Wednesday, July 23, 2008

SEX


My significant other has a very specific birthday request—sex everyday for a month. I am willing to give it a whirl but I am sure that there will be a sobering lesson at the end of this journey for the both of us.

Sex is like chocolate cake. Chocolate cake once or twice and week is oral pleasure—chocolate cake everyday for a month, not so much. I am afraid that I will miss out on the intricacies of the connection by having sex just to have sex. I don’t want to lose the tiny seconds of silence that come immediately after the sweet convulsion. I want the anticipation, the shivers…traversing the unknown. I want some kind of sacredness—sex should not be like watching television, eating or dressing everyday. It is not a routine test.

I am comfortable with my sexuality. It is a garment I wear with ease. However, I don’t believe that you need to have sex or think about sex to be sexy. Sexy is not something that you do, it is who you are. There are tons of people who have sex and are not sexy.
Sex, when done properly, is succulent. Sex, when used as currency, is perverse.

Because of love and my passion for learning experiences, I will travel where few other women have traveled before. But do know, that if this becomes routine, as I fear, I might have to opt for a new experience ;-)

Friday, July 18, 2008

Lesson Learned

I’ll sell my right breast (I’m a bit partial to the left one) before I try to hook up another friend. I dabbled in the stars and attempted to play match-maker this week. It was an absolute train-wreck.

Before I give you the details, let me back up and tell you how this all came about. Tim (for the purposes of this blog) is a young, cute, gregarious lawyer with deep dimples and piercing blue eyes. Everyday he comes into my office to talk about family, girls, and all things unrelated to the practice of law. When I learned that he was single, I thought of a friend who I believed could provide some mental and physical stimulation. Knowing how hard it is to meet decent people these days, it seemed purely logical to me that these two should meet. Besides, I love love and the prospect of vicarious new love was too sweet to resist.

We arranged to meet for drinks after work this Wednesday. My good friend, Jenna--sharp, witty and passionate--was stunning as usual. We sat down, ordered drinks and settled in.

Tim, Mr. Lawyer, immediately turned the conversation to himself. He complained miserably about his job and clients for almost an hour. Jenna and I tried to offer levity to the conversation--making little jokes, inserting references to pop culture, to no avail. At the end of the night, we were nauseated.

Although Tim graduated from Harvard and went to one of the best law schools in the country—I realize that he is an idiot (in the nicest way possible). He made no good faith attempt to get to know Jenna –I was embarrassed for even suggesting that the two should meet. You cannot teach good manners, common sense or likeability at Harvard. He is a lawyer, and most lawyers are just like him, socially inept, self absorbed and flat out annoying.

I called Jenna after we parted and apologized for Tim’s behavior. We had a good laugh and agreed to meet again for drinks, just the two of us.

Now when I walk into the office and see Tim, I don’t question why he is alone. He probably will be alone until he moves to corporate law, which he will, and entices some young college graduate to marry him with his 401(k) earnings.

And yes, I am giving up my side hustle. No more match-making for me--at least not with lawyers. I’ve got more important things to do like go make world peace, or find the cure for cancer or something like that. This lawyer thing is so overrated.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Lovely Little Things

From scanning my past few postings, I realize that you may think that I am deeply depressed and dark—this, I am not. It just so happens that I have used this space to free the unmentionables, and you, my lovely readers, have been present to witness such occurrences. If you could see beyond these key strokes you would know that I am actually quite light, flirty and fun. I live hard. I laugh hard. I love harder. So today, I’ve made a list of twelve little things that I love. For they are the little things that move me so.

1. the smell of skin
2. lying naked underneath my warm, soft, faux fur blanket
3. sipping sweet southern brewed iced tea
4. touching the warm spaces of my lover’s body
5. listening to rain fall to the pavement in the midnight hour
6. two glasses of cranberry juice and vodka before a night of dancing and pure escapism
7. road trips with my favorite people and music
8. flirty exchanges coated with lust and the potential for danger
9. candles and Will Downing after a long and stressful day
10. the waves and sand beneath my feet
11. waking up to see the person that I love resting softly beside me
12. the passing of fear

Tell me, what is your favorite little thing?

Friday, July 04, 2008

DREAMS OF MY FATHER

My father is a junkie, but he is alive and well. There was a time when I wrote of him, wondering if he was safe. Was he tired? Was he fed? Was he lost in an alleyway with a strip of rubber plastered to his sweaty arm?

I would have washed his feet and poured alabaster upon his head like Mary Magdalene—an atonement of sorts. At night, I would lie in bed afraid that I would never get a chance to say goodbye to him—that he would escape me in life, and too, in death.

The day after my mother died, he called me from behind prison walls, his voice thick like gravy. I could not respond. He is here, she is not.

It is the ultimate trick, the final cruelty, that this man with eyes caked shut, this man who cared nothing but of his sweet addiction is the only thing that I have left to claim. I brim with resentment. Barrister in training never had a chance to appeal or petition for her. Who was present to intercede?

His life shatters every concept of balance. He was spared. And for that, I ache. A life for a life, he should have taken her place, and I would have poured alabaster upon his head.

I know that thoughts are cold and hard, but I do not apologize. I stopped believing in fairytales and happy endings a long time ago.

I fold and ask for a new hand.