Thinking like a slut

So I recently received an email in which my suitor let me know that he likes a girl that thinks "slutty". I think on first reading this, I had that knee-jerk reaction of reading it as him calling me slutty. But apparently I wasn't actually being accused of being slutty, just thinking that way. I found myself feeling perplexed by this, afterall what was it about my profile and writing that would lead this dude to write that I “think slutty”?

Slutty is such a loaded term inherent with lots of judgment. So, I am actually struggling to see slutty as a compliment. I also began to wonder what it actually means to think slutty. Does it have to do with the amount of times someone thinks about sex? According to the Kinsey Institute as well as every man I know, a guy thinks about sex just about every 2 minutes. Does it seem that I think about sex more than the average male and that defines slutty? Using that logic than why don’t we hear of more men being told they think slutty? This is one of those great double standards. It’s not only considered “normal” for a guy to think about sex, but it’s just as normal if he thinks about it even more often than every 2 minutes. But somehow if a woman is thinking about sex every 2 minutes, she thinks slutty? Or was there something about my profile that would suggest I think about sex more often and that somehow I have crossed the line into the realm of “thinking slutty?” While I do think about sex, I would say that I probably think about it far less than the average male. Certainly if I am getting ready for a rendez-vous, I am thinking about sex every second as I get ready, but while at work, not so much. Realistically, I work in a pretty gnarly neighborhood and usually have to walk over passed-out people with their bagged bottles still in their hand on the way to work. So not much eye candy. I am thinking that defining thinking slutty by time, I wouldn’t qualify.

Or perhaps it’s because I have written about about casual encounters, so therefore I have slutty thoughts. This hypothesis is more difficult for me to understand. So writing about “casual encounters” and looking for that type of companionship must mean that I think slutty? Is wanting to meet someone for the sole purpose of sex, thinking slutty? Or is this perhaps one of those little double standard situations? It’s not often we hear of a guy being accused of thinking slutty because he is going to go meet a woman for the specific purpose of fornication. Frankly I am happy when any of my friends have that going for them. Good for them… they are about to get laid. Slutty doesn’t seem appropriate as a descriptive term for what they are thinking and what is about to happen. And realistically, all I have to show for my “thinking slutty” is a blog.

Is the mere fact that I actually have had a casual encounter enough to qualify as thinking slutty? Or is there another threshold I am not aware of? I felt compelled to look up the word “slut” and actually found that it literally means “a woman considered sexually promiscuous.” Hmmm… so that explains why we don’t hear about men being called sluts. But it doesn’t help me to understand why dude thinks that telling me I think slutty is somehow a compliment.

Cross-Trainers

I was starting to wonder if these were simply delusions. It had been so long since someone had taken me by the hand, but perhaps that’s my mind playing tricks on me as I reached out and felt his warm calloused hand in mine. I remember as a child waiting for my father to pick me up from pre-school. He never came. I remember telling the teacher he would arrive, after all, he had promised. But there I stood on the curb refusing to return to the warmth of the classroom. I truly believed he would show. Even as the lady with the lipstick on her teeth arrived and told me I would have to go with her. I sat on the curb and began to cry. What would he think if I wasn’t where he told me to wait?

She gripped my wrist hard and dragged me away. I knew if I were gone he wouldn’t know where to look. Somehow it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t look anyhow. And as I sat in the back of her car, I was sure I saw him and yelled for her to stop. She slowed the vehicle while looking back at me and curtly said, “he’s not there and he is not coming.”

I found myself questioning my reality today, so unsure of my inner voice since it had betrayed me before. Actually that’s not entirely true either. I had hand-selected all of them, as if I needed to replicate all that I had known. I instinctively was drawn to the ones in the cross-trainers. First there was the beautiful boy who kissed me sweetly with one foot in another bed. How naïve I was to think I needed to change. Then there was the angry man from the east who had promised to never let me go even as he kissed me goodbye on his way to work with his suitcase neatly packed in the car. I called no one as I waited day after day with no hint as to where to find him. Then there was the monkey man who didn’t run but rather shoved. Even as I clung to him after tripping and falling, he smacked my hands away leaving me to fall even harder and giving him a bigger headstart. And now I wondered as I felt the warmth of the Viking’s skin against my palm how long would it be before he made the same promise to return even as he let go and walked away.

I found myself whispering this morning unable to find my voice. I sometimes wondered if the in-between time created the distance or perhaps it was the time together that pulled him away. What else could I think when left with my own assumptions? I experimented last week with words I had not spoken before in years. I was perplexed by how much the silence hurt. This was no longer grade school, so I couldn’t ask anyone to pass him a note in class. Remember those notes, the ones with the check boxes with names and questions such as “who do you have a crush on” or “will you go steady with me.” I was always passing those notes for others secretly hoping one of them would be for me. But there was no note, just a change in topic.

I began to look at my note, the email that I had written weeks before sitting patiently as a draft. I stopped myself as the cursor rested on send. I had always clicked send in the past and found myself much like the same little girl in the back of the sedan driving away from my nursery school. The difference is that I knew he wouldn’t be coming if I pushed send. There would be no tears, no betrayal, or abandonment. Just like the rest, I could give him the out I had convinced myself he needed just as I had imagined my father felt watching me being taken away.

Drowning

My mother abandoned me at the sound of my first cry. When asked, she described me as colicky and inconsolable. She would pass by my crib yelling at me to hush. I asked my grandmother about this recently over dinner. She reached across the table and grabbed my hand and softly said that I was a vivacious little girl. Her eyes glimmered as she described how independent I always was. After saying the word independent, she corrected herself and added, “fearless.” She reminded me that after the exhaustion set-in, I always returned to the comfort of her arms or nestled comfortably in her husbands lap for a nap. She described me like a kitten climbing up the curtains to the point of collapse. Then like my cross-eyed beauty, I would settle close to her nearly purring with content.

She loves to tell the tale of me climbing up the highest structure at the children’s playground and sitting there while she pleaded for me to come down. She’d even plod my older brother to climb up to get me but he was too scared. Eventually a stranger would have to get me. And after touching the ground I would rush to my grandmother and hold her tight. I loved her smell of ivory soap and schmaltz. And she would hold me so tight and quietly plead with me to never leave her like that again. She always reminded me I was loved.

