What is Love.

•April 18, 2009 • 7 Comments

I am not much different from you. I, like you, say things like: All I want is love. Love is the most prized virtue in this world.

But it has come to my attention that I may be asking for something that doesn’t even exist. Really, I spend so many nights talking about it, but: Do I have any real, concrete idea as to what I am really saying, for those that are trying to hear me? Up on my soapbox, do I have any real idea what love is?

In all my nighttime, seemingly productive dialogues, it is demarcation alone which is probably the solvent by which we c/should sink all of our wonderment into, to retain a clear, undiluted answer. To begin a real dialogue about love’s presence in our lives, we must explore love’s corollaries. Love’s veins: eros, amor, agape, phileo. Especially when the question is this abstract. Especially when the question is: What is love?

I am away from my intoxicated nights of conversation. Now I am standing in front of the mirror and I ask this question once again: What is love?

When I boil it down, in my patchwork world, love is a polysemic word which represents the amalgamation of all the real, or apparent, forms of love: eros, amor, agape, phileo. To clarify in this mirror of words: Under most red lights, when I am talking about love at all, I am referring to romantic love, or amor.

I believe that we all fundamentally understand these faces of love: Eros is erotic love. Agape is unconditional love. Phileo is brotherly love. But it is amor, or romantic love, which baffles all of us and causes these strange language circles of conversation which reach no real, concrete end – either out and in the world, or in our hearts.

Amor, this most mysterious brand of love, is sharp. It is a blade, which cuts. A fire, which burns. A slippery cell that squirms and wriggles and oftentimes feels foreign to our human grasp. More often than not, romantic love is violently difficult to hold onto, once grasped at all. Truly, romantic love is the ultimate gamble. For at every turn, the possibility of falling from one of love’s cliffs is a real, and mostly, probable expectation.

In the end, it may be simply because of this gamble – why I have always been so fascinated with romantic love.

Love is like a ghost. It can haunt you. It often appears in the strangest of places, without explanation – only to recede into the dust of night without notice. Love can strike fear into you. It can scream at you. It can amplify your infirmities. And in all honesty: it does. Afterall, the most prized virtue in the universe should have this kind of roaring power to: strike fear, scream, amplify every vulnerability you own.

But like a ghost, love too is mostly misunderstood. Like a ghost, most of us have seen the apparition. Felt it. Welcomed it into our lives. Been haunted by it.

Still, sitting in this chair, talking over cocktails with those eager lips around me and I begin to emerge at the idea that: I am being uncritical in all of this. I am not even sure that like most ghosts I’ve ever known: I’m not sure if love, romantic love, exists.

Pause. Breathe. Exhale.

In reality, what we call romantic love may be nothing more than ardor: That fiery, fleeting initial burst of fire and disfigurement. In the end, this may be the ultimate goal. Or at least, it always has been for me.

In trying to refocus my needs and desires and patterns within my previous relationships – I have noticed that when this initial fire does recede, my interest wanes. For after this fleeting burst of energy – the real questions come to the fore. Or, if not the questions, the stark, real answers.

It is here, where I believe the other forms of love begin to waddle-in and meld with amor, or romantic love. Especially initially, there is a sense of phileo, or brotherly love. Ultimately, the goal is to reach agape, or unconditional love.

Where my final, profound discontents within my romantic relationships may have found their ultimate doom is the earliest of stages within my relationships, within this face of erotic love: eros. For I believe that, like so many others, we often confuse amor with eros, or erotic love.

In the end, that fleeting fire of ardor may be predicated on a heavy lot of eros as opposed to romantic love. In the beginning, eros is the reality, amor is the goal. In total: Amor is the actualization of all the basic forms of love.

Certainly, like the ghosts of the night, wrapping your hands completely around amor is a tricky one. For most of the time, you cannot see its limbs, its veins. Phileo, eros, agape. In all, the amalgamation of love may not, nay – does not – always exist. To have all parts working and in-line as a unified whole is obviously difficult. To sustain this machine’s motion for any length of time – nearly impossible.

Simply writing about the work of fulfilled romantic love brings me back to my beginning – back to where I always begin in my relationships: to the ardor, the struggle of the explosive beginnings. I am brought back to that place where my love affairs have constantly found their swift demise.

Having, at long last, defined love I am still left wondering: can only unfulfilled love truly be romantic?

We say that we “love” many things: I love the color blue. I love my car. My house. In the same linguistic manner, we say so much is romantic. In the contemporary lexicon something seen as romantic is something which is unrealistic, ideal, impractical. Romance is about the glorification, especially when it comes to love. In the end, I am of the belief that our idea of romance is also about tragedy (see my article, “Romance as Tragedy” in the Denver syntax).

Our idea of romance may be about the fire of love. The blade of love. The ultimate gamble. The quick gamble. The most painful and destructive gamble.

Even agape love is a gamble and full of pain bodies and bloody blades. If even the most asexual form of love is that dangerous then I will propose that even romance itself is quite romantic. Romance may just be the most sharpest of blades, the hottest of fires. For it is about a moment, a forest fire, ablaze in a small forest. Quickly it dies. And, whether short or extended in time, we all know what fires leave behind: devastated endings and destroyed beginnings.

A charcoal forest, once vibrant with life; with love stories living and even composing the whole forest all together – that is romantic. It is, alas, love that is unfulfilled. It is love, with its corollary veins and arms dangling from its own cliffs, striving and seeking its complicated, whole self. And yes, struggle is also quite romantic – for it exemplifies virtues that otherwise aren’t in daily life.

Like anything else, the conception of love is a fluid one. In our grayscale, liquid world so much is once present, then recedes. Eros comes, agape leaves. They exist at the same place for a small moment, when one washes away – only to return moments later.

