hope your justifications keep you warm at night cuz in my book that's bullshit all the way down.
here's what i see happened.
you didn't think about what you were saying to me when you told me there was a problem that we needed to discuss in session. you didn't think about the fact that if it was small enough to wait til i got back, then it was also small enough to not bring up until i got back, given the fact that i was on my way to fly halfway round the world. you didn't think about the fact that knowing there was a problem in our relationship might concern me, especially given all of the end-of-life decisions i'd had to put in writing before stepping onto that plane. you thought that it would be okay to let me know, five minutes before i flew halfway round the world, that i'd displeased you in some small and insignificant way -- and you thought that if you just told me that much, it would be okay and that i'd never give that a second thought. you didn't even have the courtesy to tell me that it was a small and insignificant issue; you let me believe that it was something so serious that we'd have to wait til our next session to talk about it and resolve it. obviously, a key is really that big a deal to you. wish i'd known. but it ain't the key. it's the fact that your mind is like a sieve and rather than putting any significant time into practicing better memory techniques, you'd rather just enjoy the freedom to bust my ass when i forget -- that way you don't have to face what a dumbass you really are for not improving your memory when you've had the chance.
cuz you see, i notice other things now too. like how, if i ask you the same question twice, you get all impatient and snotty with me about having to answer again. in those moments, though, i know that you don't think about the number of times i have to not only answer the same questions fifty times from you, but that i also have to repeat phone numbers, access codes, and other important information to you -- sometimes twice in the same fucking five minutes. because . . .you don't write it down and put it where you can find it the first fortynineandahalf times i tell it to you. you don't think about how little aggravation -- or how kindly i show that aggravation -- you get from me when your memory starts lapsing ninetynine times a day. you don't think about that when you're getting impatient and cocky with me over a single question asked twice.
you didn't think twice about planning to ream my ass over a fuckin car key -- how insignificant it really was in the grand scheme of all that was going on. you didn't think twice about planning to ream my ass at all, in fact, because 'we'd already discussed it before' -- guess you felt justified in planning to ream my ass because we'd discussed it before and i still wasn't 'getting it'. guess i'll feel justified now in planning to bust your ass everytime you forget those little somethings 'we've discussed before' but that you STILL DON'T FUCKING GET.
you didn't think twice about warning me that i had a reamin coming to me after i got home. you didn't think twice about issuing that warning just before i got on a plane headed for a third world country. you didn't think about how what you said would affect me, about how i would feel receiving a warning like that, or even what a weeklong separation would do to me with the dark cloud of your discontent hanging over my head. you didn't think about how preparing for that trip was affecting me at all.
you didn't think about the fact that i hadn't slept in over twentyfour hours and that that sleep deprivation might have something to do with not remembering where my keys were. you didn't think about the stress that your whinywimpyneedy shit was putting on me and you didn't even consider how much more energy i was expending on making the separation as easy on you as i could make it. not once, when you were planning to ream my ass about a fuckin carkey, did you stop and think about the fact that when you locked your keys in the car that day, i did nothing but stand by you and comfort you and tell you that it was okay because i understood that you were stressed out and upset about my leaving -- that i had understood that there were extenuating circumstances for you. not once did you think about the fact that maybe there were extenuating circumstances for me, too.
you didn't think about anything except how upset you were that you wouldn't have my copy of the carkey to fall back on when -- and it's always a question of when with you, not if -- you were to lose your own copy of the carkey.
and then i called you on your thoughtlessness. i emailed you and told you EXACTLY what i thought of your wanting to bust my ass about a carkey, given all the shit i'd put up with you from the moment you got home that day til i finally got you to take your ass to bed so i could actually pack in peace without your high-intensity separation anxiety fuckin up my concentration.
you got my answer. you got my a answer.
you got what happens when you just blurt out stupid shit without thinking and i don't have the energy or the desire to think about the stupid shit that i'm thinking to say back to you to make you shut the fuck up about the stupid shit you don't need to be blurtin out to me at fiveoclockinthefuckinmornin. you got the unedited response. so if you wanna live in a world where you get to say shit without thinkin or considerin my feelings, don't fuckin cry like a little bitch when that's what you get right back, cuz that's what you're gonna get back. i'm way over protecting your feelings in those moments when you don't give a damn about mine.