Now as an adult, I no longer climb walls. Rather I have built them up like some impenetrable fortress, complete with a moat. Like a bad Disney tale, I am the king with a moat around my kingdom and I can’t swim. And worse, is I have only grown more afraid of the water as I got older. I wonder what happened to the fearless girl unafraid of climbing the highest peak. The little explorer who would stay out past sunset just to catch air one more time on her skateboard. I suppose too many times I ventured out into the cold dark water never to find the shore. Or perhaps the times I had looked for a hand to reach out to me, it never showed.

I found myself drowning today in a sea of bad memories and moments in time that I realized I don’t ever want to relive. And as I cried on the phone from the bathroom in the diner, the voice on the other end gently advised me that it is the walls that needed to go, but the moat could continue to stay.

Morning Fog

The roar of his engine came sooner than I had expected. It seemed like forever as I waited for him to knock on my door. I had held my breakdown for hours now. The nightmares had started weeks ago and I was operating on little sleep. My sense of security gone, I found myself reaching in strange places for comfort. Was it really just a year ago I was sitting in front of a body of strangers giving testimony? The word testimony seems so strange. In reality it was my life. I wasn’t reading a fictional tale from a book. I was reciting details of my life, while these five people sat across from me taking notes. I still find it perplexing that I can describe precisely what I smelled while it happened as if the smell still lingered on me like stale cigarette smoke from a bar. As I think about that day 20 years ago, I can still feel the restraint around my wrists and the tightening of my chest as I struggled to breathe.

The knock is harder now as I quicken my pace to the door. I open the door and he barely makes it inside as I collapse in his arms like a child exhausted by my own inner tantrum. I sob in his arms on my floor for what seems like hours but was really only minutes. And he just rocks us back and forth while quietly soothing me. The moment interrupted as he offers to get me a tissue. He lends me a hand to help me up as he makes his way down my hall toward my bathroom and I crawl on my couch only to have the cross-eyed beauty jump up and gently scratch at my lap. She nestles on my legs with her head pushed up against my stomach as if to hug me. And he returns with a roll of toilet paper that he hands me as he takes his seat next to me. I knew what he would ask me next. It’s the same question I get asked every year: “have you thought about seeing someone?”

Truth is I have. Off and on for years, I have sat across from strangers and recounted my story. I began to feel as if I had no other tale to tell and a few years ago, I decided to take a new approach to this time of year; denial. It came in the form of being too busy. I could excuse the exhaustion, because I could relate it to all that I was doing. This year is no different as I find myself racing to performances and social engagements. But the memory of the hearing almost seemed too fresh to deny. I could still see the face of the man that changed my world years ago and the smirk on his face. And I could still hear his mother’s voice as she yelled at me for ruining his life. I was unable to muster a word then as I wanted to tell her about how many times I had contemplated ending my own. I wondered how she could imagine I was really living after what her own flesh and blood had done to me. I almost felt jealous of her ability to deny, it was so much more deep-seeded then my own.

I had come to some terms at this point with my experience. I wasn’t a teenage girl anymore, although at times late at night, I still feel like that child; alone and terrified. Ironically, my angel must have known what was happening as my phone rang late night last night. I was relieved to see her name pop up on my caller ID. And the first thing she said was that she just felt compelled to call and check on me. I never understood how she always seemed to know those exact moments when a friend was all I needed. I hadn’t thought to call her myself, rather I had left a cryptic text for the Viking to find, still unable to clearly tell him what I needed. I guess I was just afraid of reaching out and learning that he wouldn’t want to be there for me. I wouldn’t have to wait for him to abandon me if I never set him up to be around.

I somehow managed to make it into my office, even with the bags clearly visible under my eyes. As I felt the cool air on my face as we rode his Harley across the Bay, I relaxed. For the moment I felt safe, knowing my angel was looking out for me and that he would be waiting for me outside my office to take me home. At last, there could be relief that there were no more trials or hearings, just memories that I could finally allow to drift away like the morning fog.

Cleaning

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs as I watched him ride away. It was that time of year once again when the anxiety takes over and I forget how to sleep. And I was afraid for him to see. This is the part when I can hear my own voice telling me I am broken. Shattered pieces of porcelain that can never quite be put back together again, I was perpetually imperfect. And it was almost funny how I would try to create a façade of perfection by working constantly to craft a “perfect” home.

I clean. I literally am constantly cleaning. And just in case I haven’t emphasized this enough, I will not lay down in bed until my entire kitchen is spotless. I don’t know if I am seeing imaginary dust or make-believe dirt, but my house can’t seem to be clean enough. Today I ignored the tears as I cleaned my home from top to bottom never quite seeing it as clean. My fingers cracking from solvents, while I resisted wearing gloves. And minutes later I am on a chair vacuuming the ceiling because I just can’t stop. I ignore the commitments I have made, because I have to keep going.

I jokingly call this OCD, but really it’s not. I am not sure what to call this, since it’s not really nesting either. I am still cleaning as if no one will notice my personal imperfections in such a clean house. And I wonder if I should tell the Viking as he notices the overpowering smell of Windex upon entering my house. I have created an illusion of cleanliness when really I am just crazy. And all the while secretly hoping someone will compliment how clean my home is. It’s actually all quite pathetic, this desperation to be noticed even though there is no one here.

I wonder if my mother cleans for the same reason. While visiting an old friend yesterday he described my mother’s home as looking staged by a realtor. No sense of warmth or comfort, just everything neat and tidy and put exactly in the “right” place. Her house is immaculate. I remember as a child she used to sweep and mop the kitchen every night while my father watched television. She couldn’t stop either.

How did we get this way? Did she also yearn to have her parents tell her that she was loved, even just once? Just a week ago I listened as the Viking told his father he loved him while on the phone. I turned my head away afraid he would see my tears and then found myself absentmindedly picking imaginary lint off of my pants.

