressed and careless. I know she'd rather continue serving Pabst to the four people sitting at the bar, chit-chatting her and carrying on while watching the TV mounted above the bar. She knows them, doesn't know us, would rather we piss off.

Of course, I don't piss off. I never piss off, really, especially when I feel confronted. I push back, so we sat and talked for ten minutes or so until it became obvious that Bitch Bartender wasn't going to serve us shit unless we walked up to her and asked for it. Hmph! Fine.

"I.D.'s please,"

...

"'Kay, what you gonna have?"

We order Gin and Tonics, sit down and begin our discussions. Pleasant talk. Intelligent talk. I love talking to him; I enjoyed it the first time we got together. I make him laugh as much as I can because I like to see that piano-key smile and his laugh is disarming and I feel like engaging and impressing so I go for it. I'm a natural comic so this is good, easy. I feel good.

Bitch Bartender talks loud and her patrons/friends' conversations cut through ours at times. He speaks quietly, so I strain to hear him. I wish it was like before when there were only a few people in the bar and there was no horn-rimmed glasses hipster Bar Bitch to neglect us and let the tumbler glasses accumulate on the table like a pile of guilt. When we step out to have a cigarette we stand underneath my jacket and smoke. He shivers against me sometimes and I like it.

While we are out people put more glasses on our table as they leave. My jacket and bag are still in the booth, though perhaps not visible due to the poor lighting. Whatever. I'm creating my own magic tonight so I will let the little things go, I say to myself, in my head.

More drinks. I'm not drunk even though I didn't have anything to eat all day except for a little bag of gummy bears. I know it must be the bartender, or perhaps I'm alighting on something more mentally powerful than the booze and I neglect to get intoxicated by it. Well, maybe other Long Island Iced Tea will do it. It only hurts my liver to try.

"How about you get the wine, and I'll get the smokes," I say as we peruse the wine isles of a convenient store. Done deal. Paid, out the door and in search of a cab. I get us a cab because my iPhone knows all and the Radio Cab lady knows who I am due to the various corners I call her from. I laugh at this, in spite of myself. Getting picked up on corners? Irony! I laugh in spite of myself because it's funny and I'm funny and this feels good.

Soon we are at his house and in his room and I like it. Books, everywhere. Scattered on the floor, in bags, boxes, shoved into cavities along the wall and on top of various surfaces. I can smell their ages. We pour wine, drink from mismatched glasses and talk and talk and talk. I feel the wine a bit, but not as much as I usually would and we talk some more. So much talking-- more than I've talked in a very long time and I am comfortable and so I let go. I let go quickly and effortlessly and he listens to me as my lips for words of explanation and sorrow and depression and pure emotion. There are times when I feel that I should stop myself, to protect myself from something that could easily hurt me now. But, when I think of stopping and closing up a wave of depression swells in me and I know I must continue, so I do. The good, the bad, my past, present and future. I ask questions at times, but it's mostly me and he listens. I try to look at the concrete floor with the books, the shelves with the books, the chair with the books and not meet his gaze because he smiles and I get soft and watery, my tongue begins to melt and I want to tell him everything so I chance an occasional gaze when I need courage. I am opening more to him than I have to anybody else in my life. It is a little exhausting but I am getting wild with the wine and a love that is hatching in me.

He told me that in antiquity people would describe their emotions as being held in their core, their stomach and bowels, but I feel it in that slow pulsing behind my eyes and in the nerves of my skin and my scalp tingles now because of it. I want to touch him and I tell him so. I tell him that he is precious to me and I feel a bit undeserving and he dissuades me with his genuine grin and reaches out, takes my hand and begins to feel me. I burn and look at his fingers tracing paths along my veins and his alabaster skin against my peach-colored pink-fringed hue. I start to cry a little because he is touching me so gently and with great care. I feel precious and laden with emotion. I am also crying because I am loving for all the right reasons and I feel he is loving me too.

I close my eyes and minutes, hours, eons pass. There is nakedness on the couch, tender kisses and exploring ligaments. There is nakedness in the bed. Smiles, laughing. I want to play piano on his teeth, those gorgeous teeth. Little sighs and laughs, every emotion I've ever managed to feel sweeps over me and morning comes and goes, and in the afternoon I awaken to painlessness for the first time in a very long time.

It's late now as I write this and I desperately want to go back to those feelings that are more powerful than any drug, but I must wait a few more hours. Until then, while the apartment is silent and I am alone with my own thoughts and the cats' purring I put my face in my hands and tell myself to hush, and be still.

Bodhisattva on the metro

2009-06-10T14:05:00.001-07:00

The Presets

2009-05-26T21:00:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while there is a band that comes along and completely floors me with the entirety of the music that they put out. The Presets are, by far, one of the best bands currently creating music. They are slightly reminescent of the Pet Shop Boys, but with more current techno and electronica influences, deep bass lines, tragic vocals and emotionally charged lyrics.

Dreams in the Tunnel

2009-05-14T00:36:00.000-07:00

I was born within these very walls. I awoke to life, a shuddering mass of flesh, bleeding and gelatinous in the excruciating pain of my coming forth. For a great span of time, there was nothing but the feeling of sorrow from the vague remembrance of a lost sense of ultimate well-being.
The surface of the walls was polished and smooth, but rigid. There was no way for me to go but forward and even that at the cost of great efforts. My eyes were not yet accustomed to the arduous task of seeing, or understanding vision. It was the basic awareness of a soul that searches to learn and to evolve into a greater being.
I could not say that any of these thoughts had coherence but they were forming as embryos of what would later be my convictions.
I observed silently, wanting something more crucial that I could not define. As my senses were sharpening, more acute ideas were
forming in my mind, along with scraps of sensations from an earlier
existence I was vaguely conscious of.
The birth of each sense was a marvelous experience and I can still recall each of them in chronological sequence. First, my eyes. Vision in a silent world. Colors and dimensions. The concavity of the walls, their gold and brown tint and the diffuse brightness that would illuminate them at times or disappear, to leave me in complete darkness. The height and vastness of the place I was in. And the first confusing emotion that I existed, though soon after, accompanied by the
realization that I was alone.
I cannot be sure of when the saddening feeling first overwhelmed me, but suddenly I was encountering a vague fear. I suppose it was necessary for me to completely be conscious that I was, and also to know what I perceived with my evolving senses.
I cannot say much about touch, for the walls and floor surfaces were evenly polished and soft and that was the only thing I could come in contact with.
After many episodes of brightness followed by darkness, my body started to feel incomplete, as if a tiny part of it was becoming vacant and longing. It was very unclear, but I started to be weaker and less willing to even think.
Yet, at the back of my mind there was an insidious desire and I
slowly turned over myself and looked behind me. On the floor, in front of what was the end cavity of the tunnel, there lay a small pile of whitish matter. Broken fragments of an unknown object. The first other entity I had come to face besides the shaft itself.
The implication dawned on me: This was food and I was hungry. I ate the whole thing, down to the smallest speck. The void inside me
disappeared. I was content and sleepy.
Slumber overtook me.

