Fucking

Awake. Agitation. Then the sweet nudge of Faf's cold wet nose on my hand flopped just off the end of the bed. Lord Byron. A huge morning boner. "Babe," I say to the open air. I never speak directly to her for fear of morning breath. "Babe". I hear her slow moan to consciousness and then the crisp almost unreal alertness of a "Hi, good morning, i love you so much Rose." That's her new thing, adding 'so much' to her proclamation of love. This after I've blatantly attempted to get rid of her on multiple occasions citing difference of class or creed or need but never desire. "I love you too" I say silently and toward the wall as I reach back to feel her thigh, then hair then crotch. I like to get my hand right up on her soft parts quickly while still in a state of comfortable half sleep. I look for reciprocation imagining mounting her from behind and surprising her with a thumb slipped in the ass. I wished she was my only lover - that's the big secret. Not that I have other lovers or that I'm a cheat but in the morning hours there are times I remember the girl is not going to be Buttercup or _ _ _ _ or my ex-wife or Coco from high school years. I remember the price of time and lingering, of not moving on quickly. Sounds sappy now but the juice of another human changes your code, changes mine. Lord Byron grabbed my cock still hard from waking. "Do you have a condom," Lord Byron asked. She won't let me cum inside without it, rather our juices don't quite flow and the cum burns. In the same sense, her cunt has a bit of a ridge that rubs the shaft just below my head raw if not careful. It feels good, all that I need, though there are these realities. And now, since the past year or more I don't like a woman coming on to me rather I prefer to let tension build then fuck, then leave it alone until the tension builds then spontaneously fuck. Many of my friends have suggested I take a few years off, not do or date anyone and get back into it later. Most of those folks are alone however or not getting fucked and claiming it choice. Most of the time at this point I think of death and it's (fucking) finality so prefer to try at it - to go about love making with good intention and loyalty and respect. It's Lord Byron I love I say, that's why we 'do it' (a phrase I picked up from _ _ _ _ two years back when we used to get drunk, stumble home and, as she would say, "Are we gonna do it" - emphasis on the 'do it' part). It's not just the fucking with Lord Byron and I though. The same is true for all good lovers - we sleep in a warm bed together, most nights not performing coitus because eventually we will succumb to it and it will perform us. "Just let it build" I tell her. That's how I prefer it anyway. For her, at this stage the hornier bat, she gives in and just waits for it unless of course she needs to give head - oral fixation. Then I can't hold back, preferring the sweet spot between her thighs. Good call. "Good call baby?" That's what Lord Byron says when her tits are exposed, firm and perky as they are. She does this to egg me on because the first time I saw those bare tits I exclaimed it, couldn't help myself - "Good call!" As in 'good call on those picture perfect tits!' And they are. My girl was built for land, strong and moving swiftly across it. Ropey arms, ass, thighs and fit. Run you down kind of fit. In Philadelphia I was pointing out those incredible features to Youngest stopping just short of checking her teeth. "Yes, yes, I see, very tight model. I like a strong woman," he replied playing along, Lord Byron beaming with joy, a bit embarrassed at the attention. Speaking with Youngest's girl, Baby, a few weeks back, the time I was snowed in after a connecting flight never left the ground, we had a similar conversation. Baby likes to talk about sex and really get into it. "I kind of just want to fuck Lord Byron in the ass. Just turn her over and stick it straight in," I said. "Yes, then you do that," Baby responded with enthusiastic certainty. "Really," I replied in a half questioning assertive reply. "Yes, you should," Baby confirmed unwavering. Just prior we were discussing porn and masturbation. Babe is a horny, horny girl - always sticking here hands down her pants - cumming 3 or 4 times a morning she claimed. She would just excuse herself, head to the bedroom and rub one out. "I like to watch two girls going at it - grrrr," She motioned rubbing her palms vigorously together while scrunching her face, "Rub those pussies together - grrrr." "Yea," she adds, laughing into it. I giggled, "Fuck yea, Yes then." I personally didn't like to think of two girls going at it. For me a gang bang or just straight pumping penetration. God damn it. Good thoughts and actions are required for good lives, I thought and hoped this honesty was good. Real good. Good enough. "Grrrrrr... Yea!"

