~ a half imagined nightmare ~
We sat on the floor of his bedroom, down in the basement, as cluttered and full as ever. Two bare bulbs hung from the uncovered wood floor beams. His television displayed an old black and white movie, something scary. His bed was tousled. His clothes were everywhere. Why did I date a man who lived in his friends' basement?
We sat on a small rug in front of his bed. It was like the kind you'd sit outside a door to clean your shoes on before entering your home. No comfort. Barely kept the cold of the cement floor from creeping up into my skin. Why did he want to sit on the floor?
Control. He was in control.
I sat, cross-legged. His legs surrounding me. His arms around me. Trapped. He was in control.
His hand was at my throat. His voice was in my ear.
"Hard or soft?"
"Hard," I said, just despite him.
He started to squeeze. I couldn't breathe.
Would he kill me now? Would this be it? This man who told me I made him better. This man who tried to tell me he loved me. This man who I once loved. Who was this man?
His free hand brought out a blade. Showed it to me.
I wasn't dead yet. Even with his grip around my throat, even with air being almost gone, I wasn't dead yet.
This was not the same man. This was not the man I dated, the man I loved. This was not the man with the sly smile, the huge hugs, and an arm in which my head cradled at night.
This was a monster. With crazy panicked eyes full of menace for me. With hot putrid breath that filled my nostrils. And with a stench of sweat that slathered on my skin as he held me.
His knife hovered, too close to my eye.
He scared me. He horrified me. But I would not relent, would not let him have the pleasure of my fear even as inside I trembled with terror.
"Hard or soft? Hard or soft?" He played with the knife in front of my eye, swaying it with his words.
"Hard" to the left. "Or soft" to the right.
"Hard," I said, despite him, rebellious, unrelenting even to the end.
And then everything went black.
I wanted to do it myself. Looking around, it was obvious that most attending this class came with their partner. This was not surprising; the ultimate goal inherently could be a very bonding activity between two people.
But I came for me, to explore something I had recently found as fascinating, alluring, something I wanted.
When it came time, I sat down with the kit provided. I explained to the instructor my intention. They were very encouraging, sitting in front of me just in case I needed any help.
I'd waited til most of the couples were done, knowing I might need that one-on-one time with the instructor. The couples at least had each other to lean on. I was flying solo.
My nerves started growing as soon as people stepped up to start. When I broke out all the pieces of the kit, sitting them on the table beside me, my heart fluttered. I made a decided effort to slow my breathing, to remain calm. This was not an activity I wanted to fuck up.
I wrapped the tourniquet around my arm and felt at the cleft for a vein. Just as I was instructed, I found the spongy spot. There it was. I chose my right arm because every time I've had my blood drawn (every time) it has been from my right arm. My left arm's veins are not pleasing.
I cleaned the area. I picked up the needle with my left hand. I took a deep breath.
Slowly, I inserted the needle into my skin, working millimeters at a time. There was no pain. When almost all of it was inside me, and yet I still had not drawn blood, my instructor suggested a different angle. Still no good. Then they asked if they could try. One small move and I saw it; the line of blood appeared in the plastic tubing.
I slowly pulled the syringe, extracting my own blood. As I saw my life force exit from my body, my other instructor came over, caressed my hair, and sweetly said, "Pretty girl." When the syringe was nearly full, my instructor removed the needle and I immediately placed gauze over my skin.
I didn't want anti-coagulant, so I capped the syringe with the blunt tip needle and made my way over to the second station.
There were two options; I chose the simpler holder. I pushed the plunger, filling the pendant with my blood. With the assistant's help, I capped the top, melted the plastic, and added the metal fastener. In my hand was my blood pendant.
But, in the other, was the syringe with the remainder of my extracted blood. I'd seen as others discarded their extra blood or drank it quickly back into themselves, but that didn't feel right to me. It needed to be more sacred, more special.
I got down on my knees, tilted my head back, and opened my mouth. As I pushed on the plunger, the first drop dripped into my mouth, landing on my tongue.
The taste was familiar, yet amazing. The depth of the mixture, the nuance of the flavor, the thickness of my body coming back into me.
As drop by drop I drank my blood, my thoughts were of my year and my goals: Bravery, Endurance, Forgiveness. A refrain of those words cycled through my mind as I remembered my adventures, the people I'd met (including my instructors in that room), the memories I'd made, the life I had lived from January up until that moment.
When the last drop fell, I felt full of self love.
I stood. I discarded my expired syringe.
I held my pendant in my hand, turning it over and over. In the small vial I had captured myself in a moment, myself from this year, a piece of me.
It hangs now on my wall above my bed. So many memories, so much of my life captured in one small little pendant.
