Other People’s Smiles

“Do you ever notice people smiling?”  She didn’t turn to him to get his attention, but threw the words out into the void wondering if they would be picked up and answered.

“I guess.  Sure.  What do you mean?”  He didn’t turn either, casually answering her strange question.

“Like, do you ever notice other people.  Do you see them smiling while you drive by them or as they pass by you on the street?  Do you ever get jealous of them?  What do they have to be smiling about that I don’t.  What am I missing?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh.  Maybe it’s just me then?”

“I don’t know.  I’m sure there are others.  It’s kind of naïve to think you’re the only one in the world who does something, or anything for that matter.”

She didn’t answer right away.  She paused and thought over his answer.

“Why do you think you don’t get jealous when you see someone smiling?  It feels so natural to me, wondering what it is that causes their face to shine like that.”

“Why don’t I get jealous when I see other people smiling?”


“Because I have you.”



The Day The Music Died

I wrote this a few months ago and thought there wasn’t a ton I could add a few months later. It really encapsulated my feelings for the song.
I didn’t delve much into the mythos and lore of it, but there are people who’ve done a much better job than I ever could. I’ll just leave this here then, again, on the day that inspired the song. The day of a tragedy. The day the music died.

Legitimately Unfunny

February 3rd, 1959.  That’s the day the music died, according to Don McLean in the song “American Pie.”
There are a number of fascinating details of that fateful flight, but maybe I’ll save that for a different post, maybe on the actual day.  This is more for just me to gush about my favorite song.

When I was growing up my parents had the car radio tuned to the oldies station about fifty percent of the time.  Forty percent of the time it was right wing talk radio like Rush Limbaugh or Mike Savage.  The other ten percent was a smattering of sports radio or, god forbid, new music.
Due to the constant flow of the golden oldies on KFRC 99.7 I ended up with a real attachment to that era of music.  I still love it.

My Girl, Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay, Chantilly Lace, Lean On…

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Ten Minutes To Midnight

It’s ten minutes to midnight and you just went to bed, but I’m left lingering in my chair for a short while after.  Your scent is holding just under my nose and on my fingers and absolutely on my lips.  Along with your taste.

I could have went to bed with you.  Your arm was stretched out and holding mine as you tugged lightly and let my hand slip through your fingers.  Instead I shook my head and waved you off.

“In a minute,” I said.

You shrugged with a smile and headed on without me.  Your body swayed and your hips shook until you faded into the darkness and left me with my thoughts.

Those thoughts were part of why I couldn’t go with you.  Not yet.  I wanted to savor the feeling.  The experience of you.  Those thoughts were going to be scorched into my memory while my body was too weak to move.

I don’t know how you got up so steadily.  Maybe you collapsed on the bed in a heap once you made it, but I couldn’t even fake it for that long.  You know how to take me apart and leave me in pieces.  My hands are too shaky to put myself back together right away, I need a minute.  You’re masterful at making me need to recover.

I’ll be in there soon.  I’ll be in there with you.  I may even find a surge and try to do further damage to your skin with my teeth and nails.  Knock your bones off of their joints and make you walk funny just for me.  You’ve already done it my way plenty of times.

It’s now three minutes to midnight.  I’ve sat long enough.  I want to turn today into tomorrow against you.


Drunken Poets Tell The Truth

“I favor eating your pussy to all others, dear Ruby,” the old man exclaimed in slurred words while leaning over papers at his desk.

“Charming,” replied the young woman from the bed a few feet away, “it’s amazing those words of yours aren’t published and plastered across newspapers far and wide.”

He sneered back at her, “same could be said of your cunt.”

She rolled over and put her back to him.  The sheet bunched up between her legs and balled against her chest.  She hugged it tight for comfort instead of warmth.  The raging fire in the furnace was enough to keep the entire street warm, yet he kept the window open all winter as well.

“I think better in between temperatures,” he would tell anyone who asked, and there were plenty.  He’d invite people up to his room to drink beyond closing hours of the bar he lived above.  There would be women as well, prostitutes, he would spend whatever money on he had that he didn’t imbibe.  There were no shortage of people in and out of his tiny apartment.

Tonight it was Ruby.  That wasn’t her real name but she hadn’t used her real name in so long that it may as well have been.  She had heard about the old man that lived above the bar and all of the stories that went along with him.  His eccentricities.  How he would rant and drink and give a girl whatever she wanted if she seemed interested.  His bluntness and the bit of mean streak that he carried, it was mostly words but he could look threatening if he wanted to.  Nobody ever claimed he harmed them though.

He also had money, which was the most important thing to a woman selling her body for sexual favors.  It really was the only thing that mattered.

The old man always paid and he usually paid more than the agreed upon amount.

“He’s a great tipper,” the other girls told Ruby when she got the call.

“He’ll fuck you, he’ll drink, he’ll rant and when he falls asleep you just take the money and slip out like nothing.  There’s no pleading for more time or trying to set up another date.  It’s a quick transaction and usually doesn’t even last the whole night.”