Lord Byron, the Yard, Time and Pleasure

I stood in the rain and sleet and watched Faf circle the yard as she does prior to shitting. It s become busy enough with dogs and people and traffic (both on the rails and on Main Street) that I ve given up pissing in the yard in full day light. I leave that now to the dogs and the bums who used to cross the yard at night until CSX patched up the fence with the federal stimulus dollars. Huge equipment appeared for a week or two after which the yard had beautiful pale blue lights at every switch which previously were not there and the fences were patched up. I imagine the industry got paid millions for that work. The patched fence work essentially forces the (quote)other side of the tracks(end quote) to cross over the rail bridge. The problem is that the bridge runs east-west and the thoroughfare runs north-south, a result of a poor design that prevents the poorer northern neighborhood from linking with the more affluent southern neighborhood (the neighborhood of the arts). Every time I look at it now I think about Warren Buffet buying up all of the rails and wonder if I m in the right industry (if you could call it that). Lord Byron had left for the morning to go teach a class and I was alone again and in a way really needing it even though I missed her. I live among many people whom I miss. I think in some way I even will miss the ones who I know could do better but for some reason allow themselves to trip into stupidity and general foul behavior, like Glassboy. It s no wonder why Chekhov saw the peasants as such flaming losers (literally) (+). The day prior Lord Byron and I got back to the studio after a righteous evening of cuddling and dog watching at a friends house only to find that Glassboy had decided to smoke another cigar indoors leaving the otherwise very healthy situation not so healthy and additionally stinky. Ahhh, the Bughouse, its like Dantes plane of hell where demons stick pitchforks in each others asses for eternity. I keep looking for the logic but there s none to be found, this conservative do whatever you feel as long as you ve got the biggest space shit fails. It results in lack of community, lack of respect and a waste of energy, to the point sometimes that I feel like all of the effort is ultimately an exercise in futility. (quote)There s no success like failure and failure is no success at all.(close quote) So I make some phone calls, send some emails and we re on to a new topic, cuddling. There are worse results. The poor girl had wanted to cuddle all day but instead helped out at the law firm assisting yet another conservative candidate get elected by waiving flags in the Irish day parade in the cold, wet, drizzle. As we lay down to sleep for another night Lord Byron asks from politeness, (quote)What were you going to write?(close quote) I was happy she asked because I want an opinion and some discussion on the matter. It, for my sake, is important stuff to discuss. (quote)well,(close quote) I said, (quote)its about the real story.(close quote) (quote)The one that I don t often hear told.(close quote) (quote)Like that FasTrac up the street we just stopped for gas at. That place is exactly what the opposition predicted it would be - a haven for unhealthy foods and convenience, full of loiterers, selling lottery tickets with a trash strewn surface lot where panhandlers can make a living.(close quote) I felt like Chekhov condemning the poor but worse, from a state of damnation my self. I realized how horrible it sounded but meant it, I wanted to show the character of it. Commerce above all else - no real community, just another place to serve the system and there I was watching it, judging it, purchasing my goods from its convenient location between home and the theater where I took Lord Byron that night on a date for a beer and a movie. (quote)You know,(end quote) I said to her as she nestled her head into my armpit. But she was asleep already, probably hadn t heard a thing I was saying as I strained to get focus on her eyes, now closed, as they were just inches from my face, her body weighing deep and heavy onto mine. Another time I thought and reached for the pad to at least jot down some of the notes - the face of the man buying pizza, the free night at the theater, the cigar smoking dipshit and the reality of getting along. Real well, until there are dues.