i'm not getting ambushed by you anymore. i'm not gonna interrogate you or anything but i don't trust anything you say with a smile on your face anymore. fuck you. i will not be lulled into your false sense of everything-is-fine shit anymore. fuck you. nothing is fine anymore.
is our relationship okay?, you ask.
well, really, . . . not so much.
sucks that i just looked you in the eye and told you the exact opposite, don't it.
see, i can play stupid rabbit hat tricks too. hope it's as fun for you as it's gonna be for me.
after telling you over and over how much it hurts to be ambushed, you ambush me. deliberately and with forethought, you ambush me. you act like nothing in the world is the matter except the same bullshit at your work -- but that's not true, is it? that damned email was eating away at you every day and you made no attempt to even try to work it through. yes, i was sick, but we have a journal, right? you couldn't use the journal. you couldn't even give me a heads up, even though i've made every effort to let you know that it's okay to take shit with you to talk about. and that's all i've asked.
i guess i should've known the other day when you didn't want to talk about work. you'd acted as if that was all that was on your mind, but when i came to comfort you, you said that you wanted to wait to talk about it in session. i should've known that you were hiding something else because you never not want to talk about work. you'd talk about it to God if you thought God had nothing better to do than listen to you whine incessently about how many managerial levels of people you've whined incessantly to, how many different managers or directors you've whined to even though half of them only stay around for maybe six months of your incessant 'they won't respect me' whiny assed drivel. but suddenly, that friday evening, sitting at your desk with your head lodged between my tits, you somehow didn't want to talk about work. that should've been my first clue.
i hate being sick. but more than being sick, i hate being ambushed.
at any point, you could've said, 'y'know that email you sent me really hurt but let's talk about it in session'. i've never had a problem with that. well, not true. i did have a problem with it when you said it right before i was scheduled to get on a plane and go halfway cross the world into a third world country. sometimes i think you pulled that shit about the key because it was the very last thing you could do or say that would make me delay leaving. you knew i could never leave you knowing that there was a problem between us.
or if you didn't know, you damned well should have. what the fuck made you think that after having to go through the whole process of making sure my affairs were in order by my fucking self, after doing all the fucking laundry and packing and cleaning by my fucking self just so that YOU could live and not worry too much about taking care of the house in my absence, after spending time comforting you in your whinywussypussyassed blubbering -- time i shoulda spent finding my keys cuz THAT'S what you decided to use to fuck with my head five minutes before i needed to get to the airport . . . what makes you think that after doing all of that BY MY FUCKING SELF BECAUSE YOU WERE ABOUT AS USEFUL AS A DULL KNIFE ON A SOFT WRIST, that i would be okay with leaving with my relationship with a problem so huge that my lover felt the need to tell me we'd have to wait until i got back to work it out?
you fucked with my head. you deliberately fucked with my head. and then when i called you on it, when i told you how hurtful it was to have you jumpin my shit over a fuckin CAR KEY -- that after you wussed out and laid in bed and fucking spazzed out so i couldn't do anything but take care of you wussinpussyin out ass and LOCKING YOUR CAR KEY IN THE CAR . . . and me taking all this in stride and being understanding and making sure someone would check on you and cleaning up and doing all the laundry and doing all of my own packing with more help from a dead fly than i could've EVER have gotten from you and taking care of all of those oh-shit-i-might-die documents with only a weakassed 'thank-you-honey' coming from you . . . after busting my ass to take care of both of us while being understanding and sympathetic of you going through your weakasseddodderingoldlady form of separation anxiety . . . that the thing you thought to be such a huge problem that we'd have to wait and talk about it in session . . . that that thing was a fucking KEY. you were upset because i couldn't be your wheres-the-fucking-carkey backup???? you were upset with me because you might forget and my key wasn't available for you to fall back on??? you know what? YOUR MEMORY SHIT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM!!!!! or at least, that's what i remember you telling me, so long ago when you started feeling like a useless sack of shit when i TRIED to HELP you find ways of remembering stuff.
and even if it ain't, what gives you the right to bust my ass about my keys when YOU'RE the one who had just LOCKED YOUR OWN FUCKING KEYS IN THE CAR that very day? at least i could get to mine without having to ask a stranger to break into our car -- with a whole parking lot full of people as an audience. you wanna talk irresponsible? fuck you.
