and you called

and you called after one million years. life is brittle death in between your calls. I actually am in a functional relationship. a man finally loves me for what I am. and you called.
nothing happened since last time we spoke. the Earth stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, same old, same old.
Is it funny that I'm sitting in my underwear in front of the computer at six am, listening to amy whinehouse? Is it funny that I am writing about you and how water tastes like sand after you and I stopped loving each other?
We decided to be friends. last night was a good buddies night out. watched the game, talked movies, bitched about the writer's strike, environment and elections, just like we always do. we even had a heated argument about artistic integrity in hollywood. all fine with this picture except: why do I smell you on my clothes? why did you touch the back of my arm at 11:47 pm? why did you hug me and told me you loved me? why did you not make love to me?
my man came home from work late. very late. my body was still emanating heat from your embrace. my man and I went to bed and spoke about our days. I failed to tell him that I went out with you. which is to say, I wanted to tell him but stubborn words wouldn't come out of my mouth. we made love. my man and I. which is to say he made love to me. while I was fighting his kiss. his breath fell on my neck. my breath was suspended on your smell on my clothes. his hands kept my face still and he searched for my eyes. closed. cause I was thinking of you.
he enjoyed those minutes of desperation while my mind was back to when you and I were making love like Gods in Olympus. cause when you and I made love, Gods watched and envied.
If only you'd never call again. I could maybe learn to breathe again.

In loving support of S

S is 21 years of age, full hair combed to the left and a plus size personality. People love and admire him for his ability to throw a party, his taste in clothing and his fully functional gaydar.
"Welcome, darling! Fix yourself a cocktail while I announce you" he says when he opens the door. The party has nothing short of a Holly Golightly gathering. S smokes through a cigarette holder twice his own height.
Soubrette Girl is S's personal assistant/scape goat. She informs me that tonight's party celebrates a very specific event. I dress up as a cop. Get my best set of handcuffs out (I bought them on a trip to Paris, ohh the good old days!!). S prepared the living room for my arrival. He installed a stripper pole right in the middle of it. Blue/red/black lights confuse the atmosphere and throw shadows over life size pictures of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. He makes a speech and concludes it with "Bring it home, Sylvia". So I strap on my rubber cock...don't get ahead of me, people...I handcuffed him to a chair, I spank him with a leather paddle (softer than most whips) and had him suck my rubber cock.
S is celebrating his going to jail. His second DUI (the first one he got at 18 years old) will put him in jail for thirty days. He called a stripper (me) to enact the events that led to his arrest and the eventual events following the arrest, which in his dramatic imagination all ended into sucking cocks. Talking about seeing the full half of the glass; the boy could put to shame Walt Disney.
I salute you, oh S, for you only can carry on the gift of positive thinking and bring over a stripper to reenact your arrest!