Fall

The orange radiance of the harvest moon illuminated my room like the glow of a lighthouse.
Lights and mirrors warning ships in the night
And it’s fall and I am waiting
Impatient for the shoe to drop
Too many years of chaos taught me nothing different
And I am restless

After all I am the girl who disappears in the middle of the night
The child on the buses going nowhere just so I wouldn’t have to be home
The young one hoping to be remembered
In the ruins of all that was destroyed
I forgot how to trust

And as I stared up at the brilliance above I couldn’t help but pray I wouldn’t run
Images never seen don’t need to be erased
And they never really were gone
Like little slivers on my skin there were still marks
Or sometimes they lingered like the feeling of a shiver, as the colors of the sky grow dark

Most of the time I just pretended
Under guarded smiles and a muted tongue
I thought the world conspired with me
Allowing me to hide my head under veils thankful to not be seen
But it was me that was hurting all along

After all a tree falling in the forest does make a sound
And even under the comfort of your skin I can forget how to breathe
Or perhaps it's just I am holding the air still inside
Listening for the sound of the other shoe to drop

Felony

The Viking was right, it was just a simple task: just write. And yet here I find myself unable to find the words as if they are lost somewhere like the keys to my house. The sadness is indescribable. My body feeling as if I had gained 20 pounds over night, I was unable to move under my own weight. My life has been marked my so much loss and here I was facing the loss of my friend for the last 12 years and I just break. I almost feel embarrassed to feel so much grief. Here she is laying in my lap quietly purring and content. And here I am asking myself if I am doing the right thing by letting her go. We have shared so much but I never thought we’d be sharing a diagnosis of cancer. Mine in remission and hers inoperable. I almost wished it were me instead because I could understand and I had no way of explaining to her what was going on. I still don’t speak tabby.

She was just a little grey ball of fur the day she entered my life. After a visit to a vet and a bath, I discovered she was white. Nicknamed by a friend in grad school, she came to be known as “the cross-eyed beauty.” And although she shared her first 8 years with a 120-pound shepherd, she knew she was bigger. And she was. She was my comfort in times of pain and she was the first to hear the good news of the day. She is the first to greet me in the early hours as the sun begins its ascent. And she is my melody at night as the rumble of her purr soothes me to sleep.

She ended 2008 on a diet and began 2009 unable to hold on to her weight. Despite her condition she still rules the roost. She has the energy to remind her sister that the bed is only big enough for her. And she still slaps me in the calf beckoning me to play a game of chase. She guards the house unaware of her size. Greeting strangers at the door and meowing at friends. While rehearsing and vacuuming she will stand her ground. And despite her crossed eyes, no bug has ever been safe.

And now I am faced with saying goodbye. Unlike her sister, I can plan for pictures and I can hold her one last time. And I can keep telling myself tomorrow and silently pray that the day will never come.

Cutting

The security of the Tenderloin has changed from the subtle reminder of the dangers of depression and a bottle to a world of temptation for a girl looking for an escape. Even as I stood today facing the peckerwood with the blade screaming his racist rant while his “old lady” reminded him we shared color in common, I found myself too numb to muster a sense of fear. It almost scared me how much I wanted to feel his blade. Desperate for emotions that don’t come easy, I spent my day faking a smile to every face I thought looked kindred in a crowd. I began to think about the last time I had longed to feel and absentmindedly began to touch the scars on my leg.

Fiending to cut is much like craving booze or drugs. I would desperately yearn for the euphoric feeling as I dragged a razor blade across my thigh. For many years, it was the only way I could cry. The first time I cut, I was only 12. Oddly, I remember the day I did it as if it happened yesterday. On a day that began as “normal,” I was alone in my room surrounded by my childhood friends of Barbie’s and stuffed animals. A latchkey kid since I was 5, my afternoons were typically filled with conversations with my fuzzy friends about my day. I couldn’t tell time yet nor did I know my home phone number, but I knew to put the key in the door and to find my after-school snack of oranges and peanut butter sandwiches in the refrigerator.

I had formed a semi-circle of blonde bodacious beauties as well as lobsters, bears, and dinosaurs around myself. There really weren’t any favorites, but only the big brown bear slept in my bed with me at night. I still have no clue what compelled me to leave my room and walk the narrow hallway back to the kitchen. I have no idea why I walked directly over the beige patterned linoleum floor to the silverware drawer. Instinctively I grabbed the metal butter knife and returned to my room as if I had done this before. After returning to my room I closed my door and sat on the carpet directly in the middle of the semicircle of my toys. I ran my finger up and down the blade pressing harder with each turn. Eventually my skin grew rough and began to peel revealing some of its layers. Next I ran the knife against my wrists. It wasn’t suicide I was after. I am not even sure I knew what suicide was. I just wanted to rub the knife against my wrists until I would see blood. My only witnesses from that day long gone after years of living in boxes turned their fur musty.

I remember finding it strange that the knife didn’t hurt. I also remember finding it curious I couldn’t cut into my wrists. That first time there was no blood. I couldn’t seem to drag the knife in deep enough, being too naïve to understand the dullness of the blade was conspiring against me. I continued this ritual for years trying different knives and different parts of my body. I slowly began to comprehend that my sick secret could only be kept if I opted for less obvious places. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the conspicuousness that led to my propensity for my thighs. My sensitiveness of my thighs finally allowed for me to feel the pain and the sight of the red seemed to bring relief.

And this was my ritual for more years than I care to confess. Nestled deep in my clothing drawer was my kit. I graduated from knives to razors. Disposable were my favorites as I took them apart and was left with 3 thin sheaths. Sometimes I couldn’t wait to get home from school just so I could reopen the wound I had just created the day before. It was years later before the wounds allowed me to cry. Finally I had the relief I was after marked by the color red and the salt of my tears.

And here I am years’ later yearning for this dope-fiend to participate in my ritual I had left behind long ago. As I felt the spray of his words of anger and could smell his own desperation, I recognized it was me who would be his co-conspirator in his crime. And the relief that I was after was not in the tip of his weapon, but rather in the knowledge that soon I would be walking away from all of this. Today I will mark my countdown to feel. My security no longer held in the hands of strangers or in the blocks of cement nor the graffiti on the walls in this land of the forgotten and suffering. I am still the latchkey kid opening my door to the semi-circle of fur. Now I have the cross-eyed beauty and her large loud friend greeting me as I make my meal. And there is comfort here nestled in my lap as the sound of a purr brings calm to the day.

Pacing

I can’t remember the last time I have felt this lost. Pacing for days, crawling out of my skin and no comfort to be found. Redefining myself with no luxury of time, overwhelmed at the thought that all that I have built was so quickly stripped away with a signature on the dotted line. Committed to compassion in a cold industry no different than any other bureaucracy. The thought of saying goodbye to my oldest friend is breaking me. Without the genuineness of the stripped down existence I have come to know as a second home. I no longer know where I belong. And truth is I am scared.

I am the child who disappeared before I was grown and the girl on the skateboard just to out roll the boys. I was the teen who died handcuffed to a door and the woman who sat besides men with no souls. Perhaps not having anything before made it easier to ignore the fear.