and after dealing with that . . . after telling you what a crock of shit it was for you to even consider bustin my ass over somethin stupid -- and telling me that just before i fly halfway round the world . . . i . . . sorta . . . forgot about it all. i relaxed and enjoyed being home. you took care of me. i was so sick and you took care of me, lulling me into the false sense of security that comes with believing that everything was okay. but it wasn't, was it?
you know, it's fine that you were still hurt over the email i sent you about the fucking car key. it's even fine that you wanted to wait and discuss it in session. sometimes there's stuff that i only want to discuss in session, and i let you know that. i don't tell you just as you're leaving for work; i tell you in the evenings, after you get home, and then i tell you again a day or so before the next session. i don't sneak shit in to talk about. i tell you if i'm bringing something because we're there to work together, not fight each other. i'm not preparing for battle with you. i'm preparing to work in love with you. i don't want to sneak-attack you and i don't want you to feel ambushed cuz that shit just hurts. it fucking sucks. so if i've gotta bring something to help me focus my thoughts on whatever it is i need help in discussing with you, i'm gonna let you know what i'm bringing and why i'm bringing it. i'm not gonna waste energy and effort by hiding my intentions from you. that's not the relationship i want.
you got what you deserved when i went off on you about the key issue. it was minor, so minor in fact that you knew that it was something that could've waited til i got back to even bring up. you knew i didn't need to know that in that minute. and if you didn't, you should have. because we're adults, and adults think things through before they say them. adults are considerate and they don't fuck with each others' heads by throwing them into a panic attack over little minor shit. if you knew that it could wait til i got back to discuss it, then you also had to know that it could wait til i got back to even bring it up. and if you didn't, you should have. because that's the way i treat you. i would never let you walk out the door, whether you're going to work or you're going halfway round the world, never let you walk out the door with a relationship issue hanging over your head -- not an issue about a sex, drugs, or politics, and DEFINITELY not an issue about fucking carkey.
you fucked with my head. whether it was an accident or an intention, that's what you did. and you did it five minutes before i had to leave the country. and you did it knowing that i had been awake for over twenty-four hours straight. and you did it knowing that i'd busted my ass to take care of you, in every way i could. and you did it knowing that i did all that with nothing more than a few weakly, trembly thank-you-honeys coming from you. oh, and the pleasure of watching a stranger break into our car to retrieve the keys you'd locked in there.
if anybody else had fucked with my head with even only ONE of those conditions present, they'd be lucky to live to tell about it. you're lucky i didn't knock your funky little ass halfway into the next county for fuckin with my head over a fuckin car key. i have killed for less than this.
and then you ambush me . . . you sneak shit into session as if you're preparing to do battle and you don't want the enemy to know what you're armed with, or even that you're armed. and you ambush me with it.
and you ask me today if there's anything we need to talk about.
no. not really. i'm just glad we didn't fuck last night. i'd really hate you, if we had've.
i told him the other day that i love being faithful to him. can't wait til i can show him just how much.
and he's the best damned jello maker ever. lol
my beloved has been taking such good care of me these past few days. i somehow contracted a stomach ailment, probably from the mango i ate just prior to leaving dominica, and the distress has been exhausting. my beloved has made me soup and jello and tonight he made me magic risotto, a girlmoreism that really seems to be helping lots. whodathunk risotto could really do something?
well, alls i can say is that when this bug is over, my love will find quite a reward waiting . . .
i never knew that standing on an endless shore watching seas full of multi-hued chocolate children playing freely and surrounded only by love would affect me the way it has. golden and copper children who are so full of joy . . . well, but not always. the ones i spent this past week with were full of joy most of the time. in their families, going to school was a priviledge because your younger brother might be the little one whose mother bathes him outdoors, just beneath your schoolroom or your wish list might include toys, books, and . . . medicine -- even though you do not appear to be ill, or food. i'd thought, in my often broken spanish, that cosina meant clothes. it does not. it means cuisine or more simply, food. i wish there were words for the kick that i felt when i realized that the children used the unlit, unventilated toilet-with-no-plumbing bathroom downstairs -- the one where the door didn't close all the way (but what six-year-old wants to be in a completely dark bathroom anyway, right?). teachers use the ones upstairs (there are two) with at least a toilet that flushes and a partly-effective window for light and slight cross-breeze. i loved those babies, but i still used the one upstairs. i'm hoping that's offset by the fact that i didn't bitch or balk about using theirs when i first got there.
the kids, though, are superamazing! i'm in absolute love with every single one of them.
