Saturday, February 28, 2009

It's been a long time since I last posted and, guess what?! Still no sex for me in this city. My hiatus officially ended December 31, 2008, and two months into the new year I still haven't engaged in carnal coupling. The physical desire is most certainly there, but the rest of the equation remains elusive.

The New Year started with a bang and more specifically, with snogging two young gentlemen just after the clock struck 12:00 a.m. A few weeks later, there was the friend of a friend I bumped into at a dance club. He started dancing with me and, the next thing I knew, he was kissing my neck and face and moved in for the full on liplock. Most recently, there was a date (gasp!) with a so-so guy. I let him kiss me at the end of the night because I was determined to get some kind of pleasure from the evening, but that wasn't enough to save the fledgling relationship. Brief summary: banging, bumping and still no sex. Woe is me!

Anyhow, I came across a poem I wrote a few years ago that was inspired by a man who seemed to derive great pleasure from denying me what I wanted most. It remains relevant today because I am still plagued by unrequited lust; the only difference now is that it has no object.

Oh - and the mention of the weather refers to a conversation I had with the object of my lust.


Damn! I wish I was your lover
But it has nothing to do with the weather
Save for the autumnal hues of desire --
Those slow burning crimsons
And earthy organic chestnuts
That reign like kings and queens of attraction,
Levying taxes on the lilt of my hungry breath

Am I thinking about you when you're not around?
If that makes me a thief then arrest me
(The cat's already locked up)
Because I'm guilty on multiple counts
And I'll gladly turn myself in

But the greater crime
Is not answering
This question mark between us
That grows and connects and
Confuses and infects and
Tempts us to drive wrecklessly down neural pathways
That lead straight to that dopamine-laced

The greater crime
Is not exploring
This soul-wrenching,
Energy that grips us
And drips from our words
Like candle wax that accumulates
And holds tight like stalactite.

Oooh I wanna hold you tight
And show you around my cavern
Show you what it means
To let go
Hold tight, let go
Hold tight, let go
And tumble down
Into the depths
Of the living well
Where excuses
Are just tiny echoes
That lightly bounce
And tickle the ear
Without consequence
Because you're in the midst
Of something far greater --
Something unnamed and undefined
And utterly, unrelentingly sexy and raw
Damn! I wish I was your lover.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Holy Shit

Holy shit comes from the sky. In the form of bird droppings.

As I was walking to work this morning, in my knee-high black leather boots, taking in the crisp fall air, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself: a signficant proportion of the men I passed ogled me. I am hot shit. Ahh, yes. Hot. Shit.

When I arrived at work, I commenced my usual routine. Turn on computer. Pick up coffee mug. Drop coffee mug in sink to soak. Go to bathroom and inspect self in mirror to make sure nothing has gone awry during the peregrination to work.

Wait a sescond - what is that extra accessory between my shoulder and collar bone? Holy shit!

I instantly rewind to the stretch of the road directly beneath the lamppost on the southeast corner of the park. Something had collided with my shoulder. "How strange," I had thought, "it feels like someone just hit me with a small stone. But who would do such a thing? If it wasn't that, then something has fallen from the sky. But what?!" I then continued on my journey and didn't think about it again until I was work, staring in the mirror at a huge glob of bird shit on my person.

I was quickly humbled, realizing my fresh, good looks had not inspired the stares.

However, I was heartened on my walk home. Men were ogling me. Old men, young men, hot men, cold men. Men, glorious men!

And when I arrived home, my kind mirror confirmed that I was free from holy shit.

Monday, September 29, 2008

In the Bathroom

Traders are hot. I love a “take charge” kind of man, and I’ve found this characteristic to manifest copiously in traders.

The other night, while at a bar with a friend, I excused myself to visit the restroom. When I emerged from the stall, a man grabbed me and thrust me up against the wall. I was unafraid but a little surprised because his friend, not he, had been hitting on me all night.

Long story short, he claimed he has the assets to buy out the company I work for (he says this without knowing where I work). Yeah, right, and I can speak twenty languages including Tagalog and Double Dutch.

But I did find his confident, commanding persona really sexy.

It’s too bad so many take-charge, confident, commanding men are hopeless assholes. So many, but not all. I'm holding out for that rare gem.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

He Made It Go Away

He made it go away.

I had this dilemma involving something material that I loved. It was beautifully crafted yet functional. One day, much to my chagrin, it didn’t fit into my life anymore. Literally. I couldn’t bear the thought of living without it, but suddenly it was a glaring hindrance. I wished it away. I didn’t want it to go entirely away, but in a moment of irrationality, I said aloud that I wished it would disappear.

Let’s have a little fun with metaphors. Let’s pretend it was a man. He was handsome and useful. He could wash the dishes on occasion and troubleshoot my computer now and then. With time, he came to symbolize something more: stability. He was my rock. He greeted me every day when I arrived home from work and spent time with me liberally. Nevertheless, one day I realized he didn’t fit into my life anymore. I had to make a quick decision: should I cut him off entirely or send him away, keeping him within reach in case someday he would fit back into my life? I fretted because neither option was ideal. My true desire was to keep him in my life fully.

