Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Monday, December 13, 2010

sex once more

All matters of importance have something to do with sex. And since most of you read this to see what happens next in my sex life it may be best to gravitate toward full disclosure in hopes (if nothing else) than to receive some kind of confessional status though I know (as the Catholics still watch from the space they prepared in my brain) a priest must be present. You, then, will be my priest, the rest, who are still reading these words through the same firewall of fear that I write from. Or you are curious and preparing a case against me, in either case I am content with my paranoia and safe enough in the belief it can be cured through insane shouting.
When it became clear that Lord Byron was gone I fell into despair. Despair for at least two reasons: One, I loved her no matter her faults though these faults seemed too grave and two, I knew, after so many hard fought survivals through many near and tragic disappointments, I was, perhaps, not to survive this one. That it didn't matter anymore my stupid quest for truth or honesty or other useless gluts rather I would give up and prepare for the lonely haul having failed. And that this failure would by all rights destroy anything that held me even remotely in favor with the lord of hosts (the same lord who bends me over to spank me nearly each story) (the same lord, if pressed, could make matters far worse) (that same one).
It's a deep tale so I'll start with the latest woe, let's call her Lolita. Lolita is the only woman I believe who could cure me of the Lord Byron blues. I left, of course, the states and did what a man had to do to leave a woman but a woman never leaves a man until some moment or some other releases him. Something better. The lord, they say, does not like fornication, but he sends the temptation like a sweetbrier and asks for contemplation. What makes Lolita so damn edible besides her immortality at twenty one is her focus on the good fight. This, or I am overtaken by soft skin, taught muscles, firm tits, and a seamless flow. We spent nearly three days together, which ended in bed a short hour before she flew away. "I'll see you in June," were the last words spoken. Fucking June, again, a wait, just wait Rose. Just go. Though my dreams they may say aren't as empty.