who wouldn't be? these were the sweet faces that greeted us every morning. i can't wait to go back.
standing there on the beach, i truly felt as if i were in the presence of God. i saw God's face. i saw this endless shore filled with golden and copper children unencumbered by fear running to and fro through water so clear i could see the white sands beneath my feet. i waded through waters that barely grazed my shoulder as far out as I could walk. i walked almost to the reef that day. my friend and i were both tenderfoots, but i was the far worse of us both. next time, though . . . next time.
we met some incredible people too. my yeis, my favorite y mi amigo por vida. those last couple of days were incredible with him. we got to be so awesomely open about our mutual admiration society. i laugh my ass off when i think of some of the thoughts and wonderings of some of my compatriots, and his, and of his absolute enjoyment of those last goodbye moments. he laughed and laughed until i thought he'd turn blue! i laugh when i think about all that odd energy that would suddenly permeate the room when we were noticed huddled somewhere laughing our asses off together. ohmygosh . . . he did the same thing i did -- he started explaining the reasons to his friends the same way i did to mine. oh . . . my . . . gosh! oh i hope i hope i hope he works with us in february. even if he doesn't, though, i'm gonna see him when i'm there. i've gotta see his new baby . . . the way he giggles, he's gonna make a great papi. oh i shouldn't say that too loud . . . the others might hear. oh, and he's so cute . . .
i never knew that there could be a bioguy who could still put a hoohah in my yingyang after the last one. the last one was awesome and i never thought any other bioguy could compare. they all just kinda made me giggle after him. but not yeis. uh! drop-dead gorgeous with a smile that made you absolutely just have to smile right back. looked good in a pair of trunks, too -- just enough pudge to be soft, but strong as an oxe in heat. yup, if i was gonna, it woulda been with him. no shittin. i dunno what he thought about me, but when i crinkled my finger at the empty seat next to me in the van on the way from the airport to the hotel, he sat right next to me and watched out for me from then on. boy, that was nice to do again! lol
my time in dominica allowed me to fully explore the fluidity of my sexuality, without actually having to have sex. that makes me laugh my ass off because it wasn't that long ago that examining my sexual fluidity had an entirely different meaning to me, in my world. it was fun. i went to a bar that became filled to overflowing with some of the world's most beautiful women. i wasn't really attracted to many of them -- although it was shorts night, so i did stand at attention quite a bit. of the guys, it was only yeis, which was probably a really good thing. though i dunno . . . the rest of our guides were cute in their own ways, but he was different. he's such a good guy, too, married and faithful, with a kid on the way. that's what made it fun with him -- we're both avid flirts but enjoy like hell being faithful. that's nice to do, too. lol whodathunk?
i never knew that being mistaken for taimo would be so powerful an experience for me. where my darkness is exotica but not foreign, except to stupid foreigners who deserved to be parted from their big fat wallets anway. lol a place where saying the name atawallpa opened doors so delightful that words can't contain what lies therein. powerful trip was dominca and i can't wait to reach her shores again.
solo Dios puedes un mundo gusto Dominica cos El Tamarindo, El Punto, y Santo Domingo en uno region.
my spanish is improving.
that's all broken up but what the hell, it's cool.
my kids are GREAT and i taught them a new song in like twenty minutes. i'm going to prolly post pics tomorrow. we've got twenty of them, ages six to twelve, and they are just the sweetest little people in the world. they are a joy to teach, even though we are not staying with the topic we were supposed to. lol but what the hell, who's gonna bitch. i do know that come nov or feb, i will be back. with my passport and a few bucks, i can visit often and that's worth squirrlin away some dough for.
and i've met some really sweet people here too. ooh, fp, too bad we're talkin about a road trip. this would be an AWESOME thing to do for a week! lol
need to jet! dominica awaits!
i want another child. not ready to have it yet, but i think i definitely do. after law school, i think. there's a glitch. lover and i are deadlocked on the issue of seedling. we have not spoken of it for several weeks, maybe even over a month or two, and we never fight about it. but for some reason it is in my conscious space at this hour of the evening. the debate goes something like this:
for so long and for twice too many times, i have not always enjoyed the priviledge of being able to control what enters my body. that has changed. so much so that lover and i have almost settled on adoption. for my part in it, there is only one, if any at all. no argument. non-negotiable. my lover sees me as irrationally stubborn and absolutely bull-headed on this matter. i'm good with that.
i don't believe in shoulds.