Too tired to really write, I feel unable to even catch the thoughts that race through my mind like particles of dust being swept up by the wave of a hot breeze. My anger displayed in alone moments in my car as I curse those around me. Even the exhaustion from the day that began at dawn has not lulled me to sleep. For a moment today as the rain fell upon my head as I stood in the silence of the trees and the hills, I could breath deeply as the flitters through the trees harmonized with nature’s songs. My world colored in grays and greens since Friday brightened by the sight of the yellow of an enormous slug. I think about the red of the Viking, which has always brought calm and I long for just a moment in his arms. And now that night has fallen, I feel the urge to crawl on my floor like the accused awaiting trial familiar with the routines behind the gate. I recognize the panic like waves lapping at the shore, as the clouds above turn dark. And I repeat to myself, “I am strong, I am strong.”

Firefly

I found myself wandering from room to room to room looking for any trace of him having been there. I knew it was silly of me to want to hold on to some forgotten item, but it was the closest thing I could have to holding him near. I almost giggled at my reaction to his toothbrush no longer glistening from use. For some reason, the house seemed emptier, quieter than before. And I kept wandering, finally plopping down at the kitchen counter staring into my kitchen. It seemed like hours passed before I took a breath. I couldn’t sit still, my brain firing thoughts so rapidly and me crawling out of my skin. And it was late. I began to write and erase and write and erase until my body hurt from sitting as each muscle beckoned me to simply go to sleep.

I wanted to find his sent on my pillow as I crawled onto my bed, while allowing myself to feel the sadness. The night air was warm as my exhaustion betrayed me with no ability to sleep. And even the rumble of the cross-eyed beauty’s purr provided no comfort. I was confused by the sorrow as the lump grew in my throat. And I longed to feel him tender and warm even while recognizing I was fooling myself.

Ultimately he was just a stranger to me with his impenetrable walls contradicting his inviting arms. Perhaps it was that. Maybe we were no different than two fireflies in the night, sending out signals no one else understood. I am not even sure we understood as we found ourselves attracted to one anothers’ light. And we did glow, even if it were for just a little while. And like the little flies shimmering in the night, I soon found myself alone glimmering with the possibility that he and I could radiate as an us. But now here I am wandering from room to room to room looking for his light that no longer shines.

Ah Nicotine...

It's the crack of dawn as the caffeine slowly makes it way through my veins. Nicotine cravings remind me of the years I spent cigarette in one hand coffee in the other. I think about how often I used to deny being a smoker even while I was taking a drag. The smell would still be lingering on my fingers and my hair. I was convinced there was no evidence; no smell on my clothes or in my hair. But yet, I can always detect that distinctive smell on everyone else. Funny how invisible I felt I was.

I remember years ago, the way I used to walk down Market Street, almost as if I was tiptoeing past the bodies wrapped in blankets and boxes. The air would be still as the city began to wake and no one would notice the curly-girl with the coffee and the smoke. I would walk past the shop owners who would be slowly opening up their metal gates and begin the process of hosing down the evidence that too many people have no where to live. And I truly felt I belonged as I made my way to Boedecker Park before they built the fences. Just like every nowhere man the suits would step over and never even notice, they'd look right through me as we crossed paths. I nod hello to the girls done with working for the night. I wonder if I look as tired as they do and whether the bruises on their legs will ever go away.

I contemplate the comfort of my bed but I'm now on the clock handing out these sticky smelly rubber sheaths that will never be used by the men grabbing them. They linger and speak to me grabbing handfuls of Trojans, Durex and Kimonos. And even though they all know I am here every week, they grab more and more. I ignore the comments they make as they size-me-up from head to toe. I smile at the compliments as the hungry and the toothless offer to take care of me. I am only 22 years old and I don't try to pretend I understand the life anyone here has lived. There's the guy with one-dread who enters the park shuffling his feet and mumbling. I never say hello or he'll yell at me all morning. I never understand who he thinks I am. Then there's the super-tall guy, last week he was a famous lawyer, this week he is a surgeon. He stops by my table to tell me about the patient waiting for him at the unnamed hospital he works at while his 5th of gin peaks out from his pants pocket. Then there are the girls. They stop by to tell me where they will go to get their surgery once they have the money saved. I compliment their dresses and hair and ignore their 5 o'clock shadows and hormone-induced breasts. Of course, what they really want is a cigarette and truthfully there's a brand new pack in my pocket I hope no one notices. I am convinced no one does, even as I reach for one and light it.

A View from the 'Loin

I am sure it was the narcotic stupor that brought on the flood of memories of a time that was much like Boston in the dead of winter. It’s funny to think of the Tenderloin as this dark place when really it’s quite plain with indistinct buildings and sporadic gated parks that are stripped of all character. And many of the residents are even less evident due to their nocturnal nature. During the day, the Tenderloin is much like a bog in both its smell and stillness. And as the darkness of night creeps through its streets, the tenor changes. Like a sleeping animal, the neighborhood begins to stir. And yet, it’s still not quite dark. Perhaps the word I am looking for is shady.

It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.

Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?

I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?

How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.

I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.

I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.

Blue-Eyed Boy

And I remember the days walking through the Tenderloin looking at the scattered bodies on the street
The calls from a friend having seen him nodded out and my dog vigilantly standing guard
And each time I swore it would be the last
I always knew where to look, even if it were only to confirm he was still alive

It seemed like forever ago we sat in our sunny kitchen making art and laughing
And I cried too, sometimes for me

Hopeful to wake from the nightmare and to discover he was no longer a zombie
Instead he was a slave to the needles I would sometimes find hidden in the bathroom or tucked neatly away in wooden boxes from places we had once visited when he was alive with promise

What happened to the blue-eyed boy who cried in the store overwhelmed in the aisles?
The skeleton, who once could hold me with his strong arms brightly colored by mementos that held meaning
What happened to the man who brought me flowers in threes and sketched drawings of our future with kittens and trees?

I remember the day I slipped the keys in the door, only to be greeted by our pup, red stains upon her paws and the trail leading from the kitchen
There he was, lying still in a pool
And as I stood over his body so blue, I held my breath feeling shame over wishing it was over
I waited to make the call, knowing the presence of others would remind me this was really happening
Thoughtlessly I removed the tie from his arm and collected the balloon and the spoon
And I watched as they took him away leaving me the stains on the kitchen floor

A Good Day for IT?

