It begins when I look at him. The attraction on my end is instantaneous. He, on the other hand, is aloof. He doesn't show signs of reciprocation or signs of repulsion. He is entirely too neutral. There are a few others around too. All attractive and enticing in their own ways. I set my sights on one and pull my focus toward him.
From a distance, he looks so intimidating, magical, breathtaking, sweeping. I am filled with anticipation and fright. I am sure he looks better than he really is. I am sure up close I will see the parts that make him up and hold him together. I am sure he won't look as beautiful up close as he does from a far. I want to run to him. But, I know that the sooner I get there the sooner it is over. As I approach, my heart rate quickens as my nerves tighten. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't do it for me?
He makes me wait for him. Others are waiting too. He makes me share him with others. He makes me jealous.
Finally, my chance has come. I hop on his train (of thought) knowing he is the only one with the path insight. I give up all control. (Which is so unlike me.) We go slowly at first. Climbing up the hill of introductions and pleasantries with the utmost caution and intensity. The anticipation is killing me. I can see the top and it looks like it could be exhilarating. With all my insecurities and fears tightly packed inside my soul and wrapped in my body with a smile for a bow, I hold on tight and let it ride.
There is a huge fall and my breath get's taken away. Then I brace myself for another uphill climb. This one is faster, smoother, and feels like a blink in time. There are ups and downs and more twists and turns. We pull up to the end and I leave. I am exhilarated. But I am tired, shocked, excited and scared. I can't decide if I should do it again or if he even cares that I do it again. Will it feel the same if I do it again?
I get on line hoping it will be worth the ride again. I do it again and again.
I am a rollercoaster junkie...
This can be a good thing and a bad thing in life.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
Conversations
I sometimes wish that my phone calls could be recorded and broadcast on a low-budget late night Public Access Show. All there would be is a really cheezy photo of me pursing my lips and nearly blowing a kiss, or, better yet, giving you my best abercrombie and fitch close up. My hair would be photoshopped darker, my lips pouty-er, and my cheek bones more severe. And then a photo of whom ever I am talking to spilt screened next to mine. This photo would be one of those "caught on the street photos." Maybe they are tripping on the sidewalk or sucking too intently on the straw in their frappacino. Or, it's a photo of them lifting an oversized club sandwich or something of the sort toward their gaping mouth.
Then you would listen to whatever conversation unfolds. Regardless of how stimulating or dreary. If you chose just the right picture of me and the person on the other end, and you spilt screen them next to each other, it wouldn't matter what was being said. It would always be slightly entertaining or mildly interesting at the very least. You would associate this conversation with the two images you were looking at and begin to make assumptions and conclusions about me and the unlucky friend or colleague gorging on french fries and mayonnaise.
If it was done just right, I could take the most mundane conversation and make it entertainment. I could also always make myself out to be the good guy.
This is what goes on in my mind when we talk on the phone. Or at least after we have finished.
Good-bye!
Then you would listen to whatever conversation unfolds. Regardless of how stimulating or dreary. If you chose just the right picture of me and the person on the other end, and you spilt screen them next to each other, it wouldn't matter what was being said. It would always be slightly entertaining or mildly interesting at the very least. You would associate this conversation with the two images you were looking at and begin to make assumptions and conclusions about me and the unlucky friend or colleague gorging on french fries and mayonnaise.
If it was done just right, I could take the most mundane conversation and make it entertainment. I could also always make myself out to be the good guy.
This is what goes on in my mind when we talk on the phone. Or at least after we have finished.
Good-bye!
Monday, July 17, 2006
Don't Cha'?
Don't you want to see me naked? To see if I live up to your standards. To see if I will look good/right/whatever-enough to maintain it...with you. Isn't that what's important? Longevity. Of sex. Of the body. Of the attraction.
Don't you want to kiss me? To see if I use too much tongue. To see if I follow AND lead. Don't you want to know what I taste like? Don't you want to know if it's compatible? IT being the kiss. Isn't kissing amazing? Are you afraid of it's impact? Don't you want to know how the kiss will hit you? So you can take a step forward/aside/...back.