everybody should have a line in the sand.
and i'll turn right back around
gimme one reason to stay here
and i'll turn right back around
said i don't wanna leave you lonely
you've gotta make me change my mind . . .
i wish i could describe in words how our recent show went. it was magnificent. my love and i wrapped the audience round our baby fingers and made them spiritually cum all over the sanctuary. hell, i think we may have even caused a few physical gasms as well. if there were any questions . . .
there were, i know. i've seen them in their eyes. it's always so interesting to look in their eyes. i hardly ever let them look into mine.
i sang to him that song first. i didn't know i had a nice ass til a buncha christians started hootin'n'hollerin when i turned my back on'em. that was sweet. my beloved followed with a rendition of essence that had them turnin and twistin in a completely different direction. it was a good thing we were in a church that doesn't do orgies; we'da had to leave at once.
anyway, here i am at the end of this, my first week at the column and i've received over fifty fan emails from everywhere. it's good, too, cuz i've got a lot to say and with moms, wives, sigos, and other people at the backbones of their families readin and respondin, i could set the world on fire, one family at a time. they're gonna archive this one, too, like they do all the rest, prolly sometime tomorrow night. immortality. most amazing thing i've ever known. it's a great day to be the me that you helped create. eye radiate.
i gotta go read my legal terminology book now.
i recently had the pleasure of meeting a most interesting young lady. she's a sweet girl, really, and as fierce as one can get and still be all that is good and right in the world. the lascivian in me says 'damned if i were but ten years younger'. who would not? she is intelligent and so independent, but when she gets angry, she is a most beautiful sight. she's like watching the fourth of july unrestrained. captivating.
have you ever met someone who, when you touch them, you are instantly aware of how dirty your hands are? unsure whether you should hug her goodbye or tell her she's beautiful because when you do, you suddenly feel like a dirty old man. one who simply radiates. she is such.
she is an absolute kick to be around because she holds nothing back. you know instantly where you stand with her and you simply must allow her to show you what she wants or needs of you. she will have it no other way. and i'm inclined to respect that. i made certain that my own child met her. if ever, heaven forbid, he is ever in trouble near her world, or she in his (stspreservus), i would wish that they would be one in the other's corner for all posterity. i hope to see more of her when i return from dominca; time with her reminds me of all that is really important besides my own bellybutton lint.
frogspond, and my love and i are making her special tshirts to take back to school with her. our favorite says 'the red tip on this cane is NOT paint. feelin' lucky?'. in lettered script and in braille. she is most delighted at the prospect. we must take pictures of her in that one, at least, before we fare her well. stspreservher
i've read and been told that a woman reaches her sexual peak at thirty and that perimenopause starts in about five years later. sometimes i think of my younger years and the sweet memories of youthfully indulgent sex and it fills me with such awe that i feel the urge to become youthfully indulgent with my lover. i like feeling youthfully indulgent. and youthfully indulged.
when i was a youth, my first lover, outside of my five-year spiral into the twistedness of incest, was a boy a year older than me. he'd been dating my next door neighbor, and then i moved in. not sure how long they lasted, but i remember that a boy much older than us both moved in across the street and instantly became the big brother i should've had. he indulged my every whim, as often as he could. he watched out for me, played bored games with me, and always had time for me whenever he could. i remember wishing he could've been my big brother instead of the twisted little fuck i got. but he warned my would-be first lover off for about a year, until big brother moved away. a year later, i would enjoy a different kind of indulgence. i was fourteen, and we almost got caught by my daddy coming up the walkway that sunny afternoon. in the space of about two minutes, loverboy was up, dressed, out the back door, through the back yard, and over the back fence. gee-oh-en-ee gone. it was around that time, too, that my dad forbid me to see him, and his grandparents had forbidden him me, also. he started showing up some mornings, waiting for me across the street from my house before school. he was not a stupid boy. i started visiting him in his bedroom, on other mornings, much to the consternation of his grandparents. by the end of the year, he'd been sent to michigan to live with his parents. i somehow turned back up at my mother's front door.
it was very good that i had my first time the way i did. the incest had finally stopped about two and a half years earlier. i didn't think about it much but it played out later and when it did, that one lovesex moment would remind me what sex could be like, if only it wasn't what it was. i had a lot of sex during my teens and twenties. it was my weapon of choice. i could get most anything i wanted from most anyone i wanted it from with just the promise or denial of sexual favor. a blow job here, a twenty minute fuck there, and the world was my playground. i was date raped twice, and the second cut was the deepest. leaving college after that second time was the most therapeutic thing i did for myself. i still used sex as a weapon, though, but i found it worked better in monogamous relationships. serial monogamy was the natural next step in my sexio-social evolution.