Eons passed and I awoke in the warmth of the walls, pondering my existence. Ignorant as to the meaning of it but wishful of a coming enlightenment. I was feeling stronger and the walls appeared to be getting smaller. In some queer way, I did not feel threatened but rather expectant. I was still unaware of my purpose but that was no longer my main concern. I learned, I observed, collecting all sensations and ideas to form a memory, a complex accumulation of data encompassing the smallest and most insignificant details. Deeper conclusions could be drawn from the
stillness that surrounded me and I neglected nothing.
Soon after my vision had sharpened to clarity, I started hearing. A wonderful attribute it was, as if I was being introduced to yet another world. Something extraordinary for me to experience.
It started out as a vague uproar, the indication of either an immense being or a great multitude of small ones moving altogether. Then I was able to distinguish my own sound: a soft, shuffling movement, accompanied by an occasional clicking.
From what I now believed to be the world outside of my dwelling came a variety of noises. Sometimes piercing as if they were issued from the belly of living creatures like myself and sometimes inhuman, like the tossing and turning of the universe itself. And I would remain still, attentive to the tiniest report, associating it with a visual perception I imagined. Because I had no actual knowledge or pictorial notion of the cause of it, I could fantasize and populate the outside with what I thought to be the most beautiful beasts.
I knew many shapes and forms from my slumbering moments when I would explore other dimensions free of the wall’s limits. Wondrous beings and plants, in motion, animated by an all-powerful life. And I, the onlooker, surveying the many chores they attended to.
Those instants were like escaping, evading the narrow perception of my real life. Structures populated by lanky entities, four-limbed and standing upright on their hind legs, in a constant state of movement. Jerky and graceless but purposeful. Water pouring from the white inhabitants of a darkened sky, flashes of blinding light and
mindless, moving, glistening beasts, utterly controlled by those beings
who used them to perform diverse tasks, the meaning of which I could not grasp.
I was constantly puzzled by the ambiguity of their behavior and sometimes envied the fullness and relentlessness of their existence.
Even in what I considered its apparent absurdity.
The dreams were at times in color but mostly monochromatic. And when I awoke, I found it painful not to be able to maintain a grip on this reality. To be returned by an omnipotent power to my confined
environment without even the slightest knowledge of why I was there.
I suspected a greater purpose that would be revealed to me in the future. And that thought was inexorably becoming my strongest desire. Yet, there was a sum of things I instinctively knew, some wisdom issued to me in the anterior incarnation of my being, or to whatever I might have been. Or perhaps it was the knowledge inherent to my spirit before it had become limited to my body.
For instance, I could in no way confuse dreams with my awoken
state. And though I could not say that I had any reasoning about it, I
knew they were telling me the truth about all those beings and the life I saw while sleeping. So strongly I yearned to be in closer contact with it.
Sadly enough, I was also becoming aware that my reserves of
strength were not inexhaustible. Quite the contrary, actually. And the
idea had already formed itself in my mind that I must follow the tunnel to whatever destination it might take me. My inscrutable fate.
But I was hungry again. And the white substance I had previously eaten was entirely gone. Still, rather than perish of hunger without any attempt at action, I set myself in the only possible direction that was open to me.
I was making excruciatingly slow progress, but there was nothing else I could do. And that singleness of purpose gave me a renewed sense of energy. I kept going and had almost reached the gentle curve that would hide my point of origin, when something so overwhelming and wonderful happened that for a long while afterwards I had to retire in the memory of the event.
A great dark mass of living entity appeared at the end of the tunnel. It was enormous and awesome, surpassing my size in all possible dimensions. It was preceded by a thundering noise of sliding and pounding and it came at me so fast, I had no time to even be fully conscious of my fear. Strangely enough, I felt akin to the amazing creature, and the fear was only for the vastness of its power.
The beast slowed its approach as it came close to me. I remained immobile, awaiting whatever fate would befall me. Its tremendous body was almost touching mine and I was faced with two huge eyes
that looked upon me with a certain kindness. It gently dropped a piece of what I instinctively recognized as food in front of me. Then,
without further delay, it withdrew and rapidly disappeared from my sight.
I was stunned as if struck by paralysis. Yet, inside, I longed to follow it, to be fast and great, But I already knew my strength.
I ate the food, fell into another slumber full of flying creatures and colorful landscapes, where unceasing animation and ever changing elements created a beautiful background for a different kind of life.
I awoke again to my own boundaries and resumed my journey.
Once I had gone beyond the first curve, the tunnel became larger and higher. My progress was now accompanied by a louder sound and
that somehow reassured me.
The creature did not reappear but now, at various intervals, I would find nourishment laid out for me on the floor. I felt as though it wanted to lure me toward itself and that my purpose was to comply with it. Loneliness was once again assaulting me and at times, I found it quite unbearable. After awhile, I knew that it was a necessity for me to come in contact with someone, just for the sake of proving my worth, or even my very existence.
It seemed that the tunnel was turning around, coiling its path unto itself, becoming in my mind an uncanny maze, leading me to an
unknown destination.
In the dreams, I was starting to understand what that other world was about. The pattern of those beings was finally making sense. They attended to various tasks, ate, slept, reproduced and amused themselves. I envied the complexity of possibilities they possessed to
occupy themselves with. And also the fact that there were so many of
them, altogether.
My size was increasing and the proportions of the tunnel were no longer so impressive nor frightening. Steadily, I advanced, sharing my time between moving ahead, occasionally eating and my much awaited span of rest. My body was feeling more powerful and resilient and those sleeping periods were decreasing.
In many ways, I was almost happy, for now I had a goal. I desired. And wanting and wishing was wonderful.
Often, I would pause and consider the design of the distance I had already covered and I found it very mysterious. Nowhere in my dream-world had I witnessed such a structure. It was very different and beautiful. The translucence of the walls allowed a filtered, pinkish
light to shine through and I basked in that soft illumination which, I
supposed, provided for the warmth in the tunnel. It was always perfectly comfortable.
I had grown to feel a kind of happiness because my dwelling was a
sanctuary where I evolved, protected from whatever possible danger
existed outside. My quest was losing its original impetus and I was not always sure I still wanted to reach any sort of destination.
I was constantly supplied with food by the huge creature and I had my other life in imagination. Though I could not participate in it, I was satisfied as an onlooker.
Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me from wanting to be a part of it, the fear of discovering what I was, what I represented to these beings. A confrontation of some sort, leading to an unknown outcome, possibly negative. It was not that I feared being displeasing to them. However, I had learned within myself that I possessed a strong instinct of self-preservation.
I wanted to live.
It was an illogical and unreasonable impulse, independent of whether I felt joy or satisfaction. It lay at the deepest core of my being and I never wished to contest it. And as the scale of the tunnel
became greater, I felt more exhilarated by this sense of existing, of living something that validated all the earlier pain and even the pain to come.
The clearer my vision became, the more I began noticing uncanny tracks on the ground. It was a mixture of water and a glossy substance. I always drank the water but felt strangely repelled by
the rest. It became hard and was endowed with an unusual odor. I somehow knew that it came from the one who fed me, and each time I found clues of its coming, a sweet sadness overtook me. But I guessed that it did not wish to encounter me face to face any longer.
The air was getting cooler now and I was able to feel a strong draft. It brought with it a variety of smells that I hadn’t experienced
before. I believed I could associate them with things and living creatures from my dream-world. It was also harder for me to keep warm but the answer to that question kept eluding me. I knew it lay somewhere in my mind like a buried secret that a part of me refused to acknowledge. Possibly because it would uncover a greater truth that I was not yet ready to accept.
The luminosity of the walls was becoming brighter and I could tell that I was now reaching the outer coil of my labyrinthine habitat. I was torn between excitement and anxiety as I realized that all my questions would soon be answered.
Another slumber to oblivion.