Don't you want to hold my hand? To see if it's strong. To see if I know which way to intertwine our fingers. To see if it happens without effort. Or, are you afraid of hand holding because you don't need to be lead, followed, tugged in any direction?
Don't you want to just wrap yourself around me? To see if you are giving into the inevitable or turning away from what haunts you. To see if holding me or being held is a genuine desire or if it comes from the origin of loneliness, desperation or a search for safety. What if I am safe? What if I used you? What if you need me?
Don't you want to tell me everything? To see what I think. To see if I can understand you. To see if I will walk away. Isn't that the hardest part? Understanding. One another's shit.
Don't you wished you could hear your heart? If we could, though, would we listen?
Don't you wished it was easy...easier?
Don't you wished you knew?
Don't you want to kiss me? To see if I use too much tongue. To see if I follow AND lead. Don't you want to know what I taste like? Don't you want to know if it's compatible? IT being the kiss. Isn't kissing amazing? Are you afraid of it's impact? Don't you want to know how the kiss will hit you? So you can take a step forward/aside/...back.
Don't you want to hold my hand? To see if it's strong. To see if I know which way to intertwine our fingers. To see if it happens without effort. Or, are you afraid of hand holding because you don't need to be lead, followed, tugged in any direction?
Don't you want to just wrap yourself around me? To see if you are giving into the inevitable or turning away from what haunts you. To see if holding me or being held is a genuine desire or if it comes from the origin of loneliness, desperation or a search for safety. What if I am safe? What if I used you? What if you need me?
Don't you want to tell me everything? To see what I think. To see if I can understand you. To see if I will walk away. Isn't that the hardest part? Understanding. One another's shit.
Don't you wished you could hear your heart? If we could, though, would we listen?
Don't you wished it was easy...easier?
Don't you wished you knew?
Monday, July 10, 2006
Body over Mind
The doctor shook my hand with a soft, subtle, warm and trusting smile on his face. He first asked me how I'd been, remembering a small detail from the previous visit. This increases his validity and overall stamp of my approval.
I lied. I told him through a graveled voice that things were going well. (Too many beers the night before this appointment and bummed 2! cigs)
He asked me if I had finally settled into my new place or if things at work had slowed down enough to get some much needed rest to kick of the remaining straggles of a cold.
I lied. I told him I had been sleeping a full 7-8 hours a night and work was easing up on me. (Insert a yawn--no joke--he giggles, I ponder the meaning of the word straggles)
He took a seat, crossed his legs and then proceeded to confidently read off my results of all my lab work. HIV--Clean...Hep--Clean...Syph-Clean...Kidneys--Great...Liver--pause--Good...(was he serious? my liver results read good on a medical lab report? whoa, maybe Bikram Choudray is on to something here...) He was so pleased with my lab results he used the word superb to describe my cholesterol. Like he was looking at an A+ book report I had brought home. He even got back up from his seat to show me the nation's averages, stating that I was in an "ideal" range. He was a bit too close to me. We were almost cheek to cheek. And, although my doctor isn't hot, he's still a thirty-something, not over weight yet, gay, male, DOCTOR!! and I was so happy too, that I wanted to hug him and kiss him on his cheeks. (Is that wrong?)
He said that my health was in excellent condition to enter my thirties. I smiled while the pangs of a burp began to make a small incision of indigestion on the walls of my heart. He began to fold up his files. I swallowed the burp while he wasn't looking. (El Centro restaurant mixed with Stella Artois)
"Is there anything else I can help you with today, Clem? Any questions." He asked so sincerely.
I lied. "No, Dr. Everret, thank you."
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my body for plowing along against incomparable odds. My body is kicking while I keep giving it a lickin'. Don't let those medical records fool you though. Just cause my blood and my organs are warm and functioning doesn't mean everything inside me is in agreement. I am grateful my mind and body can agree to disagree.