Numbers
As some of you may have noticed, my last few blogs have referenced the number for which they are quasi-titled. I say quasi because the numbers were just place holders.
With NaNoWriMo being quite difficult, I was not able to both write fifty-thousand words and still produce thirty blogs by the end of the month. However, a friend made a suggestion that I used to assuage my guilt. I published blogs twenty-six through thirty as blank place holders for when I could come back and update them with actual stories.
(Side note: May I just say I was quite surprised when people actually looked at the blank posts. I didn't realize people visited my blog on their own instead of through the links I post on Fet & Twitter and my link love from elust. I guess some folks really like what I write. Thank you.)
With this being the last of my place holder replacements, I thought I'd take the time to ponder some numbers.
It being December, the end of the year fast approaching, all of my adventures and the life I've lived for the past eleven months have been invading my mind.
1- the number of new countries I visited.
My London trip was my first adventure requiring a passport. I was nervous, talking to the woman at customs, realizing almost at the end of our conversation that she was figuring out if I planned on staying illegally. Very weird moment there.
Walking through the wet and cool streets of London, I kind of wanted to skip almost all the time. I was in another country. I had made the trip all alone (until the arrival gate). I'd done it, finally.
I have but one stamp in my passport. I hope to acquire more next year.
2- the number of times I set foot in San Francisco
Before this year, I'd never been to the west coast. Technically I still have not swam at a beach or dipped my toes in the Pacific, but I've had two awesome experiences all the same.
Excellent food, warm people, and two fun events made my time on the left coast more than memorable.
As my plans for next year are shaping up, I will probably be back twice again.
3(A)- the number of Moleskins I carry in my back pocket
I'd heard of this specific brand of notebook before, but did not see a need, at the time, of purchasing one. And then I did need one.
And after I bought one I needed another, which happened to come in a pack of three. So now I carry three around wherever I go.
If I'm not wearing pants, they'll be in my back pack or my Hello Kitty bag. One is my Worry Book (self explanatory). Another is where I take notes or jot down ideas for the current novel I'm working on (a great tool all last month).
The third is the first one I bought. It's thicker than the other two and contains random thoughts, notes on whatever, jots of information, ideas for blogs, and, most importantly, venting that desperately needs to come out (but should not be directed towards anyone). My third book is my life saver, my comfort, pages only meant for me.
3(B)- the number of books I'm currently working on.
I have the rough draft of two novels written. The first, Sticky, was one that had sat on my flash drive for almost a year before I finally wrote the last chapter in recent months. The second is my creation for NaNoWriMo. The third is still in its beginning stages, though I have high hopes for its future.
Between my blog and my stories, I really do write more than I give myself credit for.
50,003- the number of words I wrote for NaNoWriMo
November was a difficult month for me. I challenged myself to write more than I ever had before, while still working and traveling.
November gave me a horrible thing: hope. Hope that I could do this for a living. Hope that I could be a working writer. Hope that if I put in the work I will be rewarded for it.
Now I'm just hoping that idea germinating in my mind doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.
6- the number of events I attended for the first time this year (starred below)
12- the total number of events I attended this year:
Dark Odyssey: Winter Fire
International Ms. Leather*
Frolicon*
Shibaricon*
Dark Odyssey: Fusion
The Floating World*
FetFest
MN GRUE*
Dark Odyssey: Summer Camp
Rope Camp
London GRUE
Dark Odyssey: Surrender*
And now the question is: What new adventures will I have next year?
The Knight (part two)
~ a fairy tale ~
"What was up with you tonight? You don't normally get this bad."
"I was just trying to have some fun."
I could still hear how wrong my words sounded. I hoped Manny wouldn't think less of me from my display this evening.
His block really was close. In just a few minutes we were walking up two flights of stairs before he opened the door to his apartment.
It was simple, cleaner than I expected from a guy who lived alone. Old high school photos, family portraits, and group shots of friends I didn't know were scattered like starbursts on every wall. A tall bookcase was overrun with books. His flatscreen was big, just like him.
"Come on."
Manny led me into his bedroom, a huge king sized bed, four postered, metal; strong enough to handle a guy like him.
"You're gonna take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
"No. No. You shouldn't... I couldn't... Please. It's huge. And you're nice. We can share."
I gave up on trying to sound sober. I dropped my bag on the floor and unzipped my jacket, flinging it to the ground as well.
"You gotta a t-shirt I can borrow."
Manny left for a moment and came back. It was an old jersey with Central High and the number twenty-nine written in faded gold on the front.
"You went to Central? So did I."
"Yeah, I know."
I stripped my clothes off. Manny turned around, not watching. My boots proved to be harder than I remembered.
"Manny, can you help me? It's okay; I'm decent."