I wanted to approach the strange beings, be with them. Possibly be one of them. I felt kinship enough to let them welcome me into their life. I was not sure which particular type of them I could identify with. If I was tall or small, male or female. They communicated amongst themselves with musical sounds that expressed diverse emotions. I could not exactly understand how it was done but I wanted to learn.
Back in my conscious state, in the tunnel, I conjectured that to reach the end of it was to enter their world. I started moving faster, ignoring the pain in my body, the intense desire to lie down and sleep. Then, at the corner of a final coil, the tunnel opened.
It was a huge gap, the entire width and length of it. A gust of cold wind blew from it and the landscape beyond was nothing like what I had imagined. A blinding light was bringing alien colors to life. Browns and greens mostly, thin and sharp blades of vegetation shooting out of a thickly crusted ground. Giant flowers unfolding silken, opalescent petals and sword-like pistils to a dooming overcast sky. Clusters of mountainous rocks, barring the way in all directions. And the noise, deafening, aggressive and frightening.
A whole world, entirely alive, breathing, moving, screaming its every sensation.
I was stunned by the greatness of it all, the gigantic scale of everything that surrounded me. Nothing was as I thought it would be.
Right then, I had the painful realization that perhaps my dreams had been just that: dreams. My imagination creating a land of distorted realities that had no place within the truth.
My disappointment was immense. As if a terrifying doom had come crashing down on me, shattering my heart and identity at once. Something was wrong, something had been wrong all along. I was not what I had thought I was and I had extended that lie to my perception of the outside world. I did not belong to that race of beings I had dreamed of.
I was different, something else.
For instance, I had always refused to think of myself or my body and synthesize the knowledge of those different parts that I knew,
into a full picture. I looked back now, even unsure that the tunnel had
ever existed. Another shock awaited me. From the outside, the maze was simply, a shell. A huge cracked shell, empty and cold, barren of any inhabitant, forgotten and discarded by its former resident.
And at that instant I knew. I knew but I could not accept, and
everything suddenly seemed unfair.
Immobile, letting this new and most agonizing awareness penetrate me, I was at a loss. Yet, a great noise was defining itself in
my head, of something approaching. Something vast and indelicate, its
movements striking the ground like a gigantic anger to make it repent
from existing. I could not think but only be.
In a flash, it appeared.
The man, one of the bipeds of my slumber world. But not of my
scale. Gigantic, filling my sky and my world with its silhouette, surpassing the size of the shell hundreds of times. Surely, oblivious
to my very existence, as it pursued its course to one of those locations where I had seen many of them regroup.
I knew I stood in his path and that escape was impossible, so I slowly turned and looked at my own back. Taking in the vision of that
identical shell to the one I had inhabited, stuck in the mid-length of my slug-like body.
And at the very instant when inner-peace finally overcame me, the
gargantuan foot stepped on me.
Thunder, shattering, pain ... oblivion...

Thou Shalt Always Kill!

2009-03-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

Thou shalt not steal if there is direct victim.
Thou shalt not worship pop idols or follow lost prophets.
Thou shalt not take the names of Johnny Cash, Joe Strummer, Johnny Hartman, Desmond Decker, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix or Syd Barret in vain.
Thou shalt not think that any male over the age of 30 that plays with a child that is not their own is a peadophile… Some people are just nice.
Thou shalt not read NME.
Thou shalt not stop liking a band just because they’ve become popular.
Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry.
Thou shalt not judge a book by it’s cover.
Thou shalt not judge Lethal Weapon by Danny Glover.
Thou shalt not buy Coca-Cola products.
Thou shalt not buy Nestle products.
Thou shalt not go into the woods with your boyfriend’s best friend, take drugs and cheat on him.
Thou shalt not fall in love so easily.
Thou shalt not use poetry, art or music to get into somebodies' pants.
Use it to get into their heads.
Thou shalt not watch Hollyokes.
Thou shalt not attend an open mic and leave before it’s done just because you’ve finished your shitty little poem or song you self-righteous prick.
Thou shalt not return to the same club or bar week in, week out just ’cause you once saw a girl there that you fancied but you’re never gonna fucking talk to.
Thou shalt not put musicians and recording artists on ridiculous pedestals no matter how great they are or were.
The Beatles… Were just a band.
Led Zepplin… Just a band.
The Beach Boys… Just a band.
The Sex Pistols… Just a band.
The Clash… Just a band.
Crass… Just a band.
Minor Threat… Just a band.
The Cure… Just a band.
The Smiths… Just a band.
Nirvana… Just a band.
The Pixies… Just a band.
Oasis… Just a band.
Radiohead… Just a band.
Bloc Party… Just a band.
The Arctic Monkeys… Just a band.
The Next Big Thing.. JUST A BAND.

Thou shalt give equal worth to tragedies that occur in non-english speaking countries as to those that occur in english speaking countries.
Thou shalt remember that guns, bitches and bling were never part of the four elements and never will be.
Thou shalt not make repetitive generic music,
thou shalt not make repetitive generic music,
thou shalt not make repetitive generic music,
thou shalt not make repetitive generic music.

Thou shalt not pimp my ride.
Thou shalt not scream if you wanna go faster.
Thou shalt not move to the sound of the wickedness.
Thou shalt not make some noise for Detroit.
When I say “Hey” thou shalt not say “Ho”.
When I say “Hip” thou shalt not say “Hop”.
When I say, he say, she say, we say, make some noise… kill me.
Thou shalt not quote me happy.
Thou shalt not shake it like a polaroid picture.
Thou shalt not wish you girlfriend was a freak like me.
Thou shalt spell the word “Pheonix” P-H-E-O-N-I-X not P-H-O-E-N-I-X, regardless of what the Oxford English Dictionary tells you.
Thou shalt not express your shock at the fact that Sharon got off with Bradley at the club last night by saying “Is it”.

Thou shalt think for yourselves.

Para ti

2009-03-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

Creo que sucedio el mayor de los malentendidos, se como leer tu rostro pero la mayoria del tiempo prefiero no opinar en lo que leo.
Bromeaba por que pienso que tomas las cosas demasiado encerio,somos demasiado jovenes como para no saber como reirnos de nosotros mismos y a nuestra edad deberiamos aceptar no tener la razon...estar mal.
No estoy perdiendo mi "encanto". Las cosas que estoy perdiendo que viste antes probablemente nunca estuvieron alli y el tiempo pasa y me siento mas comodo contigo me abro mas y te dejo ver lo malo tambien.
Si fueramos solo amigos no juzgarias tan facilmente mis errores. Lo siento si esto se sintio como un hechizo temporal y ahora todo es mas claro pero no me juzgues por lo que piensas que perdiste en mi y fijate en los hechos. Si mis acciones te han hecho dudar del amor que siento por ti, eso sera tu desicion pero en mi opinion esa no es la situacion.
Siempre eres mi prioridad, pongo tus necesidades antes de las mias. No me gusta sentir que tengo que probarte las cosas. Es injusto y me hace sentir inseguro.

Empiezo a analizar demas todo lo que haces y dices, buscando ser aceptado. Tal ves es justo decir que no sabes mucho de mi pero nunca preguntas sobre mi vida. No trates de ver en mis relaciones pasadas para saber mas sobre mi. Preguntame sobre mi pasado y mi familia para conocerme esa informacion tiene mas que ver con la relacion que tenemos que con las que tuve.

Pero todo esta bien... lo esta :D Te amo y eso jamas cambiara. Trabajemos juntos y perder algo de misterio.

Te amo, te amo, te amo.

2009-03-24T23:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm terrible with words. It's like when you feel something so strongly that it's almost immesurable linguistically, and calculating the proper ways to say things seems an impossible task. Anxiety, fear, loneliness and that inescapable feeling that something epic is about to happen, whether it be good or bad.

I wish I had more stability in my life. I'm tired of the "unknowing" that I have been feeding off of for the past few months. I'm ready for a steady, productive shift in my life. I need to work toward it. Until then my heart will be hard and fast to the beat of anxiety. I hope I don't get any gray hairs!

Jonny Cakes & Pinnochio!

2009-03-21T18:18:00.000-07:00

I thought I was being immature, but it was just insecurity. Over-analysis, hypertensive thought has my panties in a twist and my mind in a jumble. Insecurity leads to needyness and clinging, which ultimately ends with him getting tired of me, and inevitable conclusion. I should know! I have known several people that become too desirable of my time and energies, and they were quickly cut out, especially the negative ones-- excised like a cancerous tumor, they were!

But weakness and fear preys on exhausted souls and I am tired from months of endless nights amongst individuals that I have no connection with, a lack of artistic inspiration, and a generally unsophisticated atmosphere which I am not accustomed to. However, there have been a many great things that have happened, too, and I look forward to those precious moments I create with my cute little gems! The Vesuvenite Vance, Emerald Evelyne, Feldspar Fabiola, Topaz Tiffany, and Sapphire Simon. The last is my favorite to carry around with, in my pocket, to be exact. I like stuffing my long fingers into my jeans and feeling the Simon Stone. It really does have magic powers! It changes colors depending on my mood, makes me feel serpentine and slippery and I ooze with affection and can't help but smile in slow-motion; the best kind of smiling, and hard to do on purpose- much less do it inadvertantly!