Meanwhile, imagine another man standing nearby, observing. For whatever reason, he is moved and wants to help. He convinces me that he will escort my rock someplace out of my way, yet close by. I accept his offer because I believe I have no choice.

Exhausted, I put my rock out of mind for a few weeks. As time passes, though, I inquire after his fate so that I can reach him when/if I can ever welcome him back into my life. I then learn that he has been “disposed of.”

Should I be grateful? The second man wanted to be my knight in shining armor so he heeded my cry for help. But now there is no hope for a future reunion with my rock. I am disappointed, yet strangely flattered that the knight went to so much trouble for me.

In the real scenario, I am being compensated for the unauthorized “disposal.” I’m a little worried the knight will be fired because of it. Did he fully understand the stakes when he decided to help this damsel in distress?

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Bread Phantasm

The DVD player in Uncle Ming’s isn’t working. This meant there was no anime porn projected onto the wall last night. My girl friends and I were sorely disappointed. We quickly recovered by composing the following poem inspired by our bartender’s bread, which he so generously shared with us. Brace yourself, as this is possibly the worst piece of poetry ever:

Ode to Your Bread

Your supple yeast
Unleashes my wild beast
Your crust
Makes me lust

If nothing else, he gave us free drinks. By the way, Uncle Ming’s will be closed effective Nov 1. So sad.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Does That Count as Kissing a Girl?

The rains bewitched me Saturday. For starters, a late afternoon drink with a friend at a neighborhood bar turned into two bottles of wine. Next thing I know, I’ve canceled my dinner plans (and unknowingly forgot to attend another friend’s housewarming party). Then another friend joins us and whisks us down to a gay bar somewhere in the 50s on the west side. We meet up with a friend of his, drink a little more and unanimously decide it’s time for yours truly to learn what it’s like to kiss a girl.

We head down to a lesbian bar in the west village. The venue has charm but I’m unimpressed with the female selection. There are a couple cute girls but I’m informed they’re only interested in lesbians. I dance a little, drink a little more and end up cornered by a woman who is flatteringly enthusiastic but not in the least bit to my taste. She also reeks of garlic. I abort the mission. Instead, as I’m leaving, my gay male friend grabs me and shoves his tongue down my throat. My first thought is, “Whoa,” and my second is, “Why not?” He’s really hot, which doesn’t hurt. I still giggle when I think about it. Does that count as kissing a girl?

I then put myself in a cab and head straight for – check this – a booty call. I’ve never answered a booty call before. There’s something inherently sexy about just the thought of it: it's purely about unbridled lust. I met this guy a few months ago at a bar. We’ve never had a conversation. All I know is that he is much younger than I am and from Spain. I now know he has a cousin. And, judging from his book collection, he plays guitar, though I've never glimpsed the guitar. I have nothing to say for myself, except that I can’t promise I won’t do it again. Oh I suck at this no sex thing!

A couple years ago I had a lapse in judgment (I recognize the pattern). When I was out and about in my neighborhood, I frequently encountered a man who painted apartments in my building and other buildings nearby. We always exchanged pleasantries. I ran into him just before I moved out of the neighborhood and he invited me to dinner. I accepted, thinking there wasn’t a chance he would interpret it as anything romantic because he is easily 15 years my senior and he has a wife and kids in another country. He doesn’t know English very well so I thought it would be a good chance for me to practice my Spanish and he could practice his English if he wished. Long story short, he wouldn’t stop calling me after that. I had to lie and tell him I had a jealous boyfriend to get him to stop calling. Fast forward two years: he called me the other day! I don’t typically answer the phone when I don’t recognize the number but I was expecting a service call so answered this time. I was shocked when he identified himself. Two years! He wanted to see me again and asked if I still had the jealous boyfriend. Um, yes. And he’s switched careers to body builidng.

My good friend’s husband is now giving me the cold shoulder. This is a positive development. Maybe he’ll finally leave me alone.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

A Treat

I slipped. I caved. I fell off the wagon. Big Time. It was as if some higher being plopped the quintessentially attractive man in front of me. It was a test and I failed. I resisted, he persisted and I melted into a puddle of lust somewhere in the 80s on the west side. I even told him I had sworn off men, but that didn’t save me: one minute we were dancing and talking and the next minute he was in my bed.

Normally I would have awakened the next day feeling guilty, slutty. Instead, a funny thing happened: I was smiling. I smiled all day. You see, this guy is a rare find in Manhattan. He was smokin’ hot AND well mannered. For example, even when he was in my bed, he didn’t make any assumptions about what I would or wouldn’t do. He was consistently attentive and engaged: he opened the door for me, called me beautiful repeatedly, listened intently when I spoke. It’s a shame there’s no future in it (he’s not suitable on at least a couple glaring counts, including age), but in spite of that and maybe in part because of that, I felt like I had given myself a huge treat. I gave this dieter a box of super-sumptuous, velvety chocolate. Mmmm.