I suppose I could declare yesterday a good day for IT. After injuring my back last month I now dedicate a few breaks a day to laying on an ice pack on my office floor. My routine includes closing my door, grabbing my Ipod and propping my legs up in a 90 degree angle on a chair. I perform this ritual thoughtlessly while tapping my feet to the beat of my music. And while my staff isn't privy to my closed-door activity, I found myself "exposed" far beyond my usual inappropriate disclosures when my IT person strolled right into my office.

Now i really don't mind people walking in and I am usually clad in a favorite pair of jeans, but yesterday was anything but typical. Dressed for the heat in a floral skirt, I was relieved I had at least chosen to wear underwear when the computer tech strolled in only to catch me on the floor with my skirt poured down on my stomach. I probably could blame the painkillers for my lack of attention in locking my door and my slow response time in covering myself. I am not quite sure what was more appalling; the sight of me exposed on the floor or the little bit of drool that tends to accumulate in the corner of my mouth while i am in my narcotic-induced stupor.

I am not quite sure who was redder yesterday given both our overuse of the word "sorry". But I am quite sure that today we are both feeling quite akward toward one another despite my return to denim.

Mmmm coffee...

As I was hanging at my favorite local coffee spot, I was having this conversation with a fellow patron about tea. When he asked me if I drank tea, I responded that tea isn't my thing. I will drink tea and I actually can enjoy a nice cup of tea. But my relationship to coffee really leaves little room for tea. Who has time for tea if you are drinking 8 cups a coffee a day? I not only love coffee but I, in fact, need coffee. Yes, in that totally codependent, "there-are-groups-for-that" kind of way.

As I began to think about it, coffee has really become my life-partner. I started drinking coffee when I was about 8 (no that is not a typo). My Grandparents called coffee "dessert" when i was a kid. They used to put that powder creamer and a boat-load of sugar in coffee and serve it to my brothers and I as an after dinner treat. I am sure you can imagine what the evening was like. After bouncing off the walls until about midnight, my brothers and I would finally pass out and sleep in until 10 am. I have a feeling that the 10 am part was the ulterior motive, but I digress. More serious coffee drinking began in high school. I would have a cup in the morning before school along with the cigarette I would have stolen from my Dad's pack. Best breakfast ever. The years after high school solidified my habit. I started drinking coffee in pots as opposed to cups.

The only thing that has changed is what goes into the coffee. I spent years drinking coffee black and smoking Camel straights. Kind of went with the whole wearing all black thing and the mohawk. Also kind of mirrored the guys I dated as well - strong, acidic and left stains. Around my mid-20s i began to put a little teaspoon of sugar in the coffee and also entered my first long-term relationship. And just like my coffee, he was strong, a little sweet, and being in love, i felt like i couldn't live without either him or the coffee. All three of us shared a love of Parliament's as well. We lived happily in a small studio for years in San Francisco and then moved to Los Angeles.

Now being a local Bay Area girl, I was raised on Peet's and had developed a bit of snobbery around my coffee. There was no Peet's in LA. I felt like I was leaving my real lover behind and having multiple affairs as I tried coffee at different coffee shops. All of them leaving me feeling empty and disappointed. I had an affair for a while at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, but it wasn't the same. I decided it was time to go back to Northern California. I missed Peet's.

I left my coffee affair, my boyfriend and Parliament's in LA. And also changed what went into my coffee. This time it was just cream. I was back buying bean's at Peet's and splashing a dash of cream. I was also single for the first time in 10 years and was feeling like I needed to take care of the ulcer I had grown while living in LA. Coffee and my life was looking nice and light.

It was at this time I rediscovered a local coffee spot that brews a great cup of coffee and has great beans. In high school it was known to me as the pick-up spot for Bears. Now i think of it as my spot... I grab my cup, I meet up there with my friends or I find my quiet corner to write there. Don't get me wrong, I still love Peet's but I never hung out at any Peets. Once I made the move to the local spot, I began to splash a little sugar in with my cream.

I still drink the strongest coffee you have ever tried at home and am known for sending my friends to the bathroom within minutes of drinking my brew. But recent years have marked a lighter, sweeter blend of coffee, cream and sugar. I guess some of my edge wore off, same can be said of the guys too. They also seem to be sweeter, lighter (as in the size of the baggage they carried), and better quality like my beans.

Heartbroken

I could feel the tears slowly gliding down my cheeks as he rode away. The side of me he will not see. How would I continue my stoic façade if I wore my emotions like raindrops on a window? I couldn’t decide between the two of us who was more afraid of the vulnerability of where we were. I guess truth is we are nowhere. That indescribable place in which there is no definition, like one of those crayons in the box with a name like burnt magenta. Is magenta even flammable? I had almost forgot what it was like when the sadness creeps in and soon the tears just flow. How is it we get to this place where the walls are so thick we lose the determination to tear them down? I find myself struggling with my own narrative after spending years in this place of self-discovery, finally to be exposed at four in the morning by the Viking in my bed.

I guess I should feel relieved that someone saw me after protecting myself with shields of outrageous tales that have come to define my character when they were simply stories of events rather than the colors of my character. He saw me as the color pink like the first blush I wore after a stolen kiss in the aisles of Safeway; the assigned color of passion. And the pink of the sky in summer as the sun begins to duck behind the sea casting its hue upon the clouds while the air continues to be warm. And for that moment he saw me as the “real deal” and in that moment he let me go.

I could feel his hands as they slowly loosened their grip and soon I began to slide away. I didn’t reach out nor did he try to regain his hold. He let me go and I let him. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the hour or maybe it’s just that I didn’t have the strength to protest. Confused by words uttered sweetly while wearing armor. The steel too difficult to hold and too cold to the touch, I guess I had no choice but to let him go.

I have taken flight before so the path is familiar as I glided to the ground. Needing to catch my breath once again before spreading my wings. With no destination or time constraints, I know I will remain grounded for a while with the hopes a distraction will pull me up once again. Or perhaps it’s the warm current I am waiting for that will pull me up to the sky to see again the beauty of what’s around me. But today it’s grey as I listen to the sound of the rain pouring down drowning the sounds of my tears dropping upon my keyboard. I am heartbroken.

Indecent Exposure

Since when can't a girl pull down her jeans in a parking lot and show her best friend her new cute panties? Really, doesn't Oakland Police have some "real" criminals to look for. And why did i have to be lectured in front of my home after they followed me from the parking lot? I swear I should have asked them if they liked the view, except my panties are too cute to sit in a holding cell.