I like to be vulnerable. Not because I am masochistic in any way but because everything touches me and makes me more alive, even if it sometimes hurts. I do not fear pain... well, not that much, because it is so intense to be at the mercy of good intentions. I am brave and almost feline, so I can bounce if I fall. I can do the possum roll and then lick my jagged wounds if I sustain injuries. Besides, I can always laugh at myself. In the meantime, I will be hopping on life's very precarious tight-rope with the lop-sided grin of the autistic, counting each jump and the spaces in between, thrilled that there is no net... and that there is the certainty of danger. I will throw my buoyant self into shady situations because I caught a glimmer of divinity out of the corner of my eye. And perhaps, it is time to do something about that comatose snake that lies limp in the depth of my psyche and finish him off, once and for all.
Then I can be a doll!

Outside of the Box; I am brought to my knees!

2009-03-10T00:16:00.000-07:00

A man that confuses the fictions of flesh as true beauty is the same as the man that looks into the dark, hoping to find the light. I know this all too well, as I have been the paradox, and in many ways, I still am. This way of life has afforded me the lightest of days, and I regret it as I am entering into the darkest of nights now.

They love me for my charms and my looks, the promise of the false promises that I have brought them. In deceiving them I have deceived myself, because I know now that this is a life of pleasure. I see now that I life lived for pleasure is not a life worth living at all. It is so finite in it's entirety that it can be summed up so quickly and effortlessly, hardly remembered and surely not admired.

I am not ashamed; I am humbled. I realize now the follys of my past. I think it is true that most never learn from the past. Ergo, does it make the present moot and the future vastly unpredictable? That has been my case for many years now and as the reality falls upon me, threatening to crush me into the hypocritical foundations on which I stand I feel a chill crawl up my spin and into my scalp. My hair stands on end. This is awe I am feeling, I am sure.

I've been depressed for many years now. I was diagnosed with depression from a very early age. Not from a psychiatrist (my parents never really paid much attention to me to begin with) but from a personal view as I aged. It's an uphill battle that I thought I was winning, but was only compensating for. Understand? I've been living in the NOW too much, and not in the future. I'm not the type of person to precisely analyze every account of my life- and never will be- but I know that the way I've been living has been wrong. An immediate change needs to be instated.

And here I am, on the precipice, looking down into the abyss with nothing more than my wits and experiences. They are many among the commonfolk but few among the 'few', if you know what I am saying.

Lets suppose it doesn't matter now, and the concern is the future. What place have I in shaping the future if I don't change now? Begone, guilty conscience and let me be!

Sans fear and disconfort of any sort. Sleep well and live fruitfully, dearests.

20

2009-02-28T23:11:00.000-08:00

We all have the world beneath out feet. Choosing which way to walk, or run, is what leads us on our own paths and allows us to differentiate ourselves from others. Our paths define us. At twenty years old I am walking my own path, to say the least. Mexico, bold and daring adventures into the unknown, and a less-than-savory profession have defined me these past two years. I have very little regrets, but the things that stand out the most in my progress are the things I have acheived for myself, as well as for others. I think that by staying true to myself I have become very comfortable in my skin, more positive, and a good leader of myself and others.

Last night was a good night. I was very drunk and very happy, surrounded by my best friend and a few new friends that I made that night. It's not often that a night goes so well, that every thing that happens is a positive and enjoyable experience. Vance and I went to Porky's, a popular alternative club. Lots of skinny jeans and punker attire. The music is also very good, too! I got hammered and halfway through the evening was approached by a group of people that wanted to talk to me. They were extremely friendly, spoke very good English, and even bought me a pack of cigarrettes. In my book, buying a pack of cigarettes is like proposing friend marriage.

We adventured on with our new comrades, going to Younite down the street for a bit before ending up in a downtown area of Tijuana famous for it's nightlife and tourist destitions named 'Revolucion'. I inhaled about 5 hotdogs from a street vendor and we went to Sky Blue, a very tacky gay bar playing Mexican banda music, slightly remixed. We left quickly.

I woke up in my new friends' bed with Vance next to me and Christobal, our companion, on the other side of him. The butcher that occupied the apartment directly behind his was hanging pictures and the pounding of his hammer synced with near perfect rythm to my intense headache. I was horrified. I had Vance and Christobal call Simon to come and take care of me during one of the worst hangovers of my young life. And he did come and take care of me.

How wonderful.

Battlestar Galactica: Best show on television!

2009-02-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

I have never been a big fan of television. I'd always much rather read a book, or visit with friends than strain my eyes on a screen of moving images while absorbing countless hours of commercials and marketing schemes. In fact, I've never really owned a TV before. My roommates would have one, but I'd never use it except to watch the occassional film, and even that was far and few in between because I'd go to the theater if I really wanted to see a movie. However, a series on the SciFi Channel, oddly enough, has managed to install a bit of faith in television for me. Battlestar Galactica.

A little over four years ago the first episode was launched. I hadn't seen it, but friend of mine were talking about it. Some said that they would watch the next episode the previous friday, others didn't really seem to care. They all said it was good, though. It piqued my interest as I am a bit of a scifi nerd, but I got busy with school and social life and completely forgot about it almost instantly. It's funny because, that Friday I was at my friends house and he turned the station to Battlestar Galactica. He said it was "amazing" and completely un-like any other science fiction show ever made. I sat down with him, skeptical, and an hour later was completely and utterly blown away and hooked.

I became more obsessed with BSG than an overweight and desperate nerd becomes obsessed with asian girls. I joined a forum for it, googled updates religiously, and even ordered a t-shirt that read, "Frak You". Eventually, I'd prefer to watch it alone because I knew people would talk, and then I'd get angry, and before you knew it my temper would escalate further than Leuitenant Starbucks' after a night of binge drinking. I refused to listen to people talk about the next episode if they'd read spoilers and my boyfriend at the time thought that there was something wrong with me. Just a little. ;]

Four years later I'm still a devout fan, and not the conventional science fiction fan that you'd relate to Star Wars or Star Trek. Battlestar Galactica takes a whole new approach on science fiction in that it is anchored so tightly to reality and humanity than one couldn't possibly imagine without first seeing the show. Imagine that the entire human race was reduced to less than 50,000 people and we were on a run from an impossibly huge and advanced enemy, what would you do? What kind of struggles and emotions would we be faced with, and how would we deal with them as they came? This show brings about the different levels of humanity on so many levels, the struggles and inner-strife that we combat daily, but put to work against annihilation. It's very fast-paced, the graphics are just as good as movie graphics. I have seen every episode thus far and there has not been one moment where I've thought, "they cut corners there". They use their budget to it's fullest capacity. The acting is incredible, too.

I think it's great that the writers have created a universe where the Cylons are machines, yet have a monotheistic religion, while the humans are polytheists. The show combines theology, philosophy, sociology, politics, military ethics, law, action, adventure, and romance into a work of television that has been awarded a Peabody. If there is something to watch on TV, it's BSG. It's already almost over, too. The series will be ending within the next couple of months. I think it's a good idea, as many TV shows seem to continue on for far longer than they need to. The producers are finishing the show on a good note, which is a wise move. The show will stand the test of time, I think; it will age very well, and has set a very high bar for other like it to follow.

If you like science fiction, you will love this show- no doubt. If you don';t like science fiction, you will love this show if only for the fact that it isn't LIKE science fiction. There are no cheesy blinking lights and strange made-up cyber jargon. It's like one long and continuous movie that will leave all sorts satisfied with their experience.

La Gloria the No One's party

2009-02-22T16:58:00.001-08:00

I spent the weekend in La Gloria, a little town nestled in the foothills between Tijuana and Rosarito. It's a nice little place, with rolling green hills and one road that leads through it. It's the type of place you'd encounter while driving along a little state highway toward the coast, or a camping ground. It reminds me of a town called Goldendale, in Eastern Washington that I used to visit when I was little. My family owned a cabin in the hills. It had one police station, a few convenience stores, and a lot of churches, much like La Gloria.

It was a relaxing weekend, to say the least. I was immersed in Spanish. His grandmother, aunt, parents and sister live in the house with him. Thankfully, he has his own bedroom. That's always nice. They are all very nice people- they don't speak English, and I'm still learning Spanish, but our pantomimes go quite well.

