Doldrums

“The automatic gauze of your memories”

by: Evita

“I’ve made you get the pass list for a reason,” I tell him. “The balls in your court. It’s up to you how you play it.” The whole time I’m thinking how the fuck I got myself into this mess…again. Didn’t I learn never to take anyone under my wing?

Of course, I’m half telling the truth. My main reason for having him get the pass list is sheer laziness. I couldn’t care less if he ever gets the nerve to speak to S. Still, I think he has some redeeming qualities. Until…

Faggot

“I used to beat up guys like him in high school,” he tells me. I gauge whether he’s telling me what I want to hear, as if every “straight” guy hates his homosexual counterpart. Unfortunately for him, I’m far from a straight guy. So far that there is no label for me…except the one thrust upon me.

He’s speaking about R, one of the bartenders. A few days ago, he stood around, speaking with R when things turn to the topic romance – I’m not sure, I wasn’t there. He asked, “So what are you into, man?” to which R replies, “You just answered yourself.” What follows – and this is only speculation – is the graphic details of R’s homosexuality.

Now, it’s no big secret that R’s gay. For some odd reason, my unfortunate sidekick didn’t know. “What did you want? A neon sign?” I ask him when he confides in me. “R’s as gay as they come.”

“I thought I had a new friend,” he tells me.

“Why can’t you be friends with him?”

“What if girls think the wrong thing?”

“You’re gonna be friends with him, not make out with him.”

M, who’d been a silent participant in my misery, speaks up, “I had a couple of gay friends. There’s nothing wrong.”

“I had a couple myself,” I say. “They all went away. I don’t blame them. If I were gay, I’d leave this place, too.”

Later, he asks, “I wonder if [R’s] an embarrassment to his family?”

“Why?”

“Because they had a boy.”

“Well, they still have a boy.” After a beat, “You really have to lose this backward ideology, my friend. Girls love gay guys. And those who don’t, well, I don’t know how to help you talk to them because they’re vapid bitches and I don’t deal with vapid bitches.”

“I have a cousin who likes both things,” he says – I suppose to his defense. “And you know what I mean by both things.”

“Yes,” I sigh. “I do.”

Sexuality

I don’t partake in it. Hetero, Homo, Bi and Pansexuals all disturb me to no limit. The latter blurring the line between genders – “Genders are for fags,” as one Tumblr-ite said it. But what’s in a label? Nothing but shit, really. Sexual orientations are for suckers, I say.

Reminiscent of something else

We’re not going through this tunnel together without coming stronger on the other side. We can fight or we can take flight. The adrenaline will kick in. The pain of our former selves will fade. Now, take my hand and jump.

Even after all this

“I don’t believe in sexuality,” I tell him and I let him take that to mean whatever he wants. I don’t tell him the years of ridicule. The bullying. The name calling. The self-hatred of being different from the majority. I want to punch him. I want to smack this guy down and give up on everything. There is no hope for a man stuck in his boyish ways.

I want to add, “I think being an embarrassment to yourself by hiding who you are is much worse than being an embarrassment to your family.” I want to tell him there’s nothing wrong about being gay. I want to reeducate him. It’s just not worth my time.

Sidewalk

There is a statement that goes here. It’s meant for you to tread upon. For you to find your way into my heart. Into my past.

Uniquely perfect

Why do we love each other so much? Because we complete each other.

Writing & Writers

Time to Pretend

Take only what you need

In the quiet of the morning, the ticking clock will resonate through the halls. The parts of him that were human have shrugged off his shoulders. They were quilted into a coat, too loose for his lack of. The sun rises over the roof tops. The birds begin to chirp. The wind picks up. The first car of the day makes it way pass the house, a house boarded up. Secluded.

Hell Was Just a Lone Pit in the Desert

Sonora, dressed in red, spins on the dance floor. Her suitor, dressed in black, spins and spins her, causing her dismay. Her torture. She collapses. He vanishes.

Thirteen years later, he returns. Unaged. Quite aware of his misdeeds.

Gospel

Smoke three more cigarettes before going back in. If doesn’t come, she tells herself, I’m leaving him for something better. Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the city, a dead girl comes back.