If this is natural love, romantic love, then it is a truism: love is the building block of our human world. It is where everything, organic and composed – both begins and ends: in a blackened forest after the fire has died. Love is the weeks and months and years of life that begins and grows in that forest. Love is also that fire itself.

And so it is: love exists. However it exists in a grayscale world full of complications and misunderstandings. But, dear reader, more than that, I am left feeling stronger for having struggled with this question at all and my final conclusion breathes: Love is the most prized virtue in the universe.

The Alliteration of Love and Lust

•March 2, 2009 • 9 Comments

For two years now, she has been my erotic ideal.

She, alone, has symbolized the aim of my erotic intent. The intended high-fashion of my pen. The slow grooming of every sophistication around the hearts of love and lust that I have ever won for my self.

She was untouchable. She was not something I was supposed to have, or even kiss. She was merely something I was supposed to want and ache painfully, silently – invisibly for.

But now, we are laying in the still of shattering night, on her bed. My fingers are drawing lines of conviction on her back, up and down her tiny spine. I am kneading her thighs. Her calves.

I am touching her skin. Proof that the disappearing girl has reappeared from the darkest of night. Proof that my heart of eroticism is beating, alive.

Truth is: She was here all along, only mythically beyond my grasp. And now, I am touching her skin.

Every now and then my noise machine goes silent and I can hear her breathing. I stop my trace upon her body only to stand in the wind – to force the memory of anything else back into me, including breath.


“A man’s sexual choice is the sum of his fundamental convictions… The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest… because only the possession of a heroine will give him a sense of achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to gain his value, but to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body.”

– Ayn Rand


I first saw her standing on a stage. Two years ago.

And while I sometimes think I remembered everything about that first night – truth is, I remember very little. Just the monuments:

I remember the heat spiraling from her. The heat that intoxicated me and made me actually question whether or not the stage lights were on, or if she was radiating all that light from her tiny body alone.

I remember her bubble gum voice coming through the speakers. And I remember the terror that climbed over me at the thought of saying a word, any word, to her. But for some reason, I felt compelled. If only on the premise of: If you see something beautiful, act. Now. Beauty is fleeting. And sometimes, a dream at best.

I remember one other vision that I would take with me for so many weeks and months and years after that: she was wearing thigh-high stockings. Cut-off jeans. Over her shoulder was slung a sea foam green guitar, but it could have been any color – for I saw very little apart from her being.

I have never owned a true celebrity crush. But I have crushed on many things that were larger than me. Still, this was the first time I had ever stood in front of something and been so paralyzed by my beating eroticism and heart at the same time. For the last two years I have wondered if this is my celebrity crush – that painful kind of infatuation that cries you to sleep at the end of endlessly long days.

I don’t remember much about her initially, apart from seeing her one more time, performing. Desperately I wanted to say something, but knew no words. After her set, I was standing outside and then, magically, there she came – strolling past. Quickly, I mumbled something complimentary – that their set was good. I enjoyed it. Without ruining even one gait, she merely smiled at me, uttered some form of gratitude and walked into the night.

With continents of experiences between us, I watched her walk down that sidewalk and disappear from my life.

Then, without even a hello and, she was gone. Forever, gone.


Have you ever wanted something so bad, then received it?

I ask you, what do you do next?

If you are me, you are not the picture of Don Juan. And certainly, you are not Casanova the misunderstood savant of everything about the human heart. You are not the picture of everything romantic, that you had wished for your living self.

Instead, you are stumbling over your words, and her body. You are laying next to her for the first time ever wondering if it is the last time, wanting all of her at the same time – but uncertain as to where to even begin. You are greedy because moments are fleeting and this may never happen again…

Instead of ideal, you are wanting to put her perfect lips in-between your teeth and gnaw on them. Not for pleasure anymore. But rather, for sustenance. For food. For life. For every person who has never had this opportunity and for all the failures that are soon to come.


Unknowingly, she has been the breathing representation of that intersection where love meets lust. Beneath these lights she has walked for so long now, earless to my strong sentiments and invisible conversations.

For the last two years now, she has lived only in an impossible, dreamed place: within hundreds of thousands of written words. She has lived in a place where hundreds of thousands of people have read these words, this place where her monument was carved as a picture in words. Here, I promise you, it has endured. And while no particular ode was written for her, nearly every ode I have breathed into these pages, was rifled in her mythic direction. Like a flare in the darkest night, imploring her to blink once.

We are two years later now, and the strangest of things has occurred: I know where her front door is and I know the streets where she has been roaming for this eternity, on foot and by car. These streets, these doors, now have names. Lights of their own. Intersections of their own delight.

This when, for all of this time, just her first name sent a wave of heat through my torso. This when now, this is bigger than a crush – this my life we are talking about.


Her body is holy.

And if her body is a representation of some thing, one academically-touted thing, it is of something holy. For a love, that is holy. For a promise, that is holy. For a hope, that is holy. For a life, that is well-lived with integrity and dignity and the bounding joy of love – the body of everything filled with intoxicating lust. And holiness.

Hers is the kind of body that you trace for her pleasure, but secretly for yourself – to learn its sacred curves and secret language, because of the virtues: of gratitude and grace and pleasure and want and everything bigger than you. If not that, then simply because you are unsure if you will ever even be close to something this perfect. This heartbreaking. Ever again.

To this end, my whole life exclaims that I have laid in her bed!

And when I eventually, clumsily crawl deeper between her hipbones and under her panties – the thought again comes to me: I am about to feel her heat. I am about to feel the wet, physical center of my erotic ideal. Then, I slide further down after the breath leaves my lungs and the memory of anything that ever lived before me…


It has only been a couple of weeks now. Nineteen days, to be exact. Since I saw her name again. Certainly, when I first saw her name again, I leapt and wrote. I had to. You can’t blame me.