Saturday night I went with Simon to the No One's party. It was the second such event of the year, and a bit better than the last one. I had a much better time. However, I could sense that Simon knew of my unease and he even posted about it on his blog (in Spanish, of course). In truth, I was a bit out of sorts about the whole thing. It was a huge party but everybody stuck to their own groups, talking amongst themselves and watching other people. I'm not used to that sort of thing. At parties in LA there was an exchange of information, human connections, networking, etc.. The kids seemed bored. Bored and drunk with nothing much to offer me intellectually. It was not a complete bust, though. Simon was a real pleasure to be around, and his friends were very nice. Very nice, and very drunk.

It seems that people need more to live for these days, especially the youth. It was a huge disappointment to see so many bored young people, getting drunk and shooting the breeze about anything and everything besides what's important. I don't think it's a Mexican thing, or a geographical issue. It's affecting many people I know and in turn it has created a very selfish culture of youth.

I'm thankful not to be so naive and innocent, and that I am open to the ways of the world. It provides a chance for true love and human connection. I suppose that alone gives me enough inclination to start a changing process, if not for everyone my age, but for some. It'd be worth it.

Tally-ho!

Letters

2008-09-04T02:05:00.000-07:00

I wanted everything for a little while. Why shouldn't I? I wanted to know what it was like, that feeling of love. You gave it to me so good. It was the breath in my lungs, it pulsed through my veins, flowed from my hand to paper in the form of poetry. I wonder if this greif will ever let me go. I feel like the king of sorrow.

You were foremost in my thoughts today. It was a day that brought it all about. It was just another day; nothing's any good. I suppose I could just walk away because I think I would have disappointed my future if I stayed. What am I supposed to do with all of these remnants of joy and disaster? I remember the battles we had. I fought hard and I am proud of myself. My thoughts are so random now, but I will put them here for you and everybody else to see in the order that they come.

I want you to know that I have feelings that are true and deep, and while I'm not crying everybody's tears and letting my emotions guide my interaction with life, I am doing something more that proves a greater sense of emoting. I was wiping your eyes and corraling the tempest of your heart. I kept the light on, the door unlocked, and the sheets warm for you. Sometimes I think that I know it all, that I have everything figured out. No surprises. But the reality is that I'm still learning, lost, and now lonely, lonely. I'm walking wounded, my heart heavier than my steps. I'm sorry I turned you out, that I sent you into the world alone with your things in your arms and nowhere to go. I wish I could cry because I know it would make me feel better, but I can't so I will write instead. I keep looking at my phone and hoping that I will get a message from you, a missed call with your name on the caller ID. I haven't, and I don't think I will.

I want you to call me when things get better, because they will. I have enough faith in you that you can pick yourself back up again and take the steps toward healing. I still love you and I probably will for a long time, if not forever.

Heart in Twilight

2008-08-19T15:13:00.000-07:00

I once was able to see the world in your eyes,
glittering, set alight by the fire that burned in your soul
and you were better then.
I could understand your kisses,
your lips forming words against mine
to explain
what never needed to be explained
save to comfort me and soothe whatever I yearned for.
My fingers would trace a map against your face,
drawing ghosts on your back
as headlights flashed through the window
and patterned you in brilliance.
You were better then.

2008-08-19T14:55:00.001-07:00

I have been traveling amongst infinity lately. That's how I feel, at least. I have grown more aware of my surroundings, more empathetic towards people and have found a place within humanity as a person. I feel more comfortable in my skin, and while this gives me great comfort I feel that it has also become a burden. The things that would excite and entertain me before make me weary now, and the people that I would associate with on a daily basis are more of a bother than anything else. My perspective on friendship has changed drastically. I no longer search for something to take my mind off of the 'here and now', but instead seek out sanctuary to enjoy the present. That's what friendship should be, after all. Don't you think?

I've noticed that as humans we go looking for love in all of the wrong places. In the nooks and crannies, along the walls where the dust bunnies have settled and beneath the old, creaky floorboards. More often than not we find that love, or rather; we find something that we think is amorous. It is exciting and there is a rush at first, but eventually the indicators of where we found that something begin to surface. The amatory desires vanish and resentment and discontent manifest. Then, it is no longer 'love' but the love to hate. It's an obvious observation, like common sense. I'm no genius for writing this. However, if this logic is is so common (like common sense) why is it's practice NOT so common? It's like when you're smoking with a friend, and you observe how much tar is going into your lungs, and your friend shouts, "Hey! I don't want to think about that." Of course you don't. Nobody does, but why do it if the very act repulses you on some level?

Americans are funny people, especially when it comes to emoting. If someone displays a powerful emotion, whether sadness or happiness, anger or excitedness, they are crazy. I notice that in Europe people will get out of their cars and shout at each other, shake their fists and call each other names and then get back into their car and return home. They won't abuse their wives or children, and they won't go into the nearest supermarket and blow Tammy's head off when she doesn't accept his coupon. Instead, Americans are afraid to display their emotions and hide them, choosing to let them bubble and stew until they reach the boiling point, and the condensed steam forces its way out. That is true insanity, in my opinion. Hiding oneself from humanity. It's a life of waste and a life not worth living.

The Difference

2008-05-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

Lets pretend that everything is alright. We will close our eyes and imagine that we are atop a great tower, looking out on a great expanse of lush grass to where the cordillera of the worlds' edge bursts into the sky. Here we sit and bask in the golden rays of a great and bright sun. We talk, listen, cry, embrace, cry out in joy, and moan in sorrow, all at once. We are one. We are connected. Holding hands doesn't seem enough as our souls extend tiny invisible tentacles; curling and grasping and feeling each other. Everything we know is blown like tumble weeds, and as the silence of the world outside creeps over our gentle minds and threatens to take us into the dark, it is shattered by a sudden cacophany of lights and heralding harps, trumpets, and violins that rise above every sound in the universe and drowns us in the music.

We are all in this together. Every single one of us.

Monster Love

2008-03-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

The life of a harlot is typically thought to be a lonely existence. It is the general assumption that prostitution is a trade left to those with no other outlets in life: they need the money, they are forced into it, or they are dealing with unimaginable mental paradoxes. Whomever imagines that maybe one of those creatures of the night has a stable life and career, a functional marriage and maybe even some children? Hardly anyone, I imagine. However, those things are more readily available to be absorbed and proven to the majority if there is some sort of substantial evidence. There are physical characteristics that can define someone if they are married, and the actual fact that they go home to their husband every night. He is a real manifestation of their congregation. It is a tangible existence, and people can see that and therefor believe it. I've heard of hookers being married, and often having a husband who makes a large amount of money. There is simply a void there that must be filled, as well as severe psychological trauma.

This is not my point, though. This is only the precursor to my story. I am shedding some light upon a scenario which at first might seem far-fetched, but when explained and observed does not seem all that strange after all. Now, take the above-mentioned setup and apply the element of "love". While a marriage and kids may be present, most would not believe that the nightwalker in the family actually loves her husband and kids. How could she do such a thing when so much is at risk? Where is her conscious thought-process between good and evil, wrong and right? How DARE she? There is obviously no love there, right?

Maybe. Maybe not. Married life between straight folk is a different element than partnerships involving gay couples. Love between the gays is generally a very, very fickle and elusive thing; superficial to the a high degree and plagued with infidelities and strange idiosyncrasies. For this reason I know many young men around my age that have vowed to never love. Sure, they admit that they can be smitten and often times are, but that they never throw themselves into the pit and hope that the other will be at the bottom to catch them. I used to be this way up until recently-- just yesterday, in fact. I had a closed heart and a brutal rationalization system laid out in my head. I was the most emotionally devoid person I knew and I even prided myself on the fact that nobody would ever have control of my heart.

I know that it sounds a bit over embellished, but it is not. I was the master of facades, manipulation, and heartbreaking. I could pick someone up into the heights of heaven, lifting their souls and making them feel incredibly special. Then, without so much as a grimace, I could let them go, allowing them to fall and smash into a billion little emotional pieces. I have done this many times and my mind is not haunted by it. Love comes and goes. I got what I wanted from them and decided that I'd had enough. They cried the rivers, built the bridges, and got the fuck over it. So what?