And I was, mostly. I'd gotten my clothes off and was wearing his jersey, which was so big it fit like a dress on me. But I hadn't worn any underwear. I knew he might see more than he bargained for, but I needed help and was in no way modest at the moment.
"It's my boots. Could you help me get them off?"
Manny knelt in front of me as I sat on his bed. For some reason he reminded me of a knight from a fairy tale. He was caring, gentle as he unzipped the side of boot and firmly pulled the leather off. He set them by my other clothes, a pile of my things on the floor.
"Thank you, Manny. Manny, could you help me... take my fishnets off."
"I like you, chica, and on another night I gladly would, but you've had too many."
He stood and strode off. I kept my fishnets on and slipped under the covers on his bed.
My eyes were closed before I realized it.
When I woke up, sunlight was streaming into the room. Somehow I'd migrated over towards Manny's side of the bed. He'd been sweet again. My head rested on his chest, his arms around me. I didn't remember ever moving during the night.
As I looked on him, his massive chest undulating as he slept, I wondered how he knew me so well, and why I'd never seen him as he was now before, a kind caring huge hunk of a man. My very own white knight saving me from the dark night.
The Knight
~ a fairy tale ~
"Why are you wearing a Santa Hat?"
"Because I'm a ho ho ho."
I was drunk. Stupid drunk. I believe the term is wasted.
I'd gone to the bar that night in search of something. I didn't know what. I had a few drinks, a few beers, and no food. And then this new guy, some twenty-eight year old with perfect teeth and slicked back hair asked me that question. And I answered too loudly.
Everyone looked over at me. My friends. Faces I didn't recognize. Everyone looked at me with the same expression plastered across their faces. It was enough to sober me up.
I grabbed my bag and left, stumbling down the stairs and out the door.
The air was bitter cold, but thankfully there was only the slightest of winds. I cut through the residential neighborhood towards where I parked my car. At least it's where I thought I parked my car. Now, six drinks later, my keyless entry fob was not helping.
"Stupid. Stupid. They're all stupid."
Even though I was wasted, I could still tell I was slurring my words.
My skirt was short. My boots had heels. I wore fishnets, which I guess was better than nothing. At least my coat was somewhat warm, but it just barely kept me from shivering. As I looked down the lines of cars on either side of the road, I still couldn't find my hybrid.
In the midst of my search, the only noises I heard were the click of my footfalls and the rattle of my keys. I'd finally found a parking spot many blocks away from Happy Hour, in a quiet neighborhood with front lawns and no driveways. Most everyone who came to Happy Hour used public transportation. I had the unlucky distinction of not living in the city.
And then I heard it, the honk of my horn. I pressed the button on my fob again and ran towards the noise. A third time and I could make out the lights flashing from around the block.
I dashed around the corner and spotted an odd sight: Manny sitting on the hood of my car, a stern look on his face.
"Give me your keys."
Manny, the bartender who served us every Happy Hour, who knew our names and our favorite drinks according to our moods.
"I can drive."
"Yes, you can. In the morning."
Manny was big. He'd played football in high school and college, but was sidelined his Sophomore year with a knee injury. No one messed with Manny.
"I have..."
"Fridays you work from home. You're staying with me tonight. Give me your keys."
Manny, who always treated us great. Manny, who listened to and remembered everyones stories. Manny, who walked the girls to their cars at night when they needed or wanted it. Manny, our fierce teddy bear and friend.
"What about the..."
"Travis is covering the rest of the shift. Come on, I live a few blocks from here."
Even sitting on my car, he was taller than me and easily twice my size. I couldn't think of a way to get out of this, and I was feeling a bit woozy anyway, so I gave in.
I tossed him my keys and followed as he started walking.
Dear Z
~ an imagined moment ~
Dear Z,
It's been nine months since I last saw you. Ten months since we broke up. Twelve minutes since I last thought about you. Twenty-seven days since I last said your name.
And though I keep telling myself I'm done. Though I keep believing that this time will be the last time I think about you, I know I'm full of shit.
I'm glad I'm not with you anymore. You were an asshole. An arrogant asshole. An arrogant, always late, all-are-less-important-than-me asshole.
How we ever started, how I ever fell for you, and how I ever lasted as long as I did still remains a mystery to me.
The only thing I can think of that kept me for so long was the sex. I wanted a lot. You put out a lot. It that respect, we matched. In all others, well, hey you're reading this letter so you know how that went.
I had a dream about you last night. Well, actually, it wasn't about you per say. You were featured, though.
I dreamt I was talking to you, at least I thought I was talking to you. You stood behind me, put your arms on my shoulders, and crossed our wrists in front of me. It was a familiar touch, a sweet playful gesture. I should have known it was a dream from that alone.