H35NYA3YAGEW

Last I checked I woke up in America

Almost everything is dangerous. I think the ones who live safely away believe that my kind of travel is just plain stupid. Maybe it is but with each terrible battle comes something - if not enlightenment then a lesson. Even Big B would say so - tucked away as he is in Oregon after belting his lady boss for layin on a thick verbal punishment a few years back. (You ll have to read back a ways for that one.) (BTW, as an aside, coffee was spilled all over this keyboard by accident and all was regained save for the quote key - the one just to the left of the enter key). So as I was sayin, to continue from last post, Glassboy has guns. Naturally. This allows all men passage or so all men think. Guns. Stupid. Not the guns but the passage they think it buys. (quote)Last I checked I woke up in America(close quote) was the phrase I heard uttered behind paper thin walls a few months back when I had first realized that this cigar smoking thing was more than a birthday gig but a new lifelong daily habit and reported it after several attempts to intervene. Innocent enough except for the inconvenience to everyone else. Still, in the Bughouse, I was minority and always would be. So, in my eyes worth it, though I know how this would play out before it even started, impossible and without relent. What else would there be to lose - if life gives you lemons, etc. Strangely enough posted just between the thin wall to my new enemy and me I pinned a letter from my father, a valentines day card. My own pops who had it out with me on numerous occasions in typical unrelenting Italian fashion takes the time to send a card every year which I place aside usually not thinking the effort is the ease. This one said, (Quote)To a Son who I am proud of for all you are and all you do(close quote). I stared at it, then through it, then at it pinned like an angel to the wall, feeling the anger and call to action from Glassboy s antics beyond. And I stood staring awaiting word choking back sentiment and the urge to weep for the writing on the wall. To my left lay Faf and my girl - weakened by the intensity but hangin on. (quote)What a miserably thing(close quote) and then I did weep but quiet and quick before I sat down to write it.

The Woodman, Z, Glassboy and Will O.

I hang clothes up on an orange twill line. I hang them there after washing them in a machine self installed next to a utility sink in the 'green room', a small second storage space for equipment that I share with Z. The green room started, as all things generating from the bughouse do, with consternation, disagreement and ultimately a fight that lead to the temporary dissolution of a previously tight relationship between Z and Woodman. The fight was simple, Woodman wanted the space, Z negotiated more swiftly and took it from under his feet. Woodman responded with words and Z responded in turn with these, I'l never forget them, "He's a disturbed man." He wasn't in my opinion, he was more like a man who helped a neighbor on multiple occasions then got burned. In either case, after securing the position on the green room the landlord delayed on getting the appropriate key to Z in a reasonable timeframe so we smashed the handle off with a few cracks from an iron mallet and let ourselves in. The rent had been paid by that time so we felt obliged to move on it. It wasn't too long after that that Z installed the laundry machine. Then I installed some hooks in the respective studios to dry the clothes and we were set with one more necessity. Urban Camping Will O calls it, "we're urban campers." That's how it works in a way though between us it's more of a compound of the damned. Those who call it home, but no one 'calls' it that - it is what it is. And so with all the inventions and little intentions that go into this survival thing in the Bughouse (another Will O catch phrase) we lay down in our bed of dirty muck and shit and steal what we can back for the assault this place takes on the spirit. If your not careful it will win and if you are you are already damned. This while knowing that from the outside, from the safe spot on the hillside nearby or in the suburban home or in the neighborhood track house, the whole experiment will appear stupid and unnecessary and incendiary and hopeless. Which, of course, it is, but the alternative was as well. This is where Glassboy comes in. Glassboy listens to Limbaugh. When Z asked him about the habit a year ago at the Bughouse community potluck, he scowled, twitched and replied, "because I want the truth." Nothing can save a man from that. It's like trying to make a homosexual straight, perhaps for a time one could influence an action or two but ultimately a useless track. May as well paint the sun black and with similar consequences. Glassboy decided he would smoke cigars, indoors, all day, resulting in an ashtray like effect throughout my entire studio. Then, after being told (and received unrepentantly), Glassboy purchased an ozone making machine and blasted it throughout the floor resulting in a terrible burnt ballast scent on top of the cigar smoke which was supposed to be lessened by the chemical interaction of the ozone on the organic chemical. Ozone being a toxic gas itself. So, to be clear, Glassboy, a studio neighbor, beings smoking cigars all day, using an ozone machine to cover the smell and listens to Rush Limbaugh loud enough for the whole east side of the floor to hear it without so much as a second thought. And I'm his neighbor and feeling that only a coward is worse than a tyrant. It is what it is. And I'll pick up on this next time which if my creative sense allows will be damn soon because I feel the truth coming on like a vomitous mass slowly bulging up through the esophageal tube awaiting spew.