However, to my surprise, she greeted me warmly, and then – everything in my world began to spin as our words picked-up in length and frequency and profundity and before I could even count a beat in my heart, we were talking. Really, talking. Finally, I was really talking with somebody. And more than that, we were talking about the profundities of life and love and want and lust and living vibrantly and what that means at all…

And the wild fires of my life began to meld into one glassy exhale. Because she suddenly began to feel familiar. As though we were speaking about the same things, with the same voice, in the same musical cadence. And my eroticism began to find new light, new breath. New ambition. New possibility.

…in love…


Beauty is not Barbie sitting on the shelf next to Ken.

Beauty is about how a girl holds her glass. How she moves across the room. Says what she says, means what she means. How she synthesizes ideas, creates new formulas for perception.

Beauty has never been about something stagnant and learned in a classroom. Instead, beauty is about movement.

Eroticism lives at that intersection where love and lust meet.

Eroticism is the fieriest of flames. The bluest of light. In this intersection where love and lust live, this place that I call eroticism, the beautiful moments have a possibility of life. Under this fluid streetlight, the profundities of existence happen. Some are sexual, some are not.

Eroticism is not about sexuality. Not explicitly. Eroticism is about every titillating thing that happens before a sexual encounter.

You can lust after an idea. An event. A possibility. A girl. A thigh. A moment, on a girl and in the world: in an ideology in a book, on a beach, hovering over a cliff.

Eroticism is about the want you have when you encounter an idea more-holy and bigger than you. Eroticism is this sensation of, “aha!” Eroticism is about the anticipation of want. The anticipation of need. The anticipation of every thing you have ever wanted, or what you could become.

Just the same, you can love everything under the umbrella of life. And really, you should find those things which move your entire soul to the sharp cliffs of this earth.

I say to my self: put yourself in this space. Strive for this fire. This heat. This birthplace of true, complicated passion. Anything less is really unacceptable.

And then, I look up and there she suddenly, miraculously, is


For all of this naked time where she was but a wavy line in my timeline, she has represented the height of my eroticism. And now, she represents that pointed possibility of breathing unimaginable life into this intersection of love and lust, this birthplace of passion. In all, she is the paralyzing flame of my red wine lips, wanting. Needing. Almost having… if the alchemy has been stirred in your favor.

I have spoken it aloud to strangers and friends alike: She is the sexiest girl in this Queen City.

But then, the strangest of sequences begins to unfold: In a correspondence of thousands of words it comes to pass that: she is not only the sexiest girl I have ever seen, she is brilliant. She is the best kind of intellectual: she is unsuspecting in her presentation. And what I begin to see in her is intellectual integrity, the one rounded element that has eluded me in all my intellectual relationships. It is this that I have lusted after for so long, since my childhood bones began to break in shards more apparent to my heart than anything else.

How this began: She writes. I write back. She writes. And I begin to fall, steadily, quickly, unwavering, into a massive military complex that, at first I don’t want to identify as such – but then relent, with ease and call it: love. And then, in only a couple of days – I am sitting before her words and the heat in my body is swirling, pulsing.

And it comes to pass that she is, indeed, more than any other I have known: She is the Michelangelo of my erotic ideal.

She is eroticism.


And so, for the first time ever, we are sitting next to one another. (Certainly, she did not remember me from two years before, mumbling on that sidewalk after her gig).

I am thinking to myself: This is my celebrity crush. This is the one girl that I have ever pointed at and said: I want her (my intiution is not sharp enough to explicate a thesis, because I only feel this). This is the first girl that I have seemingly haphazardly pointed at and said: I want her and nothing else.

Finally, remarkably – she is sitting in front of me. And I know: This is my one chance. This is my moment.

She is smiling at me as I shiver before her. I do not remember what comes from my mouth, except for the fact that every phrase is shaky and I hope with all my frail timbers that something will magically impress her, about me. When she is not looking, I breathe and pull myself together and put my invisible hands together in hope that my prayers will even make sense at all.

Then, she tells me to sit closer.

Again, I try breathing (because really, I am not suave, I am only me).

Then, magically, I am touching her.

Her hands crawl into my lap and I am the painting of gratitude. And alas, obese love. I am the picture that I want of me to be hanging in my legacy’s image: I am every deadly sin wrapped into one. I am, alas, the embodiment of everything bigger than me: I am Beethoven’s symphonies molten lava into Mozart and a perverted Dali moustache grin painted on Rothko’s dying face.

With every small touch on her tiny body, I tingle. Her fingerprints leave small explosions on my leg.

Her hand slides closer to my heat. At first, to test. Then, she leans in and the intersection where love and lust cross in the dead of night expands and soon, a small, nameless universe is born.

And then, as though we want to share a secret, she comes closer and: I know it is going to happen. It has to happen. This is my one chance. This is my moment. If it is to never happen again, it is happening this once…

I don’t so much kiss her as she kisses me. Averting any confusion, we kiss each other back. Again, and again…


Still, days later and I have been shaking, intermittently, from that first encounter. Shivering. I think about this reality, and the large facts that say: You kissed her and she kissed you. And where this could only happen once, my primary reason exhalts and I tingle in delight. For this may only be the beginning.

For where I once knew my eroticism by only one name and one small intersection of love and lust, I am now forever changed. I now know my supreme delight by two names, an alliteration, her names alone – the unspoken singular being: love.

Beyond anything of physical pleasure, it is a new born child and stamped in fact: I am in love with this girl. Mad, deep, life-altering love that begats new symphonies. New plays. New paintings. New paths in the wooded hills of my songs.