And the Floor Creaks with every Step

He watches them, their daily routines. The world is such an ugly place, he thinks. Maybe it’s time to bring something beautiful into it.

Doldrums

If We Go Down This Route, You Won’t Like What You’ll Learn

Pieces

Susan Love

It’s an unholy mess, this affair with love. Those who never felt it never will understand the painstakingly emotions filling up our voided areas. Those who only believe they’ve felt it are fools to the world around it. Insert quoted material here:

I knew true love and I knew passion and the difference between the two.

Susan Love, the epitome of obsession personified, was a moniker for the silver soul. Her head was a sea of curls. Her eyes radiant pools. She drew me in and chewed me up and spat me out. She used my passions against me, manipulated me. She played a role, the antagonist of every girl unfortunate enough to love me. The epicenter of my ideal. She wasn’t the first.

Personification of Trouble

We all have our weaknesses. No matter how different we set out to prove. No matter how non-human we want to come across. It’s the soul/mind that gets us in the end. We call it the heart, the organ of love. It splits us in two, a searing pain both welcomed and uninvited.

Hair ablaze; a shoulder-length sea of fire. Freckles. Emotional vampire. She craved attention. She wanted a lap dog.

Weakness to me is red hair. I am twelve when I learn this.

Other Men Talk

I am asked, countless times, “Did you see that girl?” I don’t have time to notice women. I only notice them when I’m with other men because I know which ones will bring up the question. I’ve adapted. Learned how to mimic their oohs and ahhs, their ability to eye-fuck someone. Nothing I say holds truth. Not when it comes to this. I’m too tired to pretend anymore.

“Did you see that black girl outside?”

“No.”

“She’s fine. She’s beautiful. I wanted to talk to her, but I don’t know. I think I like her.”

“I’m beginning to think you like every girl you see, Martin.”

Rules of Attraction

It’s not that I don’t find others sexually attractive. I’m not asexual – not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that I’m selective.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

They don’t want a twenty-four-hour hump sesh, they don’t want to be married to you for a hundred years. They just want to hold your hand.

I feel fine. Why can’t you?

Doldrums

Current Events Like a Daytime Soap

Bailey Jay: The Line Trap Years

It’s come to my attention that a lot of my “readers” are finding my blog because of this person, the almighty Bailey Jay, mostly because I mentioned her and Izzy Hilton in a blog post I made a long while back.

And not only are you all finding my blog because you’re Googling her name, but you’re Googling her name with the added term, nude. Naked. Porn. So if you landed here, chances are you’re looking for some shemale smut and I gotta tell you buddy, you’re not gonna find it here. You’ll just find her innocent photos here, so go look elsewhere for your tranny fetish fixation. We’re talking poetry here.

The Main Point

After all that we’ve been through together, Life and I are finally divorcing. It was inevitable. Life wanted one thing and I just can’t seem to give that away. So I will not surrender to Life’s needs. I will, however, enjoy this pack of Hostess Donettes – the powdered kind – and be on my merry way.

Speaking of Merry

It seems that the tides of change have, well, changed. So while I devour this entire pack of Donettes – and you know I will because I am, for lack of a better term, a fat ass (though I have no ass – we’re talking Hank Hill proportions here) – I’m contemplating my so-called future (as in, it’s always coming but never really gets here because the future becomes the present when it does…nevermind).

I’ve been – and this is no big secret to anyone it concerns – ring hunting for a couple of weeks now – months, if you really want the truth. It’s officially official. I’m talking seal and stamp here – it’s that official.

Many people have attempted to deter me – only, they didn’t know they were doing so – and all have failed. Thing is, I’m happy either way. I can do the family thing without the ritual thing. I don’t need to prove my love by making a big charade of it, because I haven’t anyone to prove it to – and trust me, if Jyg don’t know by now then I don’t know what will…other than a wedding, that is (this was a joke, by the way, and you should be laughing. So laugh, damnit). Besides, marriages are so archaic.

So what now?

