Thursday, February 28, 2008

love left overs

Good Bye, my love! Such an apocryphal story we lived. My butch defense met your see through wall. We bumped hardies and both picked up pieces of our failed game. And baby, what a game!
3 years ago I played my field with a strippologist approach. I was Sylvia, the stripper who loved more than one man at a time. I had L and M and occasionally V, a millionaire from Australia who also helped pay bills and gave me rides in his chauffeur driven Bentley. They all knew I wasn't marriage material and yet they all put their hearts on the altar of love for Sylvia. Unconditionally. Indefinitely. Absolutely. Sylvia forgot how to love, in the process.
Then you came along. Emotionally unavailable, or as you say, you built up a wall of insensitivity to me. You told me I scared you. Fear. Such a beautiful concept in the context of my life before love. I was a tyrant. I knew the power of fear. I didn't know how to make it go away. I wasn't even aware of it, until you told me I scared you.
3 years ago you played your field with a bull in heat approach, fucking everything that moved. That's how you met K, whom you now despise and don't want to forgive while you ask me to forgive you. You loved K once, remember?
Well, my love, a funny thing happened: our love became a thief. Secretive and on the run.
I broke my butch defense and you broke your glass wall. Stop trying to bring it back up. There's no more fear for you to feel. I don't want to harm you. Sylvia is tired. Sylvia will say good bye to you. Go and live your life and be happy.
Good Bye!

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Story of a Greek

The Place: West Hollywood. The Time: Ride the Party. The Characters: Me and the Greek in a mass of unknown party goers.
The Greek is confident and his demeanor: stone. He's so young. He never loses track of me. His eyes are glued to my snaking in between other jungle animals. He told me: "you're gonna be the death of me". This made the top three hottest catch phrases a guy could try me with. What did he know about death anyway?
We danced. Trance music, sweaty gay boys showing off chiseled bodies, laughter and the pain of those eyes. The Greek had eyes that knew too much. He was carrying the burden of his thoughts. Every time he spoke he sounded like a prophet. A twenty and change years old prophet.
The first time we made love we never said a word to each other. Pure animal desire guided us. The Greek had confident hands to match his demeanor. His eyes told me stories that I never heard before in a brief REM sequence that I could only read as my own dream.
The West Hollywood party deafened us. We walked to the parking lot. He told me: "you contrast yourself with other people. are you trying to seduce me?"
"is it working?"
"well, Mrs Robinson, no need to try."
We had sex in the car, under a street lamp. I sat on top of him, in the passenger seat. The windows fogged up, the car was rocking and a security guard knocked on our window with a lit torch. We didn't stop until we came.