For my erotic ideal is even more complicated than I once imagined. And I am still learning, teetering on a brink of possible disaster that I may have never really known. Still, with all possible struggle and beauty alike, I am standing in the wind, head-on – believing that I may have never wanted anything more.

And so again, I ask:

Have you ever wanted something so bad that you could not shake it from your waking life for years? Then, in a burst of unexpected light, it came walking into your life with open arms, possibly even wanting you?

I ask you, what do you do next?


•February 16, 2009 • 3 Comments

I was born to do this: To walk past the vertigo in my life and surface on the other side of the silvery swirls of barely walking.

And in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed, find your clothes and disappear, back into the murky memories of expectation and red wine want.


If you look through the peephole of life’s labyrinth of doors, you will see the darkened, naked room on the other side. In all challenge there is phototropic metaphor, seeking light.

And so it is, here I am again standing at yet another door, knowing that somewhere in the dark room, there you are.

Monster. Lover. Stranger. The eternal disappearance and reemergence of me.

There is part pulling at me, to walk through. So I do.

But you are not there, the room is still a void and there is time before the door shuts behind me, sealing me inside. Time to escape.

Instead, I sit to wait. To contemplate how much I do not want to fuck you. Because I do not know what this means anymore.


When we get to your car, after drinks, I unzip my pants in front of the symphonies of sound coming from your dashboard. You look down, then up. Take me inside your cup of hands. And we both drink it in.

You begin sliding up and down on me, the fattened lips of snow kissing your windshield, sliding past our sense of infinity.

And then, in only a few short moments you will crawl from my bed and walk back out the doors of my life.


The purple purses of our winding walk are slung over our shoulder, but when you arrive, there is nothing in your hands. Nothing behind your back.

You have swum in these darkened seas and expanded them with your light.

My empty cups of hand are open before you. I want to receive this gift. I want to learn about the mysteries and glow with their pride. Blush with my perseverance.


I have done this before. I was born to do this.

To stand before you as I have done with so many others. Those figurative, those sentient and responsive, and also those vacant eyes of the undead.

I have walked into the homes of strangers and stripped myself of all shields of fabric. I have stood at the feet of so many beds and the outstretched arms of lovers. Momentary friends and foes alike. The doors always behind me, always closing their tired eyes as though they have seen this so many times before.

But the sound of the lock clicking shut this time has sworn to be my perfunctory call. My windy push forward.


I do not want to fuck you and I will not.

On the drive to my bed the nerves are calm. This when the ultimate end to our night was to always involve a bed, like so many of my nights before and after this. But I am calm, driving forward toward it all.

In all challenge is a sea of metaphor aching for life.

I open the door, you walk through, and then I follow.

With chivalry’s hands, I slowly begin to unpeel you. And in only a couple of sophisticated moments your clothing is strewn around my bed. Then, we lock: Face to face. Body to body. Life to life.


You have told the world around you about your heat. About your sex and your need for impassioned dominance and submission and the leathery ropes of letting go. As a result you now walk unafraid with vulnerability strangled dead in your wake.

I have told the world around me about my desire. My heat. My passion and my blindness alike. Still, I am perpetually beneath my Golden Gate Bridge, having leapt from it and survived. Swimming, I am, waiting for rescue near the rocks. Wanting only to save myself and curse the rest.


We are not far apart when you take my sex inside your aching mouth. You tell me that it has been forever. A long leap since the last time. You crawl up and over my rocks and moan in delight of the ancient waters dripping from your chin.

And where there was once the internal pressure of diving so deep, I have surfaced to lay naked beneath you. In resuscitation, beneath your breath.

And for a couple of hours we swim around one another in symphonic elegance. I, unafraid of the doors that open but never close before and behind me. The ease of the lighter waters and easier currents take me into your sail and we ride on in a symbiotic intimacy that has been known for ages.

My death is in this rebirth. Of this kind of naked intimacy. Of no expectation, but supreme gain. You are laying on my chest and we are simply talking. Sharing. Listening to music and tracing the lines of our bodies. For a few short hours I am comforted in your hands not shaking, your voice not quivering and the surprise of all this…

I will not forget this and I will not settle for a swim. I will only aim for the currents down those streams of all my life’s doors where I feel serendipity and whim. Only aching for this antithesis: The lifestyle of living for the strong swim.

Challenge me with ribbons and I will walk through these glass doors.

I was born to do this.

Rome is Burning

•February 5, 2009 • 7 Comments

I can only talk about sex in first person because anything else feels uncertain. False. As though it has been forged by bad checks and hockey tongues of inconsequence.

With my sexuality as a mirror for the all the other arms of my being, I have learned much. I have learned where I fall, how I fall and mostly, how to either not get back up, or rise alive and dead at the same time.

One thing I have learned is that I resonate in this particular place where my body and mind and sexuality is a grand floor plan for an unnamable building of disgust. This is what I see with my eyes closed: My skyscraper of debauchery and living as a slum of everything filthy and fearful.

As a writer and a being, I live on the outskirts of my downtown. I live in the ditches and on the riverbanks where the sloths and invisible people do. Each morning I break bread with the homeless and the heartbroken, the beaten-down and those that simply prefer laying down to standing up.

Maybe, just maybe, I am the first person of my own disgust. Maybe I live in the broken-down places in the city I erected. Maybe I live in and out of the ditches I have dug, dirty with my naked limbs. Alone and unasked from the unsympathetic universe.

Very few have crawled more than a few paces with me. Very few people have even stood to rise next to me after a night of ashes.

Perpetually I am: On my haunches and staring up at the bleary oblivion above.


