Wednesday, July 23, 2008


Cheating Death Once Again: Tales of Modern Romance

No, I'm not all that romantic am I?

CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin

No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)

CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust

Perhaps. But I am more than this.


The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.

Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.

And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.

I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.

I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.

I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.

And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.

And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.

I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.

In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.

And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].

Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!

So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:

"I'd like a bike, not for road cycling or mountain biking but for going about town, something around 140chf, is it possible?" I asked.

He scoffed a little, moved around, turned his back to me to put a tool down, and mumbled that most of the bikes in view right now were going for 260, but he didn't turn down the beginning of our bargaining. "It's possible, I mean what kind of bike do you want? A man's frame? A woman's frame?"

"It doesn't matter so much. A bike that needs a little repair but something I can have soon since I'm only here for 2 months. Nothing too new. Nothing too shiny. A little character would be great. It'd match me. A bike that's been loved."

He turned back around and looked up. "Loved? How am I supposed to know if it's been loved?" He asked me a bit smiling, a bit sarcastic.

"Well, we don't know how the owners treated the bike, but I'm sure you love each one of them as you work on them."

He showed me a couple of bikes that basically need a bit of repair. Depending on the price and time it would take to repair leads us to the final bidding price. Some gorgeous 1950s bodies. One was a possibility but the other needed too much work/time. "Well, I guess you want to see the back then?" he half-asked, half-said. "I don't know. Do I? What's back there?" I mean, how was I supposed to know. I didn't know the place. He went outside, around to the back of the building where there were 3 bikes laying around the walls surrounding the yard - he pointed to each and told its brief story and how much work / too much work. Then, we walked further back through the yard to a storage / garage, he opened the door and the whole thing was filled with bikes: bikes with rusty chains, bodies on twisted tires, bodies with handle bars that needed adjusting, bikes with crooked whatever, rusty this, broken that. But anyone who saw this could tell that he was a master of his trade and wouldn't mess around with quality. He'd do what you paid for and he'd do just enough but he'd do it well.

I didn't spot anything in the garage, turned around to go back to the front of the store, and it clicked. That one. Against the wall. The one that needed some work, but not too much, the one that survived a fire, was a bit blackened, a bit in need of fixing up, but the survivor. That's one hell of a tough bike. It's not ready to give up and it needs some love.

It's a Swiss-made bike, which he said meant it was well-made. It has a woman's frame, bell, light - all that need a bit of work, along with the chain and needing new, second-hand tires. "So, when can I pick her up?" I asked. He offered a week, I offered 10 days (since I wouldn't be in town the next Saturday). This will give more time for more attention, I hoped. He grabbed a pad of receipts. "Can I have your number?.. and name." I gave it to him and then asked him, "And, what's your name?" Eddie. "And, can I have your number?" I was just poking a bit of fun. He gave me his business card, "I've prepared for that question." He smirked.

I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.

And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.

And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.

I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.

The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.

And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.

But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.

I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.

I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.

And now. Here I am.

Finally. The stories of this moment told.

I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.

Friday, July 18, 2008

The beginning, a very good place to start

I'm not sure where to write or how to do it.

It's been so long.

I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.

I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?

What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.

I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.

I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.

I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.

I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.

But I also hate these things.

So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.

The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.

The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).

The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).

And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.

Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could

[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]

freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.

Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.

Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.

I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.

So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.

After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.

Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.

And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.

And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.

So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.

Yes. That's it.

For now.


Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

I can feel it

The next burst of writing, the next series of stories, all I have kept and all I have felt. The faces, the frustrations, the release with grand sighs of eyes closed and mouth smiling wide open, the rollercoaster, the fear, the giganticness of it all, the short person I feel inside, the capacity to fill the room. These thoughts and feelings are coming back again. They were just happening and now they must be told. The motor has gone spinning in the cotton picker and now slows, slows, slows to a monotonous, mesmerizing, hypnotic, relaxed pace. It is now. Now that I will catch the fluff and thorns and put them here. A smooth factory line with my microscope looking at each branding, each strain, each formation, each exactness and every unique diversion. It is coming. It is coming.

There are ghosts around me. I can feel them and see them through the lids of my eyes and the corners of my sight. This part of the city has hangings, beheadings, witchcraft. The merchants going to market within the city walls would come upon the city, note that the doors were closed and would wait until they saw the head thrown over the wall to know it was okay to enter now. I live in one of the first buildings of those days. I try not to hear them or see them. I think only good thoughts and wish only good things and at night I drug myself.


I didn't tell the Butcher, my current French lover, that it had been a while since my last test. I don't remember when it was or if I lied to someone to say I had. But he was going today and I thought it had been long enough. There was nothing to fear but the impossiblity that I was Bionic Woman and had been kicking ass this long. Alas, the quick test came back at the interesting gay HIV testing place and I was negative. I wanted to be more happy but I also wanted to act like I got this test every year just as a precaution. Regardless, it's good to do and I want to do it more often.

There is more.. it's coming.. this weekend.. heat, head under the shower on cold, wine, chocolate and cheese and fruits. I will tell my stories.