That was how I used to think. Thirty-two hours ago I was an emotional robot when it came to relationships, even in my current entanglement. Things have changed. The following story is a recount of what I can remember from the night before last.

My phone rang as the clock neared 7:45 PM. I had been expecting this phone call, as it was from the call box downstairs at the gates. I picked up and buzzed whomever was dialing in. I'd already known it would be Edgar. He was never on time (he told me previously to expect him around 5:00) and I awaited his arrival with great anticipation. I genuinely liked my boyfriend. He is the most beautiful man I've ever laid eyes on and aesthetically perfect for me in every way. Tall, lithe, toned and with a great sense of style. I remember when I first met him in San Diego and that I could not take my eyes off of him. I was smitten within seconds and was eager for our mutual friend to introduce us.

I was shocked to discover that upon speaking to him I grew suddenly very nervous, my ego escaping me and replaced by some foreign sheepishness that I fought to dispel but could not. I shook his hand with a sweaty palm and was immediately embarrassed. I attempted to pull away, but his hand tightened in mine for an instant. I knew I was flushing and quickly averted my eyes to my friend, Rubisell, who lifted his brows in amusement and continued my silent suffering by loudly mentioning my fondness for Latino boys.

My hand was finally released and I shoved it in my pocket, my other hand giving Rubisell a light shove. He laughed along with Edgar as I shriveled a bit inside. Luckily, the conversation was turned to their friends and I was allowed to let myself settle into my head for a minute. I gathered my thoughts and calmed myself. I rationalized that this guy barely spoke English and that something other than sexual encounters would never happen from knowing him. I'd encountered this type of thing before with my other Mexican lovers. The language barrier had proved to be a big damper on the relationships, but the incredible sex more than made up for the lack of conversational substance.

A few minutes later I was relieved to hear their discussion close. We parted ways, Rubisell and I continuing toward our destination while the beautiful Edgar went on his way. I only chanced one look back and saw that he had stopped and was staring directly at me. Another flush of embarrassment and I turned away. Rubisell laughed about the situation and later told me that he had invited Edgar out with us the next week when we had planned to see a movie together. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

"What the fuck? Why? He can't even understand the movie." I said. Rubisell looked at me and smirked in spite of my frusteration.

"Who says he can't?"

"We are seeing Elizabeth: The Golden Age. I highly doubt that he will be able to understand the conceptual English language, heavily laden with accents and whatnot."

"Some of it is in Spanish."

"Greaaaaat. Nice excuse."

Rubisell stopped walking and shot me a look of great disbelief. "Stop being such a little bitch. It's obvious that you like him, so why don't you do something about it? I mean, it was REALLY obvious with your face turning bright red and the fact that you couldn't even look at him sure wasn't a dead giveaway."

I opened my mouth to convey a look of mock shock. "You're perceptive, Rubisell. Really perceptive. You should do something with that-- like, join a fuckin' circus, you douche."

"See!" he called after me as I began to walk away from him, "it's obvious that you think he's cute. I mean, you saw him, didn't you? He's GORGEOUS."

"Yes," I replied, beginning to become exasperated with the whole Edgar subject, "he is beautiful, but I don't think it would work, buddy. He's too.. Authentico."

Rubisell laughed and grabbed my shoulder, making pace with me and leaning into my strides. "Just the way you like 'em."

"Fuck you."

"Well, I AM Mexican.."

I grunted. "I meant that he doesn't even know English."

Rubisell laughed again, this time in an authentic tumbling roar. I was a little surprised quirked and eyebrow. "What?"

"That's never stopped you before."

I smiled in spite of myself and shrugged. "What the hell, lets have him out with us then."

The next week I was cursing Rubisell's name silent in my head as Edgar and I stood outside the cineplex awkwardly. Rubisell was nowhere to be found and his phone was mysteriously turned off. He had set me up, that clever son of a bitch. I was outwardly perturbed while my stomach reeled with nervousness and my heart resounded in my chest and ears like boot steps marching on pavement. After another ten minutes of calling him repeatedly and the weird moments between the phone calls that consisted of broken and uninteresting light conversation, I decided to give up on Rubisell, knowing that he had ditched us ON PURPOSE.

"Well," I began in a sigh. "I honestly don't think he's coming."

Edgar gave a little smile and shook his head in agreement. "I don't think so."

"Well, should we just go see the movie ourselves then?"

Edgar shrugged, hands in his pockets and said, "do you want to?"

"Eh, not really."

"Okay.." he awkwardly agreed.

"But-" I quickly responded, seizing the opportunity to spend more time with him, "we could do something else. I don't like movies when meeting new people. We can't talk to each other in the movie."

Another smile, those beautiful and perfect ivories of his momentarily stunning me. I regained myself and scratched my head. "What would you like to do?"

"I like Balboa Park."

"Yeah? Me too. You wanna go?"

He agreed and we made our way to my car and were walking together in the park ten minutes later. The clouds overhead were omnipresent and heavy with rain. I feared they would suddenly release their loads over us, but I certainly did not want my chance to get to know this beautiful creature in my company, so I chanced it.

We talked about our lives, where we were from and how we came to live in San Diego. I learned that he was originally from Nayarit, an area of Mexico close to Guadalajara and known to be very beautiful. He was twenty years old and worked as a cook in an upscale restaurant in Hillcrest. I was impressed with his understanding of my English and how he manipulated our conversations between Spanish and English. It created a greater understanding between us, as I was developing my Spanish at the time and he had no American friends to speak the language with. I suddenly became very comfortable in his presence, as he was very humble and mature. His aura was also very soothing and his questions polite and sincere.

We entered an area of well-trimmed grass used for lawn bowling. The sprinklers has been activated and were monotonously spraying the lush green expanse. There were several ornate benches positioned along a small brick wall that served as a border between the park and the lawn bowling area. We sat and talked some more, both of our eyes gazing out onto the dark green patches. Suddenly, and without warning, the sky opened up and the rain came upon us. Stunned, we stood. However, instead of running back to my car, I simply stood there. The rain.. The rain! I loved the rain! I was from Portland- I missed the rain. I laughed and looked up, my face instantly becoming soaked. When I looked down Edgar was smiling at me. The smile was not the same as before. This time it was significantly more affectionate, and I knew he understood.

He was quick as a rabbit as he ran headlong into the sprinklers and within seconds he was drenched to the bones. I joined him and together we ran through the sprinklers. We laughed and gingerly touched. Eventually he came to me, arms spread, and embraced me in a running hug that sent me into the water-logged grass. He then straddled me as I lay there sprawled on my back, and kissed me in the puddles and much. It was a very light and delicate kiss, but one burning with so many desires and passions and genuine feelings. I was elated and immediately became warm.

We made our way back to my car, hand in hand, our useless coats dangling from our free hands. Once inside my Volkswagon, we stripped to our underwear and turned on the heat. The windows fogged and we were encased in our own warm, wet world; kissing and embracing with earnest and innocent touches that were meant to explore more than our bodies. Eventually, we fell asleep in the back seat, locked in each others' arms.

From that point on I've not dated other boys. As you know, I escort, but I consider it (in a perverse way) business rather than pleasure. I can disassociate what I do with Edgar with the events that happen when he is not around and I am getting paid. I've never felt bad about it and I have explored it from many different angles, often enlisting the mental help of some of my brighter friends. The general thought is that I have built up such a barrier to love that I am not truly in love with Edgar, and instead I am comfortable and content with what I have with him. There must have been something deeper, I knew, but at the time I did not know how to reach those fathoms.

Now, as the door is opening and Edgar is coming through my apartment door, my thoughts are brushed away and I am filled with delight. He is as beautiful as ever, and this is the first time that I have seen him since he returned from Mexico City for his stint in Fashion Week there. I ran to the door to greet him and ushered him in, taking his backpack from him and hanging his jacket in the closet. We sat and talked for a while. He told me of what he did in Mexico City, of the museums and history centers he visited and the interesting people that he met. I listened and asked questions, genuinely curious of his activities. It has been nearly three weeks since he had left and I missed him very much. I wanted him to continue talking. I wanted him to do something, anything. Sex was irrelevant at this point, especially when considering that we didn't have sex of any kind with each other until we had been together for almost three months. His presence was what I desired, and now that I had it anything that came with it was incidental.