If you want to talk about perversion, true perversion, join this unformulated and clandestine group and be beaten to death by your own life. Otherwise, pay nothing to stand in your own closet unadorned.

Stand to rise. Alive and dead in the same breath.

Whatever you do: act. Stop your mouth long enough to rise, alive.

Writhe, alive.


I have one such face that is this kind of action that I crave. Her name is bigger than a city. Hers, is the name of an entire civilization that crashed into the ash of history.

She, this island of civilization, is my perfect perversion.

She is every fetish that I enjoy.

She is disappointment rolled into its antithesis. She is the opposite of so many of my discontents: She says very little, but acts loudly. Robustly. Quietly, violent.

She is smooth skin. A swimmer’s curves. Watery, crying nipples and a Picasso ass.


We are laying in my bed in the dusty sunlight of an early morning. We are strung-out on lifetimes of sadness and throats strangled. There is a shower and water nearby, but instead of that, we are looking at porn.

The sheets are pulled up our torsos, making little mountains of hands on our own skin. We pull and prod at our unsleeping sex at the impetus of the filth and images before us. Inside us.

I crawl down to her bottom and her toes and I lace my naked legs in hers. I watch her eyes bounce and ache in delight of the filthy naked bodies on the screen before her.

I can feel her hand twitch and dance on her sex while I stroke mine. Ass to ass. Thighs to thighs.

The diseased beauty in her eyes makes me throb with supreme delight and I drool in loss of myself.


I know nothing about her. I barely know where she is from, or what she does for work. Still, we’ve known each other for some time now.

Apart from her apple bottom, I am heartfelt lustful for her on account of the fact that, simply, she tells me very little but acts out loud.

The first night I met her, she said little. She sat in the middle of a heated argument and said small, silent things. Then,

I was leaving her at her car when I asked her to ride into the night with me. Her eyes flickered. I asked her if she had preferences. Standing closely, she said very little, only: I like to be told what to do.


We broke bread together once and she asked me if I were addicted to sex. I nodded and somehow formulated the idea that I go into sexual comas. Spontaneously I was the teacher and the student, speaking to myself, and her:

While I spoke, she did not watch my eyes. I said that I go into these comas from time to time. I said that I black out. Lose my vision. Think only the filthiest of thoughts. Lose my self. Swim only in the darkest of my sexual seas.

I said, out loud, that I will do things in these comas that I never would, otherwise.

She did not respond to this fresh, fruitful thought. This precendence that would carry me for days afterward, into new levels of understanding.


She does not accept that place where words come from me, my mouth, to be so close to her sex. More than that, as we are flicking our sex in front of one another – I think that she will become violent if I come too close.

When my cock slides in her mouth it does so, to the hilt.

She gags. And gags.

And more than feeling perfect, I can only picture teary eyes.

And violence.


I’ve grown tired of the vertiginous words that swim all around me. Words of promise and provocation. Words without legs.

But there are these small, fleeting moments:

We are naked in my bed. We are not talking about anything. There are no empty promises. Just boundaries of filth and lifetimes behind.

She is the kind of music I always want to play. Something about looking into that kind of darkness brings the breath back into my body. Somehow, her echo is the one I have always heard in my own sexuality. She is beautifully black. She is the disease I fear I have already fallen into.

My sexuality is my own death and life. Singularly, breath giving and breath violating.


•December 20, 2008 • 13 Comments

We should all live more provocatively if only we had a secret life.

Still, while most of us do live more than one life, it’s not the one, or two, that we should have selected if we could have at all. The kind of secret life I speak of is a demimonde: a half world, a mistress world where you can live the kinds of lives that you have ever dreamed of.

Like you, I too have a confession:

These extravagant worlds I have passed invisibly in and out of for most of my adult life. My thirst for secret codes, sensitive communication marked only by a symbol on a dirty car window or two rings of the phone coupled with shrewdness, lust for heartfelt adventure and the ability to make quick judgments have served as the grace in my gait to and from these worlds. Neatly and quietly I have married my waking life and these half lives, these mistress lives that I am only now leaking into the living light.


My demimonde is not one, nor two.

My demimonde may be a theme in a champagne play of crimson curtains, but I know not this concision. What I do know is that the through line of my mistress lives are the boiling of the blood; the letting go of everything you think I am. I swim behind mixed pseudonyms and defensible positions of power and location, but my charms are always the same. For I am no actor. I never have been.

I am the space you create away from your other masks. I am wispy, pillowy; the place you land in-between your breath of obligation. And work. And duty.

You are the switch that turns me on and lets-loose every literary alias that we could have ever been all this time. You do not know where I live, and I never want to know your façade. I do not want to know your simple chores, nor you – mine. Never will we wake in the same bed. We do not pass one another in public, with our husbands and girlfriends meeting unknowing eyes in the middle of our median lives.

Sometimes I am your secret.

Sometimes you are mine.


On the nineteenth floor she is waiting for me in the striped chair. When the elevator doors open she uncrosses and crosses her legs. I can see her stockings and her garter and the sly grin in her mascara makeup.

Our greetings and salutations are not composed of words. For I think that if they were, we might find ourselves in love or flirting with some other four letter words as simple as: Soon. Can’t. Wait.

Instead, we keep it simple. We stay with lust. And a much bigger word: Escape.

The restaurant is not open but the door before us is. As we pass through the empty restaurant we can hear the musical movement of dishes and pots and pans and the scents of preparation. The bases and the heat of cuisine wafts in and around us, concealing us from the noonday outside.

She drops my hand from the lace of hers and walks up to the window. Sighing, she looks down and out and over the afternoon city. She says conquer me.

She says, seduce me. With a word. Or four.

