Blog Archive

12.1.15

conclusion to the chronicle

Conclusion

those who study men i assume agree that they should desire not to be men. for we have this curious tendency to want and to need beyond our scope. beyond our own personal sanity and safety. to put it down quickly, it's the what-ifs that do a man in finally. so here i am with pixie showing up daily, bending over face down in the pillow, and fuck that, just holding me, holding the world out, the cool easy flow washing through. a little light. a little hope. corny. sure.

and through the calm easiness of brushing flies off through a Southeastern Oklahoma summer, i can't shake this thought. i can't stop wondering, does Shannon have a cunt? can she have a cunt? a wet, tight, cunt. and the dancer's ass, in black cotton, the tits that were there for the taking, the sweat, the missed chance. the year spent in french class undressing her like a kid's doll, maneuvering that tiny frame into all kinds of perverted positions, the look on her face as she nears climax, HOW WOULD SHE RESPOND?!

there is a particular night where pixie and i are out. sitting around a circular table with others. it's some awards presentation my company is putting on. one of those things where everyone meets up dressed in black patting each other on the back consolidating the choice they made with their one shot at it. and that's ok. but pixie looks over at me, grabs my hand and smiles. she looks rather good. but you see, i've had four jack and cokes and i'm still thinking about this thing, this unfinished business. and it just so happens that while i'm mulling this over i receive a message from Shannon. after two months of no correspondence. now, Shannon is lonely. and how was i? the boyfriend is gone again. Shannon with a cunt. a wet cunt. she wants to meet up.

fuck. it's War and Peace. it's Madame Bovary. it's total rip off. total unfairness of the universe at large. and i can't get the image out of my head of little Shannon bent over a bed frame, looking back with caution at my total rot filling in all the blanks. putting over a year's worth of effort into the thing.

the only thing left to do is to start a fight with pixie. i play it off as drunkenness. i bring up some of the other men and how long it took for her to leave the ex - the unemployed, no car, no ambition, cheater, woman beater, who twice gave her the clap. she didn't deserve a man like me: a student of Bandini and Heidegger, reader of the heavyweights. she takes offense and blames the whiskey, and it was the whiskey, but something else too. something further down and much worse. i get up to leave. and it does hurt, i admit, to see that smile go away. i go out towards the car, climb in and everything moves like a scene out of a movie, the main character fucking up final, the audience shouting like mad, but no matter how loud the protest, they're unable to prevent the climax.

28.12.14

...on the woman (a continuing chronicle)

some story about sex, for lack of a better subject line. at this moment the heavyweights seem unreadable, Schostakovich going in his eleventh, the world one shitty far off thing, and philosophy being philosophy: too much hiding , too much digging, too much self-masturbating.sex isn't of utmost importance in general. yet it does tend to get armies marching and madmen humming. i don't know if it means anything, but i've talked to 100 oldtimers in 100 dark bars, "what's the biggest lament?" and it isn't some Archimedian point about moving the Earth or resistance and rebellion, no...it's all the pussy left on the table... and i guess that's a good enough way to define our current predicament of strive and hustle.

i mentioned Shannon before, 4'9", blonde hair, cloudy blue eyes, a sudden sense of evil that came in flashes. evil or indifference. one couldn't tell. and she had it. she was full of sex, and i lusted after her for an entire year. yet despite my advances she remained rather cool towards me. i was twenty six at the time and just hitting my stride. a point in life when you finally feel like you might have some angle. when really you're just as lost and clueless and shut out as all the rest.

we had French class together. and i couldn't speak the language. the grey haired French woman would talk and talk, asking the class questions, instructing the usual memorizing and regurgitating, while all i could do was think about Shannon, what face she would make while cumming, the type of panties she wore.

then there i was, one day, in her apartment. her, having all this sex, and me, not understanding how, or what, hanging back and watching the thing play out with a fool's sense of humor, trying not to fuck it up. trying to fuck.

there were two floors, an upstairs and down, where we stayed. the pink bedroom of pleasure and opportunity up one single staircase. about thirteen carpeted steps to paradise. i sat on a long sectional couch in the living room. Shannon sat beside me. she kept moving in close and i couldn't quite understand it. i had little luck with women, and with Shannon in particular. i guess the fix was in, the scheme laid bare. i didn't know much, but i could sense that the current flowed outward. and for a man to get what he thought he wanted he would always have to pay. and the price tag long term usually came out high. so it took very much for me to get interested in things. but there was this hot little dancer's ass in tight black jeans next to me, and the thirteen steps to paradise, and the curious character of my luck.

how i brought a bottle of wine and she did a little twirl in front of me, like some fairy ballerina, and how my rot twitched and grew. this entire ordeal you see is predicated upon the near reach and failure in attainment of a dedicated goal. if she had fucked me right off we could end this thing tonight, go home to our little pittance and wait for the hangman. but no, i'm sitting there with this engorged cock, watching her walk and prance around the place.

the black jeans, that little ballerina twirl with all my pent up wretchedness.

she had strong dancer's legs. everything about her was symmetry and balance as we drank from the wine bottle, a nice red. it was that night i first kissed her, a little one in the kitchen. and as we got closer out came stories of the ex-boyfriend, how he was still around. we danced and talked in the kitchen, and i snuck in a few quick ones here and there. the conversation wasn't too good but the imagination and heat was. all those thoughts of body, those jerk-off moments were now at the fingertips... but the ex was there too. watching over Shannon's tight little buttocks like some Ali Baba, and he kept me away and locked in fantasy land. thoughts of her twirling in the living room, giving a hurt smile. she was hurt, wounded. and i was nothing. may as well of been a shoe, or some dead thing. the night ended this way. after a few drinks all that remained was the ex, and stories, and no more spinning. i gave a little peck at the door, drove home and really got drunk.

we shared the classroom through the week, so there i'd be in fantasy land while the teacher espoused on Voltaire. that Winter i spent a fair amount of mental energy determining the type of undergarment Shannon chose daily. black today? green, feeling festive? pink? it is pink, isn't it Shannon? just carrying this bottom full of sex around in pink panty, tight jeans, and every other layer in the world between us.