Now we just wait and see. I get paid tomorrow (hopefully) and with that check in my bank, I’ll have enough to buy the ring I bookmarked, kept open in a tab and pretty much decided upon. I’ve also found a ring for myself – a wedding band, thought I think it will be just fine as the male equivalent to Jyg’s ring.

Oh well, let’s see what’s in store for this book hunter.

Writing & Writers

Firing Squad

Shit

We can watch the world devoured in its pain

The Abattoir

Justice knows no bounds. When a woman slaughters her offspring and walks free, Justice always prevails. In this world and never the next.

Humans, pitiful humans. Lambs to the slaughter. Veil beings. Disgusting brutes. Hate filled and emotional. The world cries out for mercy, but no one answers. Prayers in the dark go unanswered. And what do they do? They continue to maim and kill. Rape and steal. If this is what evolution had intended from the start, then maybe Darwin was wrong.

Smell that? Burning flesh and ozone perfume the scene. It was an accident,  he’ll say. But no. Justice sweeps in – blade in hand – and severs his. If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it. For it is better to lose a single part of your body than to let the flames of hell devour you whole.

A group of four find themselves trapped beneath the ground. A cellar or a dungeon, they cannot tell the difference. Each one of them transported there without knowledge. Fear clings to them, cellophane suffocating them. The musk and thick scent of mold flows through them, sucking out the breath of their bodies. We are here to observe them. To see their decisions and their lives and their histories displayed before them. Burning and crying out, wishing for death to overtake them. In hell, the dead are not aware of the situation.

The Sinner

The sinner is a misguided hero. In his heart, he feels noble. His deeds are done selflessly. He is hated for this. He is bounded and castrated. He is sent to the firing squad and giving his last rites and meals. He prays for salvation, but Justice does not hear. As the guns are locked and loaded, aimed and fired, he feels the weight of the world released from his shoulders. He exhales. In death, his peace is found.

Several years later, when his ideals are better understood, he is relabeled a saint.

Doldrums

The F-Word

by Joe Carvalho

After all, things could always get worse. People can mistake me for a friend.

It’s a dreaded term, especially when it’s bestowed upon me so abruptly. I dont’ know where it came from, but it landed late in the afternoon Friday – haunting me ever since. “Hello, friend.” I’m probably – I know – I’m over thinking this; he probably didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a term like “bro” or “ese.” Even “homie” would’ve been more welcomed, but friend?! I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken me for somebody else. Somebody who gives a damn. Somebody more like yourself. (Wait. Did I just paraphrase Jewel?)

And the awkwardness continues – “You gotta give me some hits, man.”

“Hits?” I’m sorry, am I smoking something that I’m not aware of?

“Yeah. Like a clue.”

“Oh! Hints. About what?”

“How to conquer a woman.”

Yeah, first off, never use the word conquer when referring to a woman. Wait. I actually said that part. Then, “Unless she’s into that sort of stuff. Then you’re on your own on that.” Only, not really. “Besides, what makes you think I know how to “conquer” a woman?”

“You have more experience.”

“How so?”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be with someone. You’d be alone.”

That is a common misconception. People – like children – are drawn to me. It seems the more you hate something – i.e. dogs – the more that something will be humping your leg. Or, in this case, the more you want to withdraw from someone hounding you for advice on women, the more that someone resembles a piece of chewing gum – humorously enough, he keeps offering me gum.

Later on, the awkwardness gets deeper. “So do you like to go to parties.”

“No. Large groups of people freak me out.”

“Not even for birthdays?”

“Nope.”

“Christmas?”

“Nope.”

“No parties?”

“Nope.”

Now this is a bold-faced lie as I do attend JoDi’s Halloween parties and have done so for a few years now, but I’m not about to admit this in front of someone who is clearly attempting to hang out with me after work.

And I know I should feel bad about this whole situation, but the moment he started opening up to me, the moment we couldn’t be friends. It’s as simple as that. My friends can tell me things, it’s all cool. But it’s something that takes time. I’m not the sort of person who befriends someone who spills his life story within the first five minutes. It’s insane. It’s unheard of.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say about this. I’ll talk about girls tomorrow.