Edgar was curious as to what I had been doing while he was away, as well, and insisted that I tell him everything. I spoke of work, friends, parties and Hollywood events that I had been invited to. When I had finished with my stories, a moment of silence fell over the two of us. Our eyes met and stayed. Suddenly, Edgar moved toward me, taking my hands in his. He inhaled sharply and began to speak.

"Jonathan, te amo mas que todos. When I was away I could only think of you and how beautiful and good you are to me. I want you to know that everything you have done and do for me so appreciated." He then kissed my hands and began to speak into them. "We are so very different, but that is what makes me respect you so much. You have everything you need right now and you are so young. Your energy is incredible and I feel like I am a small person around you. You are creative and talented and can be friends with anybody. I feel that you will spread your wings and fly without me, and I do not want that to happen. I love you too much, I love you more than anything and I want to be with you forever. I mean it, Jonathan."

I was frozen. Part of the reason I was so comfortable around Edgar was because he didn't get too deep with me. He was a superficial fantasy life, a trophy boyfriend worth loving for that reason and that reason alone. Sure, I'd helped him out with money and financed the last week of his trip in Mexico City, bought him Louis Vuitton and pay for all of our dinners, but that was because his purpose was being served. He was the trophy, and trophies need to be polished. Now, though, things were changing. Not only was the shift apparent in how he felt but suddenly I felt very peculiar. Instead of shutting myself up emotionally, I felt the walls around my heart begin to crumble. Edgar's words had sent a small tremor into the very foundations of my defenses and set off a chain reaction of decay. My fortifications were quickly dissolving.

I took my hands from his and held them in the air for a second before burying my face in his chest. It was then that the tears came. I burst open with emotion and clutched at him while I sobbed, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and back. I wanted to tear him into pieces for making me feel this way, to make him suffer as I was suffering. It had been over a year since I last cried, and I had been desperately afraid of the pains and weaknesses that sadness brought. And now, after so much hard work at making myself solid and strong, here I was doing the very thing I'd vowed to myself I would not do.

"I'm fucked up." I cried into him.

"I know." He whispered, hands wrapped around my head and pressing my face deeper into his wet and warm heartbeat.

I shook my head. "No, I'm really fucked up. Really, really fucked up."

"I know, Jonathan," he reassured me, "but that is part of your beauty. Your clever madness, the burning anger inside of you that gives you purpose and drive to better yourself."

I continued to cry. I could not help it and the tears flowed from me. The next moment, as Edgar held me and stroked my neck and whispered sweet things into my hair, my heart lifted. I suddenly felt myself ascending out of my sorrow and into a state of calm. The tears were still there, but my anger was gone and my sadness alleviated. I was free now I realized. I was truly in love with this boy. I loved him for who he was in his entirety, and had no reason to ever doubt my feelings for him. In fact, it became apparent that I loved him from the first moment I laid eyes on him. From the second that his dark orbs reflected in my own baby blues'.

"You are the only person that I do not hate in this world." I said into him, my eyes closed and dripping. He was silent and only tightened his arms around my skull for an instant. At the time I was speaking the truth. It is not true to say that I hate everyone all the time. But, in that moment in time I hated the world for giving me an excuse to close myself off to such a beautiful creature as Edgar. I had not been fair to him, I had not given my heart to him when he needed and deserved it more than anybody. I lied to myself and reasoned that it was not going to last, that this certainly was not the real deal. I was so sorry, and I told him so many times while we were embraced like that.

That night we made love for the first time. We've had sex before, but we had never truly made love. Every sensation I felt was heightened to a new, ecstatic degree. Our mouths weaved a song of passion while our bodies told the story of our love.

I know now that I am truly and deeply in love. This picture was taken the next morning. It's the first picture we've ever taken together in the five months that we have been together. He is beautiful in every sense of the word and I there is no limit to my love for him. He has completed me and this I am sure of.

I am not sure how to explain my love for him, and at the same time continue to escort. It makes no sense to the rational mind, but I am far from rational. This much is very obvious now, as you might notice. I have yet to see a client, but I am almost positive that when I do I will not feel bad about it. Such a paradox, these little idiosyncrasies that I have.

Oh Sombra!

2008-02-23T19:12:00.000-08:00

"Ew, yeah right." Philip said, looking up from his sidekick. I rolled my eyes. Philip was not fooling me on this one. Looking at him now, staring at me with his large shiny dark eyes and perfectly formed round head, one might believe that his counter to my previous statement was truth. However, because I know this boy in front of me, I would not be fooled. I folded my hands and leaned forward a bit, leveling my height with his from across the table and creased my features into a small, malicious smile.

"He fucked you in the morning."

Phil opened his mouth in a sort of expression that was meant to convey shock, but turned into something of a laugh. "I hate how you know it was in the morning."

My smile opened up a bit and became more genuine. "Just because you look like a cute, innocent asian twink doesn't mean that you ARE. Come on, Phil, I've been at this game a long time. I know how it works."

"Oh, that's right, you're the White Diamond, Queen Of The Night, Roxanne.. You know, Lord of the Hookers."

I snorted and bit into the french fry I had been holding in my hand. "Don't forget 'Pleasure-Bringer to The Unpleasurable.'"

"Ew!" Philip exclaimed, "but, it's so true."

"Indeed it is," I replied, "but what can ya do?"

"How DO you do it, anyway? I could NEVER imagine having sex with some old gross dude."

Again, I smiled. I chewed the last bits of the french fry, musing over the best way to interpruet this for my little friend. "Well," I began, "I think that everyone has something to offer. As you know I can get turned on by intelligence, which is why I've never attempted to fuck you.."

"I thought it was because you didn't like asians."

"Yes, that too."

"Bitch."

I continued, dipping my fork into the refried beans and guacamole on my plate. "So, a little bit of conversation before always helps, especially if they are interested in me and my life and whatnot. I, of course, respond by asking them similar questions and gather a bit of information on their intelligence. Powerful men excite me, so the more interesting their job, the more I desire them."

"Basically, you fit into the classic ideal of a gold-digger." Phil said earnestly. I shrugged.

"That's not quite true, actually. I like sex and I like money, but it's not about either." I paused, expecting some sarcastic remark from my companion. Instead, he just sat there staring at me, expecting me to continue. So, I did. "I like the idea of control. I control where everything goes in the situation, bottom line. He hired me due to his desires, whatever they may be. I am there for a purpose, but I am not there to be controlled. I am under no contract and no liability. I have free range to do whatever I want sexually with them and there is absolutely nothing that they can do to get more out of me if I do not want it."

Philip was confused. I could tell by the way his almond-shaped eyes were slowly becoming distant and his face became complacent. "Okay," I began to explain, "let's say that I get a client call and he wants me to come over for a massage for an hour."

"Okay," Phil acknowledged.

"Now, he's obviously expecting a happy ending, and I am obliged to give it to him. However, upon getting there, I expect to be treated with respect. If I do not receive respect or if I feel uncomfortable with the man and the situation, I ask for the money up-front. This ensures that if things were to go downhill all will not be lost on my end. If he is polite and respectful, creates a calm and inviting atmosphere then I disregard the money up-front and instead ENJOY MYSELF. It's amazing what one can do when they are comfortable. If the client sees that he has succeeded in making me comfortable, he becomes more relaxed. Conversation begins, we get to know each other, and we go from there. I always maintain the sexual control, though. I do not do it in any mean way. In fact, I try to make it as sensual and exciting as possible, that way the control is favorable."

"Hmm." Philip chimed. He flipped out his sidekick again and began another lengthy text. "You sure make it sound easy."

"It's work, but enjoyable."

"You and your mysterious ways of thinking, Jonathan. I'm glad I'm not deep enough to delve into that mind of yours. Imagine the creepy stuff I'd find."

