Celibacy Pt. 2

i didn't go into as much detail as i would've liked to in the previous blog about this . . . situation, but i'd begun it in june and forgot about it until now. in trying to finish it, i started using current situations to illustrate the weight and sincerity of my dilemma, therefore making it irrelevent to june 9th 2008.

needless to say (if you read the fucking title correctly anyway), i still haven't gotten laid. it's no easier than june 9th but . . . the feelings are the same. i recently went on a boatride and nearly had a coniption, i was needing it so bad. but i haven't slipped in any way. i haven't even kissed anyone since april 20th (the initiation date).

that's right; on my birthday it'll be five months. and damn if it hasn't been hard. i've been having dreams about throwing down with my friends' boyfriends it's so bad (and fuck freud, i do not want that guy!). but i haven't wavered. masturbation most certainly is not in the clause; it is with the utmost sobriety in the exclusions of this here self-imposed year-long contract. that is honestly what has been keeping me sane for the most part. i'm still snappy, still bitchy. still wander off in my mind somewhere at work wondering what my manager looks like naked, but i've been very much alone.

and naturally that had got me thinking.
and that is a dangerous thing.

as i've mentioned (hundreds of times at this point), i overthink. even when i have shit to do i will still manage to overthink, i will find the time to do so. lately when i dream, i have this feeling of . . . puppy love. not true love or marraige love, but puppy love; that wonderful, fresh feeling, past liking, just this way beyond dating but not quite exclusive. just sweet innocent 'i like you' 'i like you' back, 'let's hang out and enjoy laughing at inane shit and not thinking about missing you when we part cuz it ain't that serious.' yet.

yeah that. i miss that.

and that's unfolded in my subconscious. now does that make me horny or lonely?

i'd hate to think lonely. i really don't want it to be lonely but at times when i'm walking home from work, i fantasize about having someone to call when i walk through the door or some calling me before i even hit the door. when my phone rings these days, 98.67% of the time it's my parents. god bless 'em and i miss them terribly, but c'mon! i just talked to you twenty minutes ago!

it doesn't make it any better when i do get in touch with friends from college when one of the first things they ask is whether or not i have a fucking boyfriend. i am proud [at times] to admit that, no, i don't and i'm doing bad all by myself. it's at those same times that i'm damn proud of what i've accomplished. i live on my own, have a decent job, college-graduate, damn muthafuckin' smart as hell, and have a charming personality to boot. i mean i'm not the bitter, weird cat-lady at the top floor - or maybe i am, without the cats. boog-boogz! (shout out to my homie, illest black cat now reppin' NW DC, Nani aka BoogBoogz aka Boogz aka my doods.) so maybe i do have a cat. in a long distance relationship.

this is sad. and now i'm sad. when i know i shouldn't be. but hell if i can't help it right now.

Renew

The pressure in her head continued to grow as she sat at the window, her face in her hands. She watched the streaks of rain race their way down, down until her eyes could follow no further, until she found another to concentrate on. She wondered just how long this would persist. His eyes were on her, tracing her back and arms and legs, slowly admiring the grotesque swell of her ankles, the most recent physical flaw she'd gained.

A flutter shifted her liver slightly and she smirked, a hand automatically going to large mound of her abdomen. It sat low, giving indication [hope] that it was a boy.

"Sorry, baby," she whispered. She grazed her fingernails lightly over the area she believed his head to be, cooing him back to sleep. But he had other plans. A fist, foot jutted up into her stomach, startling her and not pleasantly. She gasped at the impact and fought the urge to puke. One more shove and the baby was down. It was too late for her dinner though, which now rested on her South Beach T-shirt. She'd never been to South Beach, but her parents had brought it back three sizes too big to compensate.

"Linc, could you get me a paper towel, please?" She wiped her chin with the back of her hand as he slowly rose from the table to retrieve the roll. He tossed it at her and sat back down, the roll itself landing three feet short. Without much hesitation she got up and waddled over.