love and marriage
i guess some part of me always wanted to be married. i never was real specific on whom and i had no idea of what a healthy marriage looked like. to me, marriage was an institution like all other institutions: fun to imagine, but hell to get out of. such was the ten-year stint my parents did, then another decade-long stretch between both my mother and stepfather and my father and stepmother. my lessons in the manipulatory arts had begun in earnest around the age of ten; once consensual sex was involved, the end of whatever delusion of innocence anyone had for me was gone like a summer breeze at the threshhold of a blizzard. it was with this mighty combination of power and prowess that i began my journey into adult relationships.
i hate 'eating with toes'. it was a send-up of 'running with scissors', which i read recently thanks to my good friend frogspond -- which, by the way, i highly recommend. the book's great; my send-up . . . not so much.
my dad loved the month of july, first day to the last. i dunno how he felt about it before i came along, but i was his twenty-third birthday present, born just four days shy of his. in a weird sort of ironic way, the man who would become my stepfather without the benefit of being married to my mother was also born in that month; his birthday was two days after mine. you can imagine what july was like in my house, regardless of where i was. i don't remember much for presents since we were poor even by yesterday's standards. but from about ten on, i felt pretty special in the middle of every year.
my dad liked fireworks. i don't know whether my mom did, but she didn't seem to not like'm. i liked'em too. they still mesmerize me. for just a few brief moments the nighttime sky is lit from below in a technicolor splendor replete with reds and blues and whites and greens. it's the only day that i consciously make the effort to love my country.
i don't hate my country. i can't hate that which i don't consciously love on a regular basis. what i hate is being discriminated against and being told that my spouse has to be their definition of a certain or other gender. funny, though. they think that because they can legislate where my money gets to go, they can control who i fuck and who i let fuck me. i am very married, if in no one else's eyes but the deity i can not slay and so, worship. his is the only one that counts, to me anyway.
i think sometimes about gathering all my friends, and all their friends, and all their friends and staging a mass resignation and application to freebie social services that drain the government dry. and telling my rich friends to import everything, to buy nothing american, not even green pea soup. to pay their bills but not the taxes added on. to set up offshore accounts and stop paying the irs. no taxation without representation, isn't that what boston was about? if this the best they can do with the shit they stole from the native clans, maybe it's time to stop payin'em to do it.
i don't wanna burn flags, bomb buildings, or even write vicious hate mail to that ape living in the house that will always be white regardless of who sits in the oral orifice. none of that stuff would get me what i want, which is for them to stop sayin niggerqueerredneckdyke like it's a bad thing. so i eat pussy; what's it to him? i'm not askin him to eat mine. if he doesn't like what goes on in my bedroom -- and in that veep's kid's room too, no doubt -- then he oughta quit thinkin about it. i most assuredly don't think about what goes on in his, though at his age, i doubt that there's much goin on besides the snooze button and the geritol'n'vodka shakes. i mean, look at'im. look at'em both. it's a cryin shame.
what if we boycotted the federal government en masse, started importing our foods, medicines, . . . just everything, and signed up for food stamps and medicaid cards? course, each person would have to pick one: welfare or importing goods. but just withdraw every cent we make out of the federal government's hands.
i sometimes think of a mass exodus to canada where universal healthcare is a reality and nobody cares what gender your spouse is, as long as you pay your taxes on time and are a productive citizen while you live there. i think his cronies would burn him at the stake til he was crisper than an alleged witch in the middle of a Salem town square.
i think that the trouble that would follow would be worth it, just so i could watch it all go down from up north.
i walk around naked indoors cuz when i was a kid, naked wasn't safe. so now i do it in abundance.