Gentle

Be gentle with me new love
There have been others before you who didn’t understand
that there is comfort in the space
and shades of purple encircling old wounds are like crisp leaves fading in the fall
And there is really nothing to be afraid of
even raging fires have a path

The cinder cone has been building since the first tear
and it’s still just a shell
And like the vintage ponies going round and round
paint and wood and the timbre of the music
You can hear the laughter
even when the Wurlitzer long since played

The furtive glance betrays my distance
And there is nothing to fear
The warmth of your hand as it guides me back
Like the content cat finding its ray
It comforts like a car sitting in the sun in early spring

Be gentle with me new love
There have been others before you who didn’t understand
that there is no white on the canvass
even as it burns to the touch

And the award goes to...

I had a history of ditching dates. Not one of my better habits and yes, therapy worked wonders. Anyway, I thought I would start with the story that wins the award for “Largest Quantity Of Date Ditching In The Same Location.” This all occurred in a local bar here in Oakland that I was 86ed from (until recently). I think due to the fact that the bartender and I probably both want to forget this whole series of events, I am going to keep the bar name anonymous.

This bar is the perfect blind date spot. It’s a bar I wouldn’t normally go to so chances were low I would run into anyone I knew. It had a fair amount of regulars, so someone might notice if anything should happen to me. Especially since I had decided to make this my regular “blind date bar.” And probably the greatest reason I loved this spot, it had a window in the bathroom. All I had to do was stand on the toilet, push the screen out, pull myself up, hop out the window and put the screen back. Simple.

Truthfully, I didn’t decide to go there with the express purpose of jumping out the window. The first few times I went there I actually left out the front door. But there was the first time. It was one of those dates you either wanted to charge $120/hour for your time while listening to his “my daddy never loved me story” or in my case you jump out the window. I remember excusing myself to the bathroom after my date had launched into his story about his father serving time in San Quentin. I got into the bathroom and as I sat there contemplating how the hell I was ever going to leave; I noticed the window. I wiggled the screen and found it freed quite easily. I had myself pulled up and out in moments. I was free.

As I walked to my car, I began to think of the email I would send to my date explaining what happened. What do you say after ditching your date out a window? There really isn’t a great explanation.

I think after that first time, I got a little hooked. Honestly, I did reserve this for particularly bad dates, but I was also going through a tremendous string of bad luck with dating. All in all I ditched about 17 dates there. I remember the last one was a guy who took my Craigslist ad about liking scrabble a bit too literally. He showed up on the date with a frame pack on. You know the kind you use when you are trekking in Alaska for one month. I was concerned. He then pulled out Scrabble. Okay, cute. Then he pulled out the official Scrabble Dictionary. Okay, that makes sense. Then he pulled out a Webster’s Dictionary. This was getting me a bit concerned. And then he pulled out an Unabridged Dictionary. You know those enormous dictionary’s you find in the library on its own bookstand that is supposed to have all the words known to humankind. The backpack now made sense and I now had the heebie-jeebies.

But not thinking this was a window-worthy situation; I played Scrabble. This changed rather quickly. I remember his first word was mayhem. And then the next word he laid out was death. Then came blood. I had no choice. This was exactly why this bathroom was designed with a window. And sure enough I was out the window within moments of entering the stall.

Technically this was the last date I ditched. The next time I came in, the bartender pulled me aside. He tells me that after each time I climb out the window, my dates apparently go up to the bartender asking if he had seen me leave and each time he has lied and said yes. He had quickly figured out I had climbed out the window from the get go. Years of tending bar had taught him the look of a woman who desperately wanted to get away from her date. And I wasn’t the first woman to have done it. I just had carried this on the longest. He was tired of being the one to let these guys know I wasn’t interested. And then having to buy a few of them a shot because they seemed genuinely bummed. I apologized and offered to buy the bartender a drink. He told me I just needed to go before my date got there and that I wasn’t welcome back.

The Gap

So finding myself put to the task by the man who likens himself to a relative, I had no arousing tales of port-o-potties. And I wondered how rays of light could be so erotic and surmised it was the thought of my bare ass against cotton that could put a smile on his face. Or was it the handprint left behind along with the sting?

So this one is for the ninja who has kept me company in the sun while letting me take drags of his smoke so I can still claim I am not a smoker…

I used to love the Gap. Yes, that uber-trendy store that has proliferated like Starbucks. And it’s not because of the cotton twill cargo pants or the fleece hoodies that last but one season. No, it was never about the clothes or the ads featuring celebrities who haven’t stepped inside the store. And it wasn’t because Sharon Stone wore a Gap turtle neck to the Oscars.

For nearly a year I got to love the Gap until I was banned. Technically I think the term is 86ed. I am not sure it’s all Gaps but it certainly includes one particular store in which I was told never to return. I discovered the Gap in the heat of a lustful affair. He lived with his parents and I lived with too many roommates. And he wore Gap clothing. It all started innocently enough with a simple trip to a simple store to buy “the basics”. As we perused the store, I felt conspicuous in my motorcycle boots and pink hair. And we clashed as he pulled out jeans and shirts that looked exactly like the clothing he was wearing. Not wanting to be left alone in what felt like a page from 1984, I followed him into the dressing room. I had assumed I would wait near the entrance of the dressing room area when he motioned for me to follow him inside.

The four walled room was complete with a 3-way mirror and a door to the floor along with a neon-colored button to summon for assistance. I am not sure if it was the fluorescent lighting or the whiny voice keeping time to the beats that attempted to be known as music that got me so charged up. But as I watched the khaki cargos slump to the floor, I found myself pulling him close. Sitting on the rejected items, I found the bench to be the perfect height as I cautioned him to keep his voice down.

We began to have a weekly rendezvous at the Gap. And with each meeting we became more and more adventurous in the little room now filled with wool as the weather changed. I often wondered if the cameras caught our little secret and if anyone ever watched.

Then it all came to an abrupt stop. Perhaps we were being too inconsiderate, it was the holiday season after all and people actually needed a dressing room. The knock was loud and the voice even louder as we were asked if we needed any assistance. I remember my friend breathlessly answering, “No, we are fine”. The staff person knocked again, but this time told us we needed to vacate the dressing room. We dressed and then opened the cardboard door only to find ourselves face-to-face with one of the salespersons and what I assumed to be the manager. The manager looked disapprovingly at the both of us and told us she knew what we were doing and that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I turned reflexively away so she didn’t see my smile or hear my giggle. She then asked me if I thought this was funny. Truth was, it was funny, so I responded, “yes”. The manager turned even redder and told us to leave. She emphasized the fact that we were no longer welcome in the store and that we were not to return.