"Don't get that shit on the floor," he growled. "You just had me mop it." She ignored him and snatched up the paper towel, ripping off several pieces to take care of the solids resting on her chest. A tear slipped her eye as the baby shifted yet again. "He movin'?"

She looked up, the sudden urge to punch him in the neck powerful and nearly consuming enough to be carried through. She took a breath instead and closed her eyes. "Yes, Linc. Dreamin' hard tonight." He cleared his throat and dragged a hand over his clean-shaved head.

"Must be the storm. Got everybody stirred up," he offered pathetically. She shrugged and chuckled slightly at his attempt at a decent conversation.

"Must be." She turned to walk out of the kitchen, ready in more ways than one to say goodnight without speaking.

"Want some ice cream?" She stopped, just shy of the threshold and turned to him.

"What?" He swallowed, trying his best not to attack her. Again.

"I asked if you wanted some ice cream," he said as evenly as he could. Even took to cracking his knuckles instead of her face. "Maybe it'll calm him down or something." If it had been anyone else, she would've smiled sweetly, given him a kiss, and told him to come upstairs, that all she needed and all this baby needed was some warmth.

But this was Linc and such words and gestures meant weakness and weakness meant she wasn't fit to be with him and this baby wasn't fit for this world. So she shrugged lightly instead.

"Yeah, I'll take ice cream. Chocolate, if we got any." And she made her way upstairs.

Celibacy Pt. 1

i think too much. it's my nature. i overanalyze and dwell and repeat until whatever i've originally obsessed about has become some warped deviation from any remote rational train of thought.



and this is applicable to just about everything.



as of late, i've been thinking about my sex life, or as recent, the lack thereof. it's on purpose; i've decided to go celibate and, no, not because i secretly think i'm a whore that needs to hang up her tramp-ways in order to get herself wholesome for her future husband. it's not like my number is astronomical (58) and it sincerely is not about that. i enjoy sex. gawd, do i enjoy sex! but call it maturity, call it some sort of self-repent, but i can't do meaningless sex anymore.

::clears throat::
yes, i just said that i can't do meaningless, carnal, casual sex.

though the only relationship in which i've been [shamefully] admittedly in love was oprah, lifetime movie worthy, my feelings were genuine for him, for it. to be blunt it was the first time i'd ever had an orgasm with a man. (And that statement is to imply that i've been the only other, nothing else.) at one point i was perplexed with the possibility that i associated the orgasms with love, but then i had my last fling in which the sex was infuckingcredible and i orgasmed and i dropped it like it was nothing. at this point, it's been months and he still wonders when we're going to get back together. i've never been a playette of any kind so confrontation with feelings that are not mine put me in a bit of a stuttering jam. i continuously, not too deftly, avoid, change, eviscerate the subject to save face (over the phone of course). it's hard trust me, but something in me won't let my vagina take over.

and trust, she is ready.

Christening

so it's about goddamn time i started this thing up. i suppose i should give this a proper intro, a good "hello, the fuck are you?" beginning, right?

let's get this straight: i'm a horrible person, reprehensible, irredeemable. fucking cunt, if you will. i whine, i bitch, i'm spoiled as all hell to a certain, lenient degree, and i'm overdramatic. and i'm not green. i mean, i love the theory, trust, it's just that mr. clean is sooo much cheaper than that natural scrub shit that smells like boiled bark with a dash of au naturale rot.

now that most formalities are out of the way and i've apparently kept [attained] your interest since you are, in fact, still reading . . . hello. how are you? fabulous. mm, me? fine. swell.

i won't bore you with basics (i'm a virgo, which by stereotypical zodiac standards makes me hypercritical of every goddamn detail and person in my life, including, most importantly, me and OCD in every other facet), but i will bore you with nearly all of my everyday occurances. i'm a failed writer so some entries will appear to be fiction, but are in fact true yet exaggerated events. others will be written avant-garde. all will be honest. i leave the discernment solely up to you, should you still be interested.

so welcome. grab a drink (i strongly recommend one heavily adulterated with alcohol), relax. and try not to be fucking offended.