Standing behind her, I whisper into her ear and speak in eloquent tongues – my story of devouring her. I kiss the ridge on the neck. Her hands grip onto my hips and I press harder into her. The diamond on her ring sparkles and disperses light all over our corner of this hotel. I reach around and up and into her skirt. Over the stockings and garter and… she is bald and heaving and naked underneath in the invisible places that she will take back into her office in only a couple of minutes.

I can hear somebody behind us, setting a table in a white coat. I am certain he spots us, for a short moment there is no sound. Then, sound again. Next to us, our table is set. The champagne glasses sit unused. I hear someone moving behind me and I press harder underneath her clit, finally sliding inside her.

Here, our permission is only in the simple repetition of our quiet, weekly lunchtime presence, where this restaurant is closed, but the door is always open.

She turns around and I cup her question mark of a backside. I move up and down the pleat in her taught skirt. She tells me to kiss her hard. She says that her husband knows. And she thinks he likes knowing about our secret.

She tells me to kiss her hard again. With the back of her hand she brushes my cheek and I know it is over.

She takes the first elevator down. She waits as the doors are closing and utters four letter words: This is the… Last. Time. Good…



I am Speed Dial Number 9.

When she takes her men into bed, she keeps her phone near. She holds down her whimper just as she holds down the number 9 on her keypad. She rings me in and in circles of light opens her bed and her sex to me miles and lives away.

On her unattended phone I can hear the rustling of sheets. The soft meeting of the headboard and the wall. Thrusts counting her breath. I can hear her whimpering. She is begging. She is beckoning, silently as if there is somebody in the other room: Fuck me. Please, fuck me.

Voice mail can only go for so long and I only have a partial recording of one of her phone calls. I think about this recording for we cannot continue forever and I want my tee shirt from the experience for my dying days.


She is her own demimonde, the high priestess of her life, and others. She is mistress to many and the world calls her a whore. Her name is Angela and every time I remember this because, within her is an Angel.

We met years ago and I do not believe that Angela is her real name. She is a prostitute and I think that she may be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. And while she has imparted the stories of her life, she has not told me with any convincing, her real name. Angela, afterall, is inappropriate for what she is.

She wears a Bindi, that Hindu red dot between the eyes. Even in the winter she wears very little clothing when she answers the door. She is tan and her body is as perfect as you could imagine from a sculpture. I think that she likes to tease me, always with her body and the cut lines of her panties underneath her transparent robes and shawls.

She never leaves me alone in any room for too long even though she confides that I am her only real friend. She tells me that her family no longer knows where she lives. All they remember is that the world calls her a whore.

I kissed her once, deeply and madly on the lips as though we both we needed it. But the smoke and the drink got the best of us and we only both began laughing.

I have been to many of her homes over the years. She moves frequently and I wonder silently who moves all of her furniture so much of the time. I worry when I do not hear from her for months on end. Sometimes strange phone numbers show-up on my phone and I am left only with messages. Quick updates.

Then, last year, the calls stopped.

I do not know if Angela is alive or dead, or if she ever was. For there was always something half-living and half-dead about her brilliance. I, however, have not changed my phone number. There is a secret part of me that hopes she will find me, find this story and read her name in these words; and call me; carry me up and away to an invisible city where nobody knows our name and we sit in the champagne sunlight of the futuristic world we have only ever known in the movies.


I often think of painters at the opening of their new exhibitions. I wonder if their internal trepidation in the opening is on account of the fact that their secret is being made public. I often think that the great ones were exhibitionists at heart. Exhibitionists of the heart.

For while these three girls began with a matter obscured by lust and the mad derisions of a hungry being, they all ended as the best phone calls do: with love and a smile. Memories of a life well lived and a heart beating in concert with breath.

…these are the most erotic things: reminiscences that bring you back to the anxiety of want and of being alive.

Half alive in a mistress world.

The Church

•December 11, 2008 • 11 Comments

There is something that speaks to the sold, unseen darkness in me. It tells me that I want filth. Complete filth.

This voice never lies. But something in its timbre tells me that I am being mislead.

This voice tells me that it does not matter how you get to heightened sensation. To divine pleasure. To car crash red and blacked-out ambulance light rides. This voice tells me that, whatever extreme they term it – bondage, masochism or pain – you will simply call it inspired divinity.

This cave wind of an alto voice is the same one which tells me that I love you. But, tucked away in its whispery breath is the truth that you should know: I love you best when I am leaving.


We are floating atop a black and white checkered floor. Barely standing, the brick walls have blackened cubbies. From the middle of the room it appears as though there are holes in the walls all around us. Holes for the reprobates and perverts alike. For where there is not dungeon light red on the brick walls, there are caves of darkness.

We are standing in one such cave, one such hole. We are so far away from the center of this strobe light floor. The light sweeps this underground like a broom. This demi monde, this underworld where the leather chains pace in celebratory circles and beckon the darkened night above us.

From here, in the basement of this church, the music whirls and pounds. It is the sound of industrial alley ways and black and, moments of my eighties youth.

The girl, the accomplice, and I are standing with our legs staggered. My sex on her leg and her sex on my leg. In the filthy light her face is white, her lips – crimson. I lean in…

From here, the voyeurism intersects with the exhibitionism and it is perfect.


The antithesis, the ivory girl with the platinum hair, is sleeping next to me. I am in her bed for the first time in a near eternity. A giggle in me almost surfaces while I watch her perfect shoulder slowly heaving in concert with her sleeping breath.

But I know, if I leave this bed before she does – in the least I said everything that a car crash can’t. After her orgasm, in the middle of the drunken watch wind down, I whispered to her with my hoarse, coarse voice: I am madly in love with you.

