don't read this

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg

my secret

Victoria took Pilates

in the room across from the bench press

I sneaked glances as often as I could

of her bending and stretching

her body, youthful and wet

had me desiring

breathing heavy, licking my lips

my heart beating fast

behind my burning pecs.

I watched her

like forbidden fruit

I wished to taste her

drink the sweat sweetly dripping from

her chest onto her stomach and down

the slender legs that didn’t know

could walk all over me willing and open

to all types of pleasure.

She was my fantasy

exotic, exciting, and erotic

in my innocence I was blind

to her age, her experience

her knowledge of how to enslave

the young and restless spirits

that wait in lines outside her temple,

all ready to rip their hearts out in worship

and die in ecstasy for her

the goddess out of man’s reach

and she had been out of my reach

until last night

and I feel dirty.

photo:http://www.flickr.com/photos/flem007_uk/ / CC BY 2.0

prison sex

I liked her a lot when we met.  I liked hanging out with her in her apartment in the Upper Eastside, listening to Hinder and chain-smoking on her bright red futon.  I wouldn’t call her beautiful, but there were moments in between pulls of my cigarette when I could say she was pretty.  Her personality was like a cloud of smoke; it filled the room for a while then spread out into thin air.  What turned me onto her was her honesty.  She reminded me of Avery from Jerry Maguire.  She was brutally honest.  See also: blunt, frank, a kick in the gut.  It was easy to tell her what was on my mind.  It was always sans the bullshit.  Blunt people are often the easiest people to deal with, because, like them, you can say whatever you want.  And I didn’t have to dance around for an hour before proposing a swim in the sheets.  Sex came as natural as inhaling… and easier then exhaling.

I was seeing a couple of girls at the time and my friend nicknamed them all by where they were from.  There was Pennsylvania Girl, Jersey Girl, and Riverdale.  This is about Pennsylvania Girl.

She went home every other weekend to visit her mom and her sister, who were still living near Pittsburgh.  She didn’t tell me till a year later that she never felt right in Manhattan and that she needed to go home every other weekend, for her own sanity.  I picked her up from the airport a couple times.  The first time was because I really liked her.  The second time was because I wanted to have sex and the other two girls were busy.  The third time was the last time and I only did it because she always brought me something from Pennsylvania that I couldn’t live without, at the time.  Every other week she brought me a carton of cigarettes.  They were cheaper in Pennsylvania.  I gave her money for the first carton but after that, we started to get close and were having sex regularly.  The cartons became gifts.  After a few weeks, I found myself bound by an unspoken contract. 

It was nice not paying for cigarettes but when I lost my feelings for her and thought about breaking it off, I couldn’t help but think about the money I had saved.  I decided to stay.

I still liked hanging out with her but she was changing.  I was her boyfriend and she treated me as such.  She reminded me of a Stepford wife. She was clingy.  See also: dependent, insecure, stop texting me! 

I was an inmate.  I had sex with her, she gave me cigarettes then I went home smelling like smoke and shame.  I’d spend hours driving around, listening to angry music, smoking, and convincing myself to break up with her.  But as soon as I convinced myself, I’d realize that I was out of cigarettes. 

My Seven-Step Program

1) call Pennsylvania Girl

2) find parking

3) all kinds of sex (she was actually really good)

4) get paid in cigarettes (or was I paying her?)

5) drive home defeated

6) shower

7) cry yourself to sleep, see also: why, Glenn, why?

I lost hope.  There were only two options.  Quit smoking or Spend the rest of my life with her.  I prepared myself for eternity…

But one morning, weeks later, I woke up earlier than usual and decided to go for a run.  It had been months since I exercised last and I coughed the whole of a mile before walking back home.  My chest was burning, my throat was burning… everything was burning, but I couldn’t help but smile.  I found my way out.

I went to her apartment that evening with a nicotine patch somewhere on my back (I didn’t want it to get peeled off if we ended up in bed (I was usually on top)).  I told her about my disastrous morning run and how I decided to get back in shape.  I showed her the patch and explained how it worked.  She said she was happy for me in between pulls of her cigarette.  She asked me if I wanted to watch some soft-core porn on Cinemax, and I told her it was over…

I had broken free and was actually able to go six months before lighting another cigarette.  We eventually started hanging out again and I slept with her a few times before she moved back to Pennsylvania.  She was Avery again and I remembered why I liked her before.  There were no more free cartons, just sex between friends.