Loose Goose

You have a type. You say you don't, but you do. Everyone does. Yours? Long hair. Something about a man with long hair repulses you just as much as it pulls you in. You simply can't resist unraveling the mystery behind this man's reasoning for such a feminine jesture.

So, naturally, you follow him.

It's a beatiful spring day, reason enough to go completely out of your way. You just feel like walking. Though your feet hurt, your head is throbbing, and your gut is growling for that piece of chicken sitting in your fridge since you can't afford the fifteen take-aways you pass daily, the sun is warm, the breeze is nice, and this femme fella has eased every possible gripe in your body, has enticed you to walk this way. And you can't keep your eyes off of him.

You haven't seen what he really looks like, but you know he's cute. Or at least attractive. He has to be in order to have such gorgeous Pantene locks blowing so confidently in the wind. Three blocks in (and six blocks away from the direction you need to be in), your ankle begins to swell and suddenly the pace that he's been holding has become too much for the growing grapefruit that used to be your essential joint. A limp ensues. Not a smooth, casual pimp-limp, but the embarrassing, geriatric, gonna-trip-over-nothing kind; the one that turns heads of the opposite sex and mothers in a mix of pity and wonder.

The distance grows between the two of you, but you decide that you've gone too far to turn back now. Plus your best friend lives around here somewhere. You could drop by, say hi, have a free dinner and a drink, and slyly yawn and stretch for that ride home somewhere in the neighbourhood of ten-thirty, an hour too dangerous for this bustling metropolis you so chicly reside in.

A stop light pauses his Olympic-worthy stride and speed and your ankle thanks him for it. As you approach the best of your fantasies become a conglomerate of one, embodied in this mysterious man. Blue eyes, dark brown hair (of which you can see already), full lips, long lashes, thick (but not connecting) eyebrows, no or little facial hair (five o'clock is okay, but that's as far as you'll go before demanding he shave). He'll be taller when you saddle up next to him, at least three inches. And he'll turn to you, not at all creeped out by the fact that you're the same girl that came off the train some blocks back because this is a happening city and you practically never run into the same person twice. But he'll smile and his teeth will be perfect; not in the traditional sense but perfect in your way. White, straight on top, slightly crooked on the bottom, affecting his speech pattern with a sweet, endearing lissssp that draws an acceptable almost adorable amount of spittle.

But the fucking light turns before you can get there. And he's gone, jogging this time to make it across before some asshole can make a right turn. You look up in time to see his long [strong] arms open only to wrap themselves around some short skinny broad with black hair and crystalline grey eyes, dressed even chicer than you with a loose beanie cap and a peasant dress. vintage whore is what you'd affectionately call it, secretly wishing you could squeeze your ass into the so-called loose-fitting size two, your hair was long enough to fill that off-white (you'd prefer grey) beanie, your legs weren't so fucking long; if only you were just a little more . . . soft.

Defeat hits you two fold as the momentary hope that it's his sister, cousin, long lost mother that he's meeting flees at the meeting of their lips in a passionate kiss. You begin to hate them both as they pull away and giggle slightly, only to embrace once more.

Cunts. The pair of them.

Your stomach growls, pulling you back to your lonely, painfully single life. Your best friend's house is about a block away and the throbbing in your ankle almost convinces you to go, but then you remember the boyfriend and the puppy they'd just bought together and the reason why she no longer is in fact your best friend. Just a friend. A buddy that takes enough pity on you to offer to pay for the first six months of that Christian dating site that makes sure every match is just that fucking perfect you end up in commercials together smooching and smiling and dancing about how fucking happy you are.

Tears threaten, but your headache won't allow it. The sun is hot and the breeze has stopped. Sweat drips instead and, embarrassed in front of no one but you, you head home to cold chicken and luke-warm apple juice.