Unfortunately, without the Gap, we really had nothing in common. It’s now been years since I have entered this American clothing staple. I often wonder if the store still holds the same titillating power and whether my picture is located near every cash register under the word “86”.

Warm

I woke from the crack of the sun peeking through my shade. As I opened my eyes I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the dawn. His breath was barely audible through the sound of the rain and the wind. And I watched as the cross-eyed beauty gingerly tiptoed across the bed hopeful I would fill her bowl once again as he slowly turns on his side gracing his hand across my stomach then gripping me and pulling me close. Perhaps it was the tickle of her whiskers or maybe it was the rumble of her purr that momentarily stirred his slumber.

And for this moment it’s warm and I feel his breath against my neck and I smile.

And for this moment, there is only still. And even as minutes pass, the warm air emanating from the radiator is only occasionally rippled by the click of the metal. My blue-eyed girl now nestled in the crook of his knees. And as I lay here in this nest of cotton and feathers and fur, I can’t help but think of the sun as the mistress who will soon entice my lover away.

But for now we are here in the warmth of my room now awash in shades of pink. Our cheeks now kissed by the rays peering through the window as they begin to shine upon us. I hold my breath as if to hold time immobile hoping to have this last just a little bit longer.

And for this moment it’s tender as I feel his breath against my neck and I smile.

Blow Job

Believe it or not I was a late bloomer. I was painfully shy with guys I liked and tended to put myself in the role of “one of the guys”. I was a tomboy complete with a skateboard and my Van’s. I remember one of my first crushes was on Joe Lopes. I had met him in the pages of Thrasher magazine. And in my 6th grade mind, he was totally “dreamy” – a rough and tumble skater guy who was old enough to drive. Really it was his board that I had a crush on, but nonetheless, I considered him my first crush. I used to take my Joe Lopes skateboard everywhere. I was 12 and didn’t really know how to ride. But I had saved up all my babysitting money just to buy the board. I would meet “the guys” down at the park near my house and we would ride together.

Finally, in 8th grade, one of the skater boys invited me to his place to skate on his half-pipe in his backyard. We actually never got around to skating. As soon as we got to his place, he kissed me. It was my first. I remember the look on his face as he pressed his lips against mine. As we stood there lip-to-lip, I had my eyes open until he stuck his tongue on my mouth. My eyes then shut and I could feel my toes curling and my heart beating against my chest. I was “in love” at least for the next hour.

I remember floating down his driveway after I realized I was late for dinner and rushing to get home, so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Oddly, I stuck my thumb out thinking that hitchhiking a ride home would the best solution for getting home closer to on time. And of course, the first car to pull up was the police. Yes, being arrested for hitchhiking after my first kiss may have contributed to my hesitance in getting involved with boys. If a kiss could get me arrested, than what next?

It wasn’t until high school when I would kiss a boy again. The first week of my freshmen year in high school, I invited my friend to spend the night. The plan was to sneak out to meet a couple other freshmen boys at the park. We snuck out the window and started to walk down the street toward the public park. I remember the rumble of the engine of the Mustang that pulled up along side of us. It was two senior boys. They asked us if we wanted to go for a ride. Being young and very naïve, we said yes. They took us to the local public pool and we hopped the fence to go skinny-dipping. One of the boys held my hand and this is when I had my second kiss. This time I wasn’t floating so much. I was nervous with this older “man”. We kissed for a while until he placed my hand between his legs. I could feel him getting harder, but I really had no clue what to do. He then unzipped his pants and pulled himself out. I remember just staring. I was now looking at his dick and then looking up at him. Then he whispered, “Give me a blow job” as he pointed down at himself.

Not wanting to come across as inexperienced, I naturally did what seemed the most logical thing to do. I puckered my lips and brought them close to the head of his dick and then I lightly blew. Nothing happened. I then blew a little harder but this time I blew up and down the entire shaft. Still nothing happened. I was perplexed. So I took in another deep breath and blew a bit harder. This time he asked me “what the fuck are you doing?” I responded, “um, giving you a blow job.” He then stated, “you are supposed to put my dick in your mouth.” I remember thinking that there was no way that thing was going in my mouth. And I think the only sound I could mutter was “oh”. I think my lack of enthusiasm over this prompted him to take my hand and stroke him up and down. Eventually he “popped” and I washed my hands off in the public pool. We climbed back over the fence and I hugged him goodbye. My friend and I walked back to my house as I told her about stroking him, purposefully leaving out the part about blowing on him.

The next day at school someone had written “slut” on my locker. Apparently, between leaving him at the pool and arriving at school the next morning, it was now rumored that I had lost my virginity to both him and his friend during the course of the evening. And not wanting to out myself as totally inexperienced by revealing the actual events of the night, I let the ink stay for the week. I never did date any guys from my high school from that point forward.

Ye Olde Hut

I have decided that the only thing that is predictable about the Hut is its unpredictability. Although it seems predictable that I have now gone to this bar a total of 4 times and each time a perfect track record for attracting crazy. But what is unpredictable is who else seems to be at this place. I had originally wrote about the Hut in a blog about Carmen. It took me a while to go back to the Hut, since my meeting with her included an ambulance and a temporary leave from Johnny Cash. When I finally returned to the Hut with a bunch of friends as well as my younger bro and his wife close to a year later, I was again finding myself face-to-face with crazy. That night would be remembered by the presence of Hung. Hung was exceptionally drunk and would not leave our table alone until I told him he really needed to go.

Last night, thinking I would run into nobody I knew I decided to meet a blind date at the Hut. Seriously, I had quizzed several friends for a bar recommendation that included the caveat that the bar needed to be frequented by no one I knew, have no cover and have more then beer. As I approached the bar to order a drink, I realized I knew many of the patrons crowded around the bar. Hoping they wouldn’t notice, I order my usual, Maker’s neat. The unknown men sitting against the bar loudly commented only drawing attention to my drink and me as well as the attention of the acquaintances I knew from my local coffee hangout. After getting my whiskey a space at the end of the bar opened up and I sat myself down awaiting my date. He arrived and sat himself besides me and we began that long arduous process of getting to know each other, otherwise known to me as the “interview”. Within moments an older bearded man dressed in a sailor suit sat within centimeters of my date. Any closer, he would have been in my date’s lap. I must have been staring as I watched him sidle up to my date as close as possible. I was waiting for my date to say something, but instead the guy yelled across my date, “can I buy you a drink?” I said no thanks and asked him if he normally sat that close to people. I felt uncomfortable for my date who seemed to lack the ability to mark his own space. The drunk dude looked at the guy next to me and didn’t seem to care that he was nearly sharing a barstool. He then stated, “no one wants to sit near me because I am drunk”. To which I responded, “well no one likes a super drunk dude”. My date shot me a glance as if to say, “I can’t believe you just said that”. Thankfully the drunk dude went away.