I lied. I told him through a graveled voice that things were going well. (Too many beers the night before this appointment and bummed 2! cigs)
He asked me if I had finally settled into my new place or if things at work had slowed down enough to get some much needed rest to kick of the remaining straggles of a cold.
I lied. I told him I had been sleeping a full 7-8 hours a night and work was easing up on me. (Insert a yawn--no joke--he giggles, I ponder the meaning of the word straggles)
He took a seat, crossed his legs and then proceeded to confidently read off my results of all my lab work. HIV--Clean...Hep--Clean...Syph-Clean...Kidneys--Great...Liver--pause--Good...(was he serious? my liver results read good on a medical lab report? whoa, maybe Bikram Choudray is on to something here...) He was so pleased with my lab results he used the word superb to describe my cholesterol. Like he was looking at an A+ book report I had brought home. He even got back up from his seat to show me the nation's averages, stating that I was in an "ideal" range. He was a bit too close to me. We were almost cheek to cheek. And, although my doctor isn't hot, he's still a thirty-something, not over weight yet, gay, male, DOCTOR!! and I was so happy too, that I wanted to hug him and kiss him on his cheeks. (Is that wrong?)
He said that my health was in excellent condition to enter my thirties. I smiled while the pangs of a burp began to make a small incision of indigestion on the walls of my heart. He began to fold up his files. I swallowed the burp while he wasn't looking. (El Centro restaurant mixed with Stella Artois)
"Is there anything else I can help you with today, Clem? Any questions." He asked so sincerely.
I lied. "No, Dr. Everret, thank you."
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my body for plowing along against incomparable odds. My body is kicking while I keep giving it a lickin'. Don't let those medical records fool you though. Just cause my blood and my organs are warm and functioning doesn't mean everything inside me is in agreement. I am grateful my mind and body can agree to disagree.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
My Brush with Keanu Bergin or Patrick Reeves
He walked up to me. He was drunk.
He threw his right arm around me forcing me to lean away from his naked torso. (Earlier in the day he said he would be going shirtless later and hoped I could handle it) WHA??
He looked at me with his chin down, eyes up toward his brows and head slightly cocked to one side. This is his look. He has perfected it. It's this studied nonchalance that is undeniably deliberate and as fake as Keanu Reeves' voice. It doesn't work on me. It didn't work on Matt, it repulsed Tim, and freaked Brian out. Lucas was the only one used to it and he knew how to ignore it. He was trying to come on to me. He could feel me resist his pull but he insisted on holding tighter. He had to see that my face was turning frantically side to side to dodge his beer and whiskey breath but he brought his mouth closer and closer to my face. He had to know that what he was doing looked like an after-school special about teenage girls learning to say no. He began to say the most ridiculous lines of crap to me. ON top of the crap he said, he delivered it in this syrup-y, affected, pouty-lipped voice.... (insert Keanu's voice mixed with the crazy husband in Sleeping with the Enemy that Julia Roberts is running from, Mr. Patrick Bergen)
"you look hot today. do you think I look hot?"
"You wanna kiss me, don't cha'?"
"Come on, Clem! Oh, come on!"
At this point it sounded like it was heading deeper into the plot of a Lifetime Television for Women Rape Movie. But, for me it was the opposite. It cracked me up. The laughter started in my groin. I tried to stifle it. But, to no avail. The laughter came popping out like a pot of boiling water with the lid on. At first, the lid would pop open for a quick millisecond letting a drop out, and then it would pop open with more frequency until I was bursting with laughter and I flipped my lid. It probably hurt his feelings. I probably looked a little crazy. But, I couldn't help it. It was so bad it was good. It's like Elizabeth Berkley's acting in SHOWGIRLS. It repulsed me and made me sad, but, ultimately, I was entertained.
He didn't stand a chance.
Call it a defense mechanism, my laughing, but it was funny. No one wants to be pinned against a wall and forced to do something they don't want to. I am not overlooking the violating aspect of this. But we were in a public space with lots of people watching. He wanted to make a scene. However, he was three sheets to the wind. The scene he gave us was like watching William Hung sing "She Bangs" with the utmost confidence and reckless abandon. He gave us SHOWS, honey. And, I gave him audience reaction. Just not the reaction he expected.
