Wow, this morning I woke up from a dream in which I was kneeling in front of Bruce Willis (wtf?). Not the blond, Fifth Element Bruce, but the bald, infinitely hotter and sweaty Armageddon one.
Again I say, WTF?
Right, so he was naked and maybe so was I, and it was clear that I was about to blow him, and as I licked my way down past his balls, I flicked his ass with my tongue and he totally freaked out. Not in the good way. Like, maybe he cried or something.
After a 22-hour long date with Joe involving NCAA men’s basketball tournaments, king crab legs as big as my arm, copious quantities of alcohol, cigars, weed and a crazy blowjob, I met my girlfriends for brunch. It was all very SITC but with less skin and nobody was wearing a trashy gold necklace.
Joe was making coffee that morning when I got a text message from Vix:
Vix: My tummy hurts. It’s been partying like it’s 1999 all week.
Me: You too? Dude, I don’t remember going to bed, and I’m starving.
Vix: Me, too! Should we have brunch?
Me: I’m leaving Joe’s place in 10 minutes and I’ll call you. I can’t find my shoes and there’s come in my hair. Let’s go someplace nice!
My friend Sasha gave me her copy of Diane di Prima’s Memoirs of a Beatnik for my birthday. I think she bought it at a secondhand store during her freshman year in college. There are marks in the margins, which I completely adore, even though they’re not Sasha’s. She’s a relatively new friend who’s recently learned about my little writing projects and it touched me that she came up with, really, the perfect gift for me.
I’m sort of in love with di Prima, having read her poetry since I was very young. I’m not much for memoirs (now called blogs, by the way), as such, with exceptions being made for Katharine Hepburn and Boutros Boutros-Ghali, because duh, they didn’t have blogs and they actually had something interesting to say. And yes, a lifelong love affair with Spencer Tracy is interesting.
But seriously, stuff like A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers can kiss my ass. (ooh, snap.) Whatever; the kids seem to like it. Of course I like di Prima because she writes amazingly lyrical and lovely things (do your beat poet research), is smart and real and her attitudes about sex and love in this work have a very familiar ring.
madeline: at the risk of sounding like an asshole, why do dudes feel the need to fall into extreme like with me?
is it because i’m unavailable emotionally? because i don’t fall over myself to make them commit–in fact, just the opposite?
because, really, i think i’m like the perfect sex partner in that regard.
and seriously, if one of my sex partners starts getting weird and lovey, i’m so done.
meg: well, then allow me to be an asshole right along with you because seriously, i am SICK of guys trying to be possessive and up in my business. come ON, i am offering you the ultimate in no strings sex!
madeline: THANK you.
meg: i’m just saying.
You call and ask if I’m free tonight, “…a long shot, I know.”
I’ve just been fucked like a bitch by my love as three others watched and came, their come swirling together, homogenizing in a pool at the small of my back.
I do not return your call.
I return to our bed where life is still and time is heavy haze, where cunt swallows cock. I breathe the air from his mouth, making it mine. When he dies I will pull his last breath deep inside me, imprisoning his soul within my ribcage.
He fits me. Loves me.
Quietly rocking, writhing, bending, pulling, stretching, gasping, squirming. Content. Senza voce.
I do not love you, because when we fuck, I am discontented. Impatient. Growling.
When we fuck, my hand does not move to your cheek, tracing its thumb across your brow. You do not shut your eyes and turn into it, kissing my palm.
Because you do not love me.
leg slung across pale softness
i will never move.
he says, “i enjoy you.”
he says it is because of my charming naïveté.
i think it is maybe my irrepressible joie de vivre, but i figured one francophism was enough.
but it could be because of the blowjobs.
his hair is silver.
he smells like grey flannel.
he has a cat named sharkey.
All my friends,
got broken wings.
never will you hear them asking why,
the caged bird sings.
All my friends,
they know how to live.
oh so much sorrow,
so much love to give.
I don’t want for friends or companionship of the naked kind. Granted, I’m not all up in people’s business for days on end, but I don’t need to be, and yo, I have kids at home, so it’s really not an option for me.
But I have done a decent job of finding good guys with whom I can share afternoon dates and evenings out, along with pleasant conversation and other naked activities.
Here’s the problem: I’m not into them like I’d want them to be my date to the wedding I have to attend on Saturday, or to accompany me to my birthday party next month (Here’s a hint: it’s a big one).
It’s complicated introducing fuckbuddies to one’s friends. I’d rather not do it, as it leads to questions and speculation I’d prefer to avoid.
It’s complicated introducing fuckbuddies to one’s family. I’ve never done it, and I’m not going to start, even though one of my current (he of the questioning “hoe”) is an attorney and provided one of my brothers with a very helpful referral recently. He is not coming to mom’s for dinner. Those things need to stay as separate as possible. Especially since they are the same age.
Which leads me to the not-so-nice place of planning a group birthday party with two of my friends next month and having no one to invite. And wishing that my best friends–the ones who don’t live here–could come. And thinking–knowing–that I want awesome sex for my birthday, and I want to have it with someone who matters to me.