Shortly after, a biker I knew from coffee shop walked up to me and blew in my ear. I just giggled, knowing I could care less what the date thought, since it was not as if I would see him again. If he hadn’t cock blocked me, I would have cock blocked myself anyhow. I finally told my date I needed to go and also let him know I wanted to wish him the best of luck. I didn’t feel a connection.

Tonight it was another homeless drunk dude. This time I was with my best friend, Monkeyman. Monkeyman not only encourages my sassy behavior, but has come to expect it,. He was well aware of my previous experiences at the Hut and we both had pondered whether my crazy magnetism would be in effect tonight. True to form, a homeless guy entered the bar dressed in an oversized down coat and immediately bee-lined towards me. Frankly, I hadn’t really even noticed him enter the bar, my attention toward Monkeyman as we chatted away. The homeless guy first asked if we had any spare change to which we answered, we had none. He then mentioned that we could buy him food. To which we said no thanks. He looked at us both as if to say, why aren’t you giving me anything. We waited for him to go away and then giggled to one another over my perfect track record. But the evening wasn’t over. He returned. This time with a patron of the bar.

I watched as the man who originally asked us for spare change was now offering it to the patron to feed the pool table. The homeless guy then began to accuse Monkeyman of talking. In reality Monkeyman and I were simply watching this guy dig through his pockets for change. Monkeyman responded that he had said nothing, to which the homeless guy said if you don’t make a move on her, as he pointed to me, than he would. I then chimed in, “do I have a say in this?” To which he responded, “no”. He then returned to his game as Monkeyman and I shared a laugh. Monkeyman and I decided it was time to go as the homeless guy reminded us that he had 3 more minutes to make a move on me before he would step in. I giggled as I said, “is that so?” Rather than anticipate what the homeless guy was going to do, we chose to down our shots instead and make our way to the next drinking hole. It may be another long while before I go to the Hut again.

Broken Down

I have come undone. I have watched for the last year as my colleagues have packed their bags and said goodbye. And I was the grim reaper as I set the date and signed and sealed their fate. Friday I sat in the bathroom of my office as my best friend reminded me how to breathe. I watched as my hands tightened into these perfect right angles and yet I couldn’t shed a tear even as my heart pounded against my chest. I could have sworn I could see the pulse through my sweater. And as I lay in my panic stricken state, my colleague and friend questioned his relevance and began the process of ending his life.

I have sat through meeting after meeting all week long fully composed. The only difference is my usual attire of jeans and boots was replaced with blouses and heels. I think I thought I could mask my own inner turmoil in Donna Karan. Even under the brim of my vintage fedora I felt blinded by the weeks events. While I had planned to say goodbye to the latest round of casualties, I had no room for more.

I couldn’t seem to utilize my usual escape of total distraction through the company of friends’ as I stayed holed up in my home. It seems almost impossible that I came home each night after work. I reached out too in my usual way through cryptic emails asking for company yet never really saying what I really want. And as quickly as I made plans, I found excuses to negate them.

I am running. It’s in my dream and it’s the same street. Every night I am running down Market Street. It’s early morning and there are the suits and the cars and the buses and the cabs and I am just running by everyone. I don’t know where I am running to and I never seem to stop until the buzz of my alarm reminds me I am still in bed. And as I actually walk down Market each morning on my way to work, I can feel my legs burning. Begging me to just run. I look at the faces and begin to wonder what it would look like to just see me run in all my work clothes and my backpack bouncing up and down against my back.

In reality, I know exactly where I would go and how long it would take me to get there. It’s the same walk I used to take when I lived in San Francisco years before. I remember the first day it happened. I left work in the Tenderloin and hours later found myself on Ocean Beach. By the time I got there I felt calm and at ease. The day was behind me and I could finally breath.

The Naughty Drawer

Aww the naughty drawer…. Doesn’t everyone have one?

While having dinner with a friend she mentioned to me that she always hides the contents of her “naughty drawer” before bringing a “date” over. It kind of perplexed me that she would choose to hide anything. After all, don’t you want your date to know what’s available bedside? The last guy to see the contents of my naughty drawer simply smiled and said, “you got to love a girl who keeps her naughty drawer well stocked with batteries and condoms”. And as I was blushing, I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t even realized what someone else would see when that drawer was open wide.

I began to think about what make up the key ingredients of a well-stocked naughty drawer. Certainly sex and the singleton requires that every basic bedside cabinetry have condoms and lube. I think I first began the mantra that “lube is everyone’s best friend” back in college when I did presentations to other students on making safer sex fun. I remember once having a paramour who seemed nearly upset over the suggestion of lube and literally refused to entertain the incorporation of lube in the bedroom. I also remember leaving shortly after he made his opinion known.

I suspect that most women also have some sort of battery-operated device if not more than one. I remember the day the Sex and the City episode aired regarding the “rabbit”. I remember having dinner with friends and talking about the device and underlying all our thoughts was do any of us have one. Sure enough one of my friends did and the next bottle of wine was spent asking each other about our favorite toys and why we loved them. And having dated my share of douche bags, I also recall a conversation in which my date let me know in no uncertain terms, toys were tantamount to cheating. That was another short lasting meal.

I also would guess that most men and women have some sort of “porn”. Well I guess it’s called porn when it’s in the form of pictures and “erotica” when it’s some overtly descriptive book or anthology of stories. The internet may have changed this though. Most guys I know will freely discuss their favorite sites and have even been kind enough to share links with me with images and comments. This of course opens the Pandora’s box in the naughty drawer and can even become the “deal breaker” in dating.

Then there are the contents that don’t fit inside of the drawer. Suitcases of rope, a closet with handcuffs and a ball gag, the wall of whips and my personal fav, only due to the shock value, was the couple that had the metal-spiked gloves on their wall above their bed. Bless them for letting their entire birthday party know as we set our jackets down and noticed their wall o-fun, that this was one kinky couple.