I smirked and continued eating the remainder of my dish in relative silence. Is the way I'm thinking about this creepy? Am I a bit too involved in this process, or am I just a little bit sick and twisted on the inside? I never thought I was. In fact, I thought I was just being realistic. It was better to sit and face things than to run from them. My mind was no different, was it?

We finished eating, paid the bill, and left the saucy little gay Silverlake mexican restaurant discussing mediocre things; topics that I was hardly interested in, but could feign some sort of detail due to my knowledge of current events and rapier-like wit. Philip's comment has ceased to bother me after I got to my apartment. Feeding my cat always alleviates such insecurities. I think it's the fact that she's so expecting and I am providing her with sustenance and that she is forever grateful to me for fulfilling my basic duties to her. Such a simple creature brings me such calm and warmth. I think that is why I like cats so much. You can never taint their innocence or disposition if you are only kind to them. I wish people were more like that. But, then again, if people were more like cats, what would make felines so interesting? I'd rather love my cat, personally. People, continue being douchebags!

Intuitions

2008-02-22T23:52:00.000-08:00

I've thought about creating a blog for a long time. Now, that's not to say that I've never had a blog before; there is a rarely visited livejournal account that has not been posted in for some time now. All for the better, I suppose. It was full of crappy revelations that really revealed nothing to me at all in the end. A bunch of random musings that I thought were clever at the time. Thankfully I am growing up!

This blog is going to document my experiences AFTER work, AFTER friends, AFTER clubbing, and AFTER my normal life in general. This is an account of everything that happens during my nighttime sexcapades. Sexcapades sounds good, yeah? I think that will be my permanent reference to what other's might call "hooking", "hustling", "whoring" and "escorting". It's all the same shit in the end, why not consider them something sexually adventurous? That is what they are to me, after all. Besides, being a glorified hooker and all, I think it's only right that I get first say in terminology.

Thinking back, I realize that I don't even know where to begin with this. I suppose one might assume I'd start at the beginning, but that would take far too much time and would probably end up inaccurate. I will just say that when I first started this gig I was innocent and somewhat sexually naive and virginal. Now, I cannot even count the number of people I've slept with for money. I stopped counting at 97. It's up there in the triple digits now, I am sure.

What began in San Diego while working as a post production brain for a porn company has now lead me to Hollywood. I am nothing of a star. Far from it, actually. It would be more of a curse to become a star now more than ever. All of those dirty, dirty fucking skeletons would come tumbling out of the very deep, dark closet. My life has become better now. I have a regular nine-to-five working as a showroom representative for a reputable clothing company, enjoy the company of a few good friends, and reside by myself in a wonderful little one-bedroom antiquated apartment near Normandie Avenue and Franklin. My cat is fatter, my closet is more full, and the utilities are paid without the hassle of asking someone to cough up half of the fucking money.

I know for a fact that I could support myself on the salary I receive from my job, but something deep inside of me is still hooked on-- well, hooking. I've delved into the depths of my brain so many times in vain attempts at pin-pointing the exact cause of my pseudo-addiction. My closest friends all have different explanations, and I get nowhere with it. So, for now, I am content to just ride the satisfactory fuck-train until I find it suitable to get off at the next stop.

I will start this on February 19th, 2008. I received a phone call around nine in the morning. I'm usually up and about by 7, due to work by 9. As I am pulling into the parking lot in downtown Los Angeles I receive a phone call from a blocked number. I've some time to kill, so I answer. On the other end is a somewhat nervous older man, somewhere in his mid forties judging by the depth of tone and wear on his voice, and he was obviously nervous. I used to smile at the fact that a grown man (usually secure and successful in life) is so scared to talk to some 19 year old whore. The charm has long faded, and now I assume a warmth to my voice that is at once genuine and matter-of-fact. With work starting in only ten minutes, I have limited time and don't plan to spend them pretending to be besotted at this shy call. It is my job to be beguiling, after all, and that usually starts once I meet the client. Perhaps I would have been a bit more merciful if a schedule was not due on my bosses desk in two hours' time, half of which I have completed.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi-- Um.. My name is Gary and I was-- uh, calling about the ad on the internet."

"Oh, yes, of course. How are you, Gary?"

A brief pause and a sharp, calculating inhale, "Well, I'm doing well this morning. You're up early."

"Yeah, I have to be at work in ten minutes. I'm actually sitting in the parking lot right now."

"Oh! I can call back in uh-- when is your lunch break?"

"We can talk now, if you'd like. I have a little time to kill before I throw myself into the wolves' den."

"Okay then. Well, I was wondering if you are available in the afternoons and if you can do an incall."

"You're married?" I asked, shuffling through my bag to double check that I had all of the required documents for work this morning.

A nervous laugh. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"That's alright with me. Discretion is the key word in this business. I won't be saying anything at the next book club meeting, not to worry."

"Eheh.. That would be much appreciated, please," he warbled. I could practically see him clutching the edges of his desk, white knuckled with a bit of perspiration forming on his middle-aged brow. A smiled a bit to myself, more so due to the fact that the image was very funny. I have quite a vivid imagination.

"I don't usually do incalls. In fact, I've never done an incall before."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and I work during the week from nine to five. One of those corporate jobs for the Man, you know?"

Another nervous laugh. "That's a bit of a problem. I can't do this on the weekend because of my wife, and not at night, either."

"I see, well, we could get together at my apartment during my lunch break. I will extend it a bit."

"Really? You can do that? At what time?"

"From 12:30 to 1:30, and I could probably bargain a bit more time, too."

"That would be good. Where do you live?"

"Hollywood."

"That's not too far, I live in the valley so I can probably be there in fifteen minutes."

"Great! I will call you twenty minutes before I leave for lunch, then."

"Okay, will you send the address then?"

"Yep."

"Cool."

"Alright, well I really have to get to work now. I shall be chatting with you in a few hours."

"Okay-- wait, before you leave.."

"Yes?" I'm a bit irritated now, the clock ticking closer to doomsday.

"What is your name?"

"Jonathan, pleasure to speak with you."

"Good speaking with you, Gary. Ciao!"

Work was busy during the first two-hour leg, but had calmed considerably after the meeting and the pre-order rush. I sat at my desk, musing over the conversation that I'd had with Gary earlier in the morning. I had not given it another thought since, and now that I allowed my mind to gather the information once more I began to question whether or not it was a wise idea that I invite him to my apartment. I'd never done an incall before but only on the principles that my home was clear of any sort of debauchery and sin outside of convention. I was a little bothered, but settled myself with the reasoning that it would only be once and this guy was too fuck-shy to initiate anything other than the touchy-feely bullshit that 80% of these guys want.

Lunch time! I cruise home, having already phoned Gary and let him know that I would be arriving at my residence shortly. I cleaned up a bit, fed Tiffany, and set the bed straight so that it was not a messy tangle of Egyptian cotton and pillows. I had only just finished when he rang me from the call box. I buzzed him in and took the kettle off of the burner. I had just finished pouring the last finger of hot water into my teacup when a sharp knock brought me to the door. My hand turned the knob and the door opened, my face creased with a smile meant to placate even the most hyper critical of these guys. As I had envisioned, a plump white man, probably Jewish in descent stood before me. He was a good five inches shorter than I (I am a bit tall, being nearly 6'2"), his short curly Jew-fro damp with the light sprinkle we were experiencing that day. He smiled.

Oh dear Lord, I thought to myself as I stepped aside to let him in. What a fucking grill. His teeth were yellowed and had grown in at an angle that gave them the appearance of being slightly sharpened. Standing there, surveying the short attorney before me, I could only imagine what his wife might look like.

The trick was lackluster, as I had imagined. It seemed that this was the typical client that I'd come to expect from those strange, ermine voices on the phone. It was the usual kissing (as much as I didn't want to), gentle caresses, stark gasping and moaning, and the climax that ended in the shower. Before I knew it we were discussing European politics as we were putting out clothes back on. Strange how that happens sometimes. I suppose, though, that one must substitute pillow talk when the pillows are absent.

I was $300 richer, and left again for work, telling myself that it wasn't all that bad to do the occassional incall. But, then again, it wasn't good enough or convenient enough to do it again. ;]