my mother's first child was four when my mom and dad had me. i think my dad knew from the start that this kid was fucked up. somehow, someway, somewhere in his first three point five years of life, somebody did something and turned this kid into a whack job at the ripe old age of four. my dad didn't help either, especially after i was born cuz i turned out to be the only daughter of my grandmother's only son, and as far as i know, as kids, it was just my grandma and her sister. matriarchal doesn't begin to describe my father's family. my dad grew up with all women and went the other extreme -- not gay, not supermacho, just very appreciative of the feminine way of authority in heading his households. as macho as you can get and still love fucking strong women. my mom was a single parent; she must've turned him into jelly the first time he spent the night with her and her kid. my dad was a chef in the navy with one tour in vietnam under his belt and another yet to come. his stability and kitchen ability prolly put a hoohah in her yingyang the first time he made her breakfast. or dinner, as the case may be. i can see the attraction. but he was four years younger and probably about twelve years less mature; for them to get married, he must've hidden that well.
i came along and i know that i sucked all the attention away from everybody. my grandmother instantly became my godmother, complete with the godfatherist 'naming of the child after the godfather' -- godmother, in this case. til just recently, i ran away from that name like piss runnin down a leg but i think i'm finally starting to grow into it. i know all too well the plight of kids who have to grow into overlarge ears and face-effacing noses. shit sucks and no matter how you try to hide it -- or what your parents do to hide it for you -- the pre-college years are your labelling rites of passage cuz every teacher, substitute, and principle is gonna say your whole fuckin name on the first fuckin day of every fuckin school year and by the time you live it down, it's summer when it don't matter anyway and you gotta start all over in sepfuckintember. that shit fuckin sucks. but i still wouldn'ta wanted the ears or the nose thing. you can single-initial-dot a name; nose jobs and ear tucks cost half an arm and two kneecaps and who the fuck has that kinda money when they first turn legal enough to get it.
my dad still got to share in the spotlight, him bein the only son and all, but when we visited cincinnati, it was all about me. the way they tell it, i would fall asleep on my grandmother's bosom and awaken screaming holy murder if anyone so much as lifted my thimble-sized thumb off my grandma's chest. i was that spoiled. i slept in my grandma's bed with her on every visit, from the time i was born up through my sixteenth year. i could stay up til fourfiftyeight in the morning and still go crawl into her bed and she never once complained. she even knew how much space to leave me, next to the wall of course, as i grew and got older. that spoiled.
my parents shoulda never had my younger two brothers. they got . . . minimal attention, mostly from people who'd already seen me, and leftover attention really sucks. especially for the oldest, who isn't even a real family member and my dad made that real clear the minute we hit the road leadin to ohio. six years later, my mother's first child would begin making me pay for being me cuz somebody forgot to teach the little sonofabitch to share in the first place; being kicked back to past third place musta really sucked for those four years he waited for the opportunity to get back at me and my younger siblings. he started with me, but got right on into my two younger brothers as soon as soon as they reached my 'age of ascension'. by the time he hit the ripe old age of fourteen, that twisted little fucker was a sexual predator who already had three preyed-upon victims that he fucked regularly and beat the shit out of often. i got most of the beatings and most of the fucking, but he was ruthless and relentless with one and all.
by the time i hit ten, hypervigilance was my toy and my playground and i played the boyscout-like sentry with relish and ease. it became a game of know-where-everyone-is-at-all-times and i routinely quizzed myself in my head to keep track of everything breathin at all times. if i lost somebody, i would make a visual and/or physical trip around whereever i was and made careful word-association mental notes as i returned to my post on the front porch.
i was also regularly getting my ass kicked by gangs of kids at school because the fuckin principal somehow got the bright idea that tellin the whole school that my test scores indicated that i was the most intelligent student there. i was in the fifth fuckin grade. do you know what it's like to have the whole fuckin school know that you're the one throwin off the curve on everyfuckinstandardizedtest? and that you get special priviledges because your teachers run out of stuff to give you to do cuz you finish everyfuckinthing they give you? i was also the new kid, transferred in after the divorce. it was fun, bein smart and all, but only til the bell rang. i lived two and a half blocks from school. the music teacher started driving me home from school regularly before that first christmas. when she wasn't there, and she did try to let me know ahead of time when she wouldn't be but it didn't always work out that she could, i had to run like hell and not make a single mistake. i think i maybe only made one. it kinda slacked off, though, after i broke some kid's arm one day.
there was this kid who issued nonverbal threats to me daily. i never quite figured out why, but it could only have been his thing, not something i did or didn't do or said or didn't say. he started the first day i got there.