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The Physics of You

Good mornings were meant for pleasant people with pleasant things to say to each other on their way to their normal lives and their standard living arrangements. You’re more than a good morning. You’re more than pleasant. You’re a dirty deed not yet acted on.
Something creeping in the back of my mind not yet fully developed but far enough along that I know I want to do something to you. But what?

You’ve got your sly smile from behind your honey-kissed hair. You’re so fucking sweet too, that nectar that’s coating your lips is addictive. Sting me with them and cause my skin to welt from your nails dug in tight. Leave marks I’ll have to explain away much further in the future than I’ve ever thought about.

I’ve thought about waking you up with your hands pinned to the bed in a jolt. Your legs loosely on either side of me and I’m jostling your body up and down slowly. What does it feel like to wake up with someone between your legs and staring into your eyes? Tell me. I want to watch the words float from your lips as I stare in your smokey eyes.

Lets not waste a morning on good mornings. We should spend each one finding what curves of our bodies fit best against each other, and when they don’t fit we’ll crash ourselves into each under until they do. Bend me. Break me. Let me feel your fingers snaking around my neck to edge me further.

Push. Physics is simple, for ever action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I want to test every possible one.

I’m not saying good morning. I’m saying get up, lets have some fun.

Comfortable Isn’t A Dirty Word

Words have meaning, what’s funny about that is the different meanings that words have for different people.

I called you comfortable and you got mad.

“What am I, a fucking sofa?”  You launched at me.

I was taken back.

“No.  You’re comfortable for me.  I’m comfortable with you.  I don’t have to try so hard.”

As soon as those words left my lips I knew they were wrong.  Your eyes narrowed and your arms became unfolded.
The only thing worse than a woman looking at you while her arms are folded is when you say something that makes her have to unfold them.

“So you don’t bother trying when you’re with me?”

The exasperation in your voice had lowered to a laser-pointed focus.  I felt as if I were  under a spotlight and you were interrogating me.  My words were now going to have to be chosen with precision.

“That’s not what I meant.  I meant that you aren’t high maintenance.  You aren’t a girl that needs constant fluffing of her ego and reassurance.  When I want you all I have to do is walk up to you from behind and slip my arms around your waist.  I hook my thumbs in your waist band and hang them there so gravity can pull at them.  My cheek rubs against yours and you can feel the day and a half hair growth scratching against your skin.  You melt when I do that.”

You only let out a “mmhmm,” that was barely audible.  It didn’t let me know if you were reconsidering your stance or if you weren’t convinced yet.  Either way I wasn’t done.

“You are comfortable to me.  The word must have different meaning to you.  We work well together.  There aren’t any games we play.  There isn’t that confusion of what the other person wants.  We know we just want each other.  We’re comfortable enough that you can walk up and kick my feet apart and drop down into my lap before you shove your tongue down my throat.  All in one continuous movement.  It’s the sexiest fucking thing when you do that.”

It really was the absolute sexiest thing you did.  There was a hunger in your movements when you hunted me like that.  You would purposely stay out of my line of vision so I didn’t see you coming, as if you were a cat hunting its meal.

When you finally got to the clearing and there was nowhere else for you to hide you would pounce.  Your path took you in a straight line towards me and you would kick my feet apart.  Occasionally you’d drop down to your knees and I’d go unconscious as you wiped the world away from your lips, but most of the time you’d heavily set yourself on my lap so I could feel you.  A hard thud of your body onto mine so  I’d look at you in your eyes and I’d see the lust building.

“Yeah well, I’m not a god damn old blanket, okay?  Find a better word.”

You never admitted defeat, you just changed the subject.  Battles were never lost that way.  Uncomfortable moments were never allowed to linger.  The topic moved to the next train station as abruptly as possible, so much so that to question the change would be even more awkward.

I didn’t stop calling you comfortable though.  I didn’t do it on purpose, it just happened.  It was something that was deep in me because my soul was at ease using that word for you.  Being close to you was like laying in my own bed after a long trip away.  If that’s not comfortable then I don’t know what the word means, and if being called that isn’t a good thing then I don’t know what anything means.


Honey Doesn’t Spoil

I’ve tried to write you a number of times now.  The title of this has changed a few times over because the words never landed quite right.  I wanted them to fit into something perfect.  A reflection of you but you’re not so easily reflected.

I could jump into a tirade about how I want you.  I could rant about how I need you.  There would be words spilled all over your thighs and between your legs.  The drip from my lips would coat your nipples and run up your neck.  The black ink from my pen would bleed along your jaw.  I would write you underneath me and I would write me inside of you.

None of it felt right though.  I don’t want it forced.  You can’t be forced.

Recently I was told that one of the only substances to never go bad is honey.  That there are deposits of honey that were buried with the pharaohs and were considered still good today.  Thousands of years and it can still be consumed, it sounded pretty amazing.  Honey doesn’t spoil and it made me think of you.

Your honey golden hair and that sticky taste of your kisses.  How I could come back to them after a long time apart and they’ll still have the perfect feel against mine.

I can move my fingers through your hair and feel like I can never get them out.  They’re stuck and are refusing to move.  My lips too.  My eyes.  My body.  All against you and wanting to remain.

You’re my personal taste of honey.  You’ll be just as good no matter the time we spend between swallows.