Disjointed Glimpses Into The Collapse/Death of a Long Distance Sext-Affair
Note that the 30+ year age difference (you guessed it, him old, she young) may have played some role . . .
She has the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen — her dark eyes, Mediterranean Sea blue 70 fathoms deep can mess you up all by themselves. but when she throws that smile into the mix — let’s face it you know you’re fucked.
She writes to me “I wear the pants in this relationship” And I write back, “Sure you do baby… sure” But I leave out the part “You gotta be wearing ‘em to slip out of ‘em.”
I try not to be a victim of crushes. Rather, I prefer to crush.
You had your chance to fuck Bobby over the other day when you decided you mustn’t interrupt my precious lunch with him (that he paid for btw) b/c as little Ms. Mommy fix-it action figure bossy GF of the kingdom you knew better about how horrifying such an interruption might be. (NOT).
How Old Are You?
Almost never Has a numerical Answer that matters Because it’s almost never About any number Whatsoever.
Looking back at threats from our past can be sobering when we realize that the greatest threat was our own fears. I think that was his name? This young guy who was quite handsome and played guitar, mostly soulful sad songs. I wrote about him before, years ago, about how he had a crush on my girlfriend of that time and how she kept encouraging his affections, enjoying his innocent, sweet, affectionate and gentle approaches.* The punch line to that older poem and this new one is that “John” later killed himself a few years after all this ridiculous drama. I never knew why and never knew him very well. But I can tell him now, “Listen bro, I shoulda let you have her, but I promise you she wasn’t worth the trouble.”
It feels extremely sad and bad that this piece still holds-up . . .STILL . . . years after I wrote it back in the bad old days . . .
So if you’re a Hollywood screen actor and the rumor/truth gets rolling that you’re gay and your bread and butter is Romantic Comedies or Romances in general, where the story depends on a heterosexual relationship which, by the way, about 90% of your viewing audience can therefore relate to more easily, you’re going to have a significant “believability” problem when every tabloid cover in the country is screaming about you being gay to all the folks standing in the check-out line at their local supermarkets. “Coming out” is fine for anyone who feels the need or desire to do so. I personally think it’s an act of courage and political bravery. NOT coming out seems to me as acceptable also, especially if one’s livelihood depends on pretending to be someone and something you are not which, if you think about it, is entirely what “acting” is all about anyway.
Considering Catholicism Only Much Later in Life...
Bless me whomever, for I have sinned, or at least wanted to!!
The women I want to have sex with...rarely, thank God, have any idea. or at least any evidence about my feelings. And truthfully, there aren’t all that many of them — but believe me they’re out there.
I see them walking down sidewalks or through the aisles of a store. They may be pretty, but that isn’t always a hugely important element, at least not as important as certain other attributes.
They have similar type bodies breasts a bit larger, no excessive fat and decent legs and not being an ass man, I don’t care much about how they look from behind. There’s often something in their faces, though, that suggests an attitude of interest and engagement with their surroundings, not a narrowly sexual aspect, but something…something…
Once in a while these women are totally off limits to me: wives of friends, a smiling nun a lesbian or an obvious lunatic with maximum crazy eyes. But the women I want to have sex with are simply females with the appearance of intelligence and height/weight proportionality (and, yes, I know that’s foolishly shallow of me — but this is MY honest reality, not yours). They have an aura of sexy allure, to me at least, and I want them and I know with a comfortable level of certainty, that I’ll never have any of them again, which is somehow fine by me so long as I can keep walking around seeing them and appreciating, indeed reveling in this joyous and thrilling near occasion of sin.
The Bum & The Blond
Sometimes it’s what happens to you when you least except it and least deserve it and never saw it coming, even if yer a bum . . .
“God she was tall! I go what, Six, Six-one? She fuckin’ towered over me. Six-three If she was a inch. She had bleached blond hair, Almost white-like Long and sexy as hell And kinda messed-up And crazy-like. “She was young, Maybe twenty-two And tan, Wearing real Short-shorts And a purple top, low cut and sexy. And purple eye-shadow, Or whatever you call that shit That they put on their fuckin Eyelids — and her Jogging shoes matched her eye-shadow, Purple, And matched that tight, low-cut top too, All that shit purple. An she had long, dark eyelashes And the eyes themselves The purest fuckin Blue you’ve ever seen, like the blue in A postcard picture of a beach — A blue so blue it don’t even look real.
So she sees me seein’ her, You know, Sorta watchin’ her shoot pool — I can tell she sees me ’cause every so often Those purple eyelids flicker And twitter open And those postcard ocean blues Land right on me! “Finally, She’s got a shot That brings her over Near where I’m sitting — As she’s walking I’m thinking ‘Goddamn she’s got some long legs on her,’ And right then she looks at me And smiles And says, ‘s’cuse me’ Stepping around me to set up her shot. Her teeth are white and straight Like somebody dropped Twenty-grand on dentist shit And all I can think about Is how anybody That tall and sexy, That wild looking, Could have such a nice, sweet soft voice From when she said, ‘s’cuse me? “She finishes her game of pool. I can’t stop watching her. She reaches up To re-rack her pool stick And that purple top Rides up her sides a little — Her skin there is Kinda tan And kinda white, smooth, Firm — “I keep staring And then, somehow As if I was making her do it But not making her either, She walks straight over to me, Looking at my eyes The whole time she’s walking — And she says something like ‘I been noticing you notice’ Something like that, I swear to God I don’t remember her exact words, but Next thing I know, I’m sayin’ something back And she’s sayin’ somethin’ else to me And we laugh And we say a few more things and The next thing I know She asks, ‘Have you ever shot-up MDMA?”’ Then ‘Have you ever made love on MDMA?’ I say, ‘No’ and ‘no’ And she says, ‘Well, Young hearts beat wild tonight baby’ And she laughs. “I won’t go into how it felt My head running crazy/wild On booze And the shit She’d shot into me, To be wrapped-up’ Like a little fish in an octopus’s Grasp, Between those Never-ending long, tan Smooth, legs of hers — Or about the taste of her Or about the look of her Up on top of me, Or...” He had been carrying on, at first talking to no one In particular, Just yammering on and on For quite some time. He was sixty years old at least, Probably older. He was drunk and Dressed like a bum, Sitting alone in a corner Of a beautiful people’s bar. At first, When I’d sat down and ordered my beer, He was talking softly, But as his story got longer His words got louder And finally the bartender, In his starched white shirt And black bow tie And neatly trimmed mustache Escorted the old guy out of the place, Depositing him on the sidewalk. And the bartender firmly closed the door, Making an obvious point, as he stepped back in, Leaving the old guy out there, still mumbling To himself. It was a nice lounge after all — Clean, Tidy, Up-scale clientele. I was sitting alone too. During the course of The old guy’s ramblings A number of laughing, Chatting, apparently happy and in most cases pretty women dressed in Tennis skirts And ‘cute’ tops Lightly shiny with A sheen of golden sweat Had come in and ordered Tall drinks, Pink or white And icy cool. So many lovely ladies, some young Some a bit older, Fine skin, clean clothes, Perfect nails — I had glanced at a few of them Casually And some had glanced back Equally casual — And looking one more time out at the sidewalk, The bum was gone — And I realized That all I cared about in the world in that moment Was finding some way To meet That Six-feet-three-inch Blond from his Imagination or a reality Most likely Loonnnggggg past.