I do not know this love from my rational mind, nor from much more than a couple of baskets of experience. But I know this love. When I leave her, I taste it on the tip of my first cigarette and I see it in the highway lanes swerving endlessly back to my gray, morning bed.


Underneath the church, in blackened Sunday night church, the caged animals are pacing and spinning with intent. The husky thump of music is pushing us all into an uncultivated, erotic frenzy where leather and vinyl aren’t enough to quench our eye’s thirst, nor our sex’s hunger. But it is all there, down under.

At the instance of a song, she, my accomplice in this filthy feat, leaves my heated side to twirl and heave in the middle of the dance floor. Minutes later she returns and whispers into my ear: You like to see me dance with other people, don’t you?

I nod and she returns to that center so far away from my bloody heart.

I watch her tease and nod and reach for the sex outside of herself. And for this I am proud. I valorize those that push beyond themselves. Beyond their comfort, for some inspired divinity.

In the red darkness, I instruct my church girl to reach into my pants after she shoots more alcohol down her throat. And she does: She squeezes my cock. Then, hurriedly, we leave. For more filth awaits us.


I am not opposed to pushing our limits. I am not opposed to pushing our language to a place where the heightened intent is manifested by our very lips and our throaty obbligato.

She calls me daddy. She says, please. She whimpers and moans, urging me forward. Beyond thinking this dirty, I think it brave. In her timbre, I hear honesty. I hear something authentic; hers. Ours. Mine.

At her house there is a flogger.

I do not know this until the dirty morning light convinces me so, but the floor is filthy, strewn with pieces of her life. Books, clothes, boxes; and unkempt life. She lays down and with her perfect moonlit tits in the air, I begin playfully teasing her nipples with the leather fingers of the flogger.

Then, I whip her hard and intently. Devilishly. Deliciously. At first, she does not even flinch.


Before you: There is the girl and there is everything else.

There are matters of the heart and there is everything else.

In and out of all the rooms I have inhabited, I am searching for my center.

I do not know if love lives in that circle, or outside of it. I do not know if my love is enough for one. And I do not know if another’s love is enough for me.

I do not know my center. But laying next to her in the gray wakening of a snowy morning and I know that I feel a center rising, a little to my left. A little ways from the center that I had always pictured in my concentration.

Beyond her, outside of her – the platinum girl with the musical shoulder – there is the filth of trying to just make it through a day. The filth of an industrial world and commerce and making ends meet and bills piling up on a dusty table.

In everything is an element of just trying to find your center.


Smack me awake with your skin. Push me to arise into the life I always wanted.

Touch me as though you mean it.

Feel me, kneed me, as though you want me.

If you do not know the words, I am a forgiving ape. For the words escape my passions too, with mean and uncompromising frequency.

If you do not know the words, then tell me with everything else you have.


Leave me in limbo, leave me in a grave.

Leave me. Or love me. Leave me not in a place where so many live their lives: in the middle and uncertain.

Love me or leave me. If it is the former, then may it be forever. If it is the latter, then leave me altogether and your taste I never wish to know again.

Like my entire white body, you are burned before this stake.

Sex and Death

•October 16, 2008 • 15 Comments

Sex rides bareback on the horse of death and I am straddling a massage table with a girl between my legs. There is a girl on the other side of her, sucking on her nipples, kissing her neck. Their cunts are exposed to one another. Their legs are interlaced. There are vultures standing around us, watching.

Even the guy sitting behind the girl that is prodding and devouring my girl on the table has raven eyes. He is stealing touches of my girl’s thighs like he is stealing meat off a carcass. Thighs. Ribs. Breast. Meat.

To my right there is a man standing behind his girl. Her shirt has been pulled up and he is fondling her tits, watching us.  Another couple stands next to them, again – watching us with hungry eyes.

And that dark place inside of me is fulfilled. Like it came in through the veins, hard and saline. At the impetus of drug, my adrenaline glands swell with delight.


We are meaning-making machines. Like we’re baby making machines. Like we’re death machines, alive.

Just like making babies – those little legacies – our bodies were also built for one thing: death and dying. Always moribund we are in our peacock strutting.

Like you: I am always groping for meaning in my life. In other’s lives.

I have no God and have been seeking something as a replacement for as long as I can remember. Like the heroin junkie, I use my drug of choice to elevate me higher; to pad my fingers on the pulse of God.

Like the heroin junkie, I have used my body to take that drug.

But unlike the heroin junkie, I have used sex as that drug.


We came for adventure. It is why we are together at all on this night. It is why she is even wearing this short skirt at all. I haven’t seen her for ages, but adventure was what we both begged for.

She wants two men. At once. She wants a flood of the masculine, but I know she wants something more literal: she wants swords and blades and the unforeseen taunt of blood. She wants a full human experience before she dies. She wants something to make her eyes roll into the back of her head.

She is like me. She is not afraid of taking up space on this sharp edge. This slippery, rounded corner.

She relishes the darkness in the crevices. I can taste it on her breath.

Next to the massage table is a hot tub. There are naked bodies configured together in the heat of the water. In the dim red light, the bodies in the frothing water touch and suck and take consolation in their fleshy desire.


She has never seen these things: bodies sweating and pounding together in feverous chills. She has never seen bodies entangled like this. Not now and with everything sexual breathing so explicitly and raw. And it is surprising that, while there are beds and condoms and porn and cabanas all around us – only an hour ago there was only nervous, drunk conversation. Transformed in only minutes and there now are naked torsos everywhere; flesh over the top of clothing and through undone zippers and buttonholes. And reaching into it all are hands and fingers. Tongues and cocks sliding into hot openings.

On her neck is the scent of sex. It is from the Brazilian girl that is tangled in legs with her on the massage table. This other girl is licking her, sucking on her nipples.