one afternoon, i was waiting for the music teacher outside a kindergarten classroom, where she was talking to two of the k-teachers. up he comes with a friend of his. the friend was neither my friend nor my enemy. he was smart too. kid number one sees the opportunity to kick my ass backed up into a corner, and he proceeds to do so. having been trained to know that silence is my only friend when i'm getting my ass kicked, i scream not once. the friend runs away. good thing cuz after he got done and went inside to hold his own little nonchalant conversation with the three teachers, i looked at my hands. i'd put my hands up to protect my face cuz i still had to be careful of nosebleeds, and i see blood. all i remember was the hellforgod yell that i let out and the next thing i know, two teachers are pulling me off him while the third teacher tries to extricate him from the visegrip grasp my thighs have him clinched in and the volley of shots his face is receiving courtesy of my bloody hands.
i saw him again, a few days later. i'd broken his arm.
his parents transferred him a week later.
sex was rage and pain and everyone who was not a friend sat squarely with my enemies. a lover once told me that it was amazing that i could like sex at all. i'm inclined to agree with him.
i was born in cincinnati to two people who never shoulda existed anywhere on the same planet, much less gotten married to each other. my dad never shoulda married anyfuckinbody. ever. as for my mom, it's prolly a good thing she married my dad cuz i don't think i would've liked having the same genes as her oldest fuck-up. brothers i got; sisters, debatable. i heard about a girl, born to my father and slightly older than i, whose mother was so pissed that my dad was already married with me on the way that she sent spirits to torment my dad til the day he died. it's good he died. he needed the rest.
way the story goes, they were strong enough that my mom saw my dad picked up and tossed across a room like a ragdoll livin in a movie. she, my dad's other woman, also tried to switch my soul with that of the other child because she was sickly and i was not. dunno how that went for her, but then she tried to switch my mom's soul with my stepmom's, just to fuck with him. my stepmom's a crazy bitch. if they thought that my dad would just roll over for that one, they had another think comin. 'course she wasn't a crazy bitch while he was alive. that happened shortly after she got remarried and started makin grabs for the land my dad left me in myrtle beach. phuc dat bich. but she doesn't really come into the story at all, in fact, until i accidentally manipulated my dad into having some doctor accuse my mom of child abuse for tryin to beat the shit outta me and one of my brothers for hangin with my dad when it wasn't his turn. phuc dat bich.
yea, i was growing into quite the little manipulator, but that's what happens when two natural born peopleipulators torment each other in a steadily more frequent manner for the first ten years of their first child's life. by the time i was ten, i was probably about fifteen and not lovin even any minute of it. not to say i did not have good times. i loved it when my nose bled and my ma would meet me at the hospital, take me home, and lay my head in her lap while we finished off our mcdonald's before the boys got home and watched soap operas all afternoon. oh . . . so that's where i got indoctrinated into that happily-ever-after bullshit . . .
well, at least she didn't read me fairy tales. i think i woulda cut my own jugular if i'd had to grow up and find out that prince charming was a lie. it's not so bad with real people cuz at least there's a chance that it might happen like that--i mean, somebody has to write that shit, right? but to find out that not only was it not true, but that people like that didn't even exist anymore . . . if ever . . .
oh, somebody's bed woulda burned whitehot.
i never had tantrums, though. for one thing, i somehow genetically knew to not pull shit like that. not with my parents, boyo. my dad woulda smacked my ass clear across somebody's cheerios aisle if i'd've pulled that shit. instant death if ya want it. each of my parents only hit me once, and my stepmother, never. i was around elevenish when my mom hit me; that was what prompted the aforementioned child abuse claim. i was sixteen when my dad did, and neighbors had to call the cops cuz after i smacked him back, it was on. when they got there, he had me down across the arm of the couch, probably trying to fend off the kicking and biting that led to my teethmarks on his right forearm. my incisers cut through his thick winter coatsleeve; some fuckin dentist filed'em down shortly thereafter when my wisdom tooth had to be cut in. that was my first exposure to codeine. i still love narcotics. not with a passion . . . with a . . . nice, easy lust like the one i felt at the age of seven when my upstairs seven-year-old neighbor girl became my first crush affair. i loved to just sit and watch her play. she liked dolls, i think. i didn't care; she was my doll. she was outrageously beautiful with this long, soft black hair that reached down to her midback and these exotic eyes that made her look afriasian, sorta like my mom's when she first wakes up in the mornin or from a nap. she was narcotic. my mom's narcotic. my dad liked narcotics too. isn't that interesting.
i'm fallin half asleep.
it's been real.