You whispered in my ear as we talked. I smiled and squeaked a little when your words tickled my ear.
But when I turned around, I saw that it wasn't you. It was Hannah, my friend who's working in Brazil trying to help poor runaways find jobs and not end up as addicts or drug whores or worse.
I miss Hannah. Her smile. Her ridiculous laugh that sounds, at times, like a fog horn.
I love my Hannah. I miss my Hannah.
And yet, when my dream started, those arms and that voice were yours. It doesn't take expert to realize my brain was harping on the people I cared for, the people I missed.
But you are no Hannah.
I miss your penis, though. And your eyes when you fucked me. Your intensity. Your concentration. And the smell of your sweat on my body.
But you. No, I don't miss you.
Issa
~ an imagined memory ~
Whenever I daydream, and I do a lot, I think back on my last summer with my grandparents. I was thirteen, about to start high school, ready for my life to begin.
Summer days at their home was idealic. Lemonade always cool and waiting on the table on the back porch. The swing ready for lazing and chatting, but especially hearing Granpa's old war tales.
And the river, the beautiful river just steps away from the back of their home. I spent so many days just lying down in a small boat, staring up at the beautiful blue sky, wondering what my life would be like in high school.
Would I finally be cool? Would I finally get a boyfriend? Could I become a cheerleader? What about student council? Or sports?
The possibilities were endless then, the idea of what I might be not yet set.
There is one particular day, though, that I dwell on when work is unsufferable or my day just will not give me relief.
It was August the twenty-sixth, the last day of my vacation and my times with Grandma and Grandpa.
It was late afternoon. I was in a boat again, staring up at the sky, thinking on everything that could be, daydreaming about how cool I would become in just a few short weeks, when somehow I fell asleep.
"Hello?"
I finally woke, opening eyes, and seeing the most beautiful face I'd ever laid eyes on staring down at me.
Her hair was dark, short, and uneven, like she'd chopped it off because it was in the way. Her eyes were jade green. Her faced had a patchwork of freckles across her forehead, cheeks, and nose.
She wore jean shorts that were obviously cut from pants, an old concert t-shirt that was at least two sizes too big, and chucks almost near their end. On both her wrists was a maze of bracelets stacked on top of each other. Her lips shimmered from just a bit of lip gloss. And she wore just a hint of green eye shadow, the more to pop the natural color near them.
I thought she was perfect.
I sat up with a start. Looking around, I realized my boat had landed at another home pier. But I wasn't sure what part of the river I'd ended up at, whether I was near my grandparents' home or had ventured miles away. The girl who sat cross-legged on her pier was now eye level with me, closer than before.
"Um, hi."
I felt foolish, embarrassed in front of this beautiful rough and tumble girl.
"I... Um.... Where am I?"
She smiled at me, a grin that gave me pause both in its allure and in its calculations.
"That will cost you."
I swallowed hard, realizing I had no money to offer her, and wondering what awful thing she'd make me do instead. I'd seen the local boys dare the young kids to do stupid things. Beating on bees' or wasps' nests. Eating live worms, bugs, or even mud. I braced myself for what she'd ask of me.
"Ah... what do you want me to do?"
At once her lips were on mine. She kissed me, soft and gentle. She was better than the boys back home. She didn't try to bite my lips or stick her tongue down my throat. She was slow, exploring how I liked to kiss, and never pushing me too hard or fast as our lips danced. I loved the berry taste of her lip gloss.
I parted my mouth, an invitation for her tongue, and she accepted. Her massage was sweet; I could also taste the recent candy in her mouth. I loved kissing her, for a moment forgetting anything more than her lips.
"Issa!"
She jumped back and stood right up. I heard a door slam open and closed. It took me a few breaths to open my eyes again.
"Yes Daddy! Over here. We have a vistor. She fell asleep in her boat and got lost. I think she lives up the river."
Issa's Daddy was tall and thick, arms the size of cannons and a chest that looked like it was made of muscle. He stomped more than walked down to their pier.
When he arrived at my boat, he looked down on me not unlike his daughter, and broke out into a boisterous laugh within moments of seeing a thirteen year old girl in a sundress sitting in a little paddle boat with nothing else.
"You're gonna need a ride home, hun. It's getting late. Probably past your supper time."
It was 7pm. By now I was sure my grandparents were worried sick and I'd be in big trouble.
Issa's Dad showed me inside, had me call my grandparents, and drove me home. I'd floated about two miles down the river.
During the entire drive, Issa and I sat in the back of her Daddy's pickup holding hands.
When he drove off, she stayed in the back, watching me watch her ride away, dust kicking up on the country road. It felt like she was slipping back into a dream I had had, a dream that had conjured her, fading back into my hopes and wishes for my future life.
I never saw Issa again.