Over the shoulder of my girl, the hungry Brazilian girl kisses me. But I pull away as though the intimacy was stronger than sound. It’s the pungency. Her breath, her wind is hot, and stale. Like a frozen, sweaty breeze it wreaks of sex. And more than that, the Brazilian girl that wants me to finger her cunt smells like death.


There is another girl that is standing next to the massage table. She is kissing and touching everybody on our island of a table. Leaning-in and she offers my girl a double-dildo. It comes from her purse and even I am surprised by this large cock sight – from such a small purse.

The girl leans up against the table and the guy she is with unbuttons her pants.

In the composition of the light washing on them, this sight is perfectly hot. It is perverted no more than a human body is: the girl’s jeans are falling down her hips; his hand is digging down the back; her skin is glistening like watery fire in this red light.


Sometimes I fantasize about the dirtiest thing I can. I attempt to come-up with a scenario that is the filthiest. Darkest. A situation that doesn’t engage me immediately. But rather, I crave a fantasy that, in its sophistication, pushes me to analyze and cognate and drop into thought to such a fathom that, for minutes at a time, I am unable to surface for breath.


She kisses me on the neck. I am tender with the lack of sensation of so many weeks behind me. I am weak at the touch of her tongue.

We meet lips and my adrenaline turns to rust.  I can only think of the sepia actresses of the golden age. I can only think of watching old films and laying in bed all night long, naked, with wine and telling life’s stories until dawn comes with someone that I want to love.

After awhile of awkward body poses on the massage table, we move on. She wants to see something else. She wants to fulfill her fantasy. Like me, she wants something dirtier. Unholy. Unseen. 

I let her take the lead. We are comfortable now. Expectations have dissipated and she is, like me, safe. I watch her lead me around. And when I close my eyes I sometimes think of falling asleep. Waking-up and rolling over to somebody that I want.

Here, in this sex club of debauchery manifested and all I can think of is love.


She has my cock in her mouth. We are next to a gigantic table that is tangled and teeming with masses of naked skin. There are groans, rolling movements and overall, the skin on the dark leather looks like a writing sea. A storm of human water.

Only a long while ago and I would have been intoxicated by the sight of this: naked bodies around me, heaving and gyrating in hot delight. The only ones in clothes are watching all the cabanas around us, the beds, the couches, the corners. There are couples sharing their lovers with starving mouths as pulsing sexuality moans and cries all around us in huddles and puddles. Drips and drops.  Smacks and slaps.

At first, I am throbbing. Hard. I am in her mouth and wanting to pierce her skull with my cock. Then,

I am drained as though my feet are a grate and all the liquid life inside drains into the city sewer below.

There are naked bodies around me and I can actually taste the Brazilian girl’s death breath on my tongue.


Moments like these make me want to live a normal life. Have yellow pedestrian moments. Wake-up at 8 a.m. and go to work. Have lunch at noon. Pick up some milk the store. Mow the lawn. Spy the big blockbusters at the movies on the weekends.


I bend her over the black sea of humanity. I lean her into the mass of heaving bodies. I dip my tongue into her heat and for the first time that night I am afforded a taste.

And she is beautiful. Feeling her buck into me and I am lost in the thought that:

To possess the aptitude to bounce playfully off the springboards in your life is an undervalued skill. But this girl, on this night, has shown me so much. She was attentive when I needed her to be. She was reverent. She made me feel safe in the same way that I prayed I had made her feel. She was curious. She had never seen anything like this:

Cabanas full of beds and people and whimpering and bodies smacking together in raw sensual fear.  She had never seen people bent over the bar, taking everything another had to give, from behind.

And she dove-in: on the massage table she kissed the Brazilian girl with death on her breath, but did not go down on her. She kissed the other couple that became entangled with us.

And so now there is a boy standing above us. And as I am sucking on her for the first time, at the end of our long night – I push her toward him.


Apprehensively, the boy’s pants fall from his hips. His cock jumps out. And slowly he moves closer to her mouth. 

This is what we were heading toward all night.

Once her lips wrap around his cock, I feel the chain complete. I am this much closer to humanity. Over my shoulder is a couple, peeking-in. Touching each other.  Several more bodies close-in on us. They touch, closer. They breathe, deeper.

I am naked. My pants are at my ankles. I spin her around and my flaccid cock slides in and out of her mouth.

And all I can think about is that I am as far away from love as I ever have been. I feel something slipping away in the same rhythmic pulse that she is taking me in and out of her mouth.

I want to give her a full experience in so much as I want to give myself a full experience. An authentic experience. And in less than ten minutes, after the boy has buried his face deep into her cunt, I will pull-up my pants and we will leave.


I understand why we value freedom. I know that liberty means choice.

But I also understand our obsessions with these rights in so much that we are living – bound by sinewy material – in a body. We are living in our tomb.

Since the time of the Greeks we have built our rational culture on the notion that we can reach for the world beyond us, toward the world of forms and everything spiritual. And we do this through thought. Through pushing our minds in experiment and formation, as hard and as abstractly as we can.  Implicit in this same notion is that we do not get to a comprehension of the bigger worlds above us through our body.

Our body means decay. Our body means prison. Our body means death.


I have rewound the movies of my life and found myself fucking my way toward night in days that I have never even known the sun of. 

In all of my sunless days, where I bask only in the rays of silent retreat and sweaty summer sheets, I have never known a greater heroin than sex. I have never known why I sought my intoxication in the needle of sexuality.  But in this bending from love to lust, from the heart to the cock, from the silent spaces I inhabit in the bustling of bars and parrots talking – I am no greater than any lesser being.

I am a death machine, alive.