The cocky son of a bitch!
He threw his right arm around me forcing me to lean away from his naked torso. (Earlier in the day he said he would be going shirtless later and hoped I could handle it) WHA??
He looked at me with his chin down, eyes up toward his brows and head slightly cocked to one side. This is his look. He has perfected it. It's this studied nonchalance that is undeniably deliberate and as fake as Keanu Reeves' voice. It doesn't work on me. It didn't work on Matt, it repulsed Tim, and freaked Brian out. Lucas was the only one used to it and he knew how to ignore it. He was trying to come on to me. He could feel me resist his pull but he insisted on holding tighter. He had to see that my face was turning frantically side to side to dodge his beer and whiskey breath but he brought his mouth closer and closer to my face. He had to know that what he was doing looked like an after-school special about teenage girls learning to say no. He began to say the most ridiculous lines of crap to me. ON top of the crap he said, he delivered it in this syrup-y, affected, pouty-lipped voice.... (insert Keanu's voice mixed with the crazy husband in Sleeping with the Enemy that Julia Roberts is running from, Mr. Patrick Bergen)
"you look hot today. do you think I look hot?"
"You wanna kiss me, don't cha'?"
"Come on, Clem! Oh, come on!"
At this point it sounded like it was heading deeper into the plot of a Lifetime Television for Women Rape Movie. But, for me it was the opposite. It cracked me up. The laughter started in my groin. I tried to stifle it. But, to no avail. The laughter came popping out like a pot of boiling water with the lid on. At first, the lid would pop open for a quick millisecond letting a drop out, and then it would pop open with more frequency until I was bursting with laughter and I flipped my lid. It probably hurt his feelings. I probably looked a little crazy. But, I couldn't help it. It was so bad it was good. It's like Elizabeth Berkley's acting in SHOWGIRLS. It repulsed me and made me sad, but, ultimately, I was entertained.
He didn't stand a chance.
Call it a defense mechanism, my laughing, but it was funny. No one wants to be pinned against a wall and forced to do something they don't want to. I am not overlooking the violating aspect of this. But we were in a public space with lots of people watching. He wanted to make a scene. However, he was three sheets to the wind. The scene he gave us was like watching William Hung sing "She Bangs" with the utmost confidence and reckless abandon. He gave us SHOWS, honey. And, I gave him audience reaction. Just not the reaction he expected.
The cocky son of a bitch!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
A Keen Move
It's been so long.
But, it's been such a strain to find the time. Then when there is the time, there isn't the will or energy. Then when there is the will or energy there is no computer at my disposal. The computer wasn't mine. It belongs to the Nurse.
I am not a 9-5er! In this crazy world of blogs, I have found that the 9-5ers can really shell out posts on a regular basis. Which means I put my stuff out there in hopes that people still remember pokeandpour exists...alas...
I moved. I moved out of my apartment in Hell's Kitchen and to a different apartment. I moved to a new neighborhood and live by myself for the first time in my 29 years. But, really, I moved out of my life. I moved out of my comfort zone. I moved over--to give him and myself some room. I moved into a different life. I moved into a different atmosphere. The lighting is different. The smells are unique and unfamiliar. The stairs feel awkward to my feet and my legs. There are drippy faucets and tiny noises that keep me awake. There are colors on the wall that are not agreeable. There is no hustle and bustle outside my building anymore. The air even feels different from up here in the 100's. I walk down the street and no one knows me. I don't have a favorite coffee shop yet. I don't know which laundromat to trust. I don't have a favorite take out place to order in from. Which bodega has the best selection of BEN and JERRY's? I don't have a television or a computer. I don't or can't share toothpaste, or steal anyone's socks, or spritz with someone else's cologne. The carpet wasn't my choice. The sofa and bed aren't mine.
The blanket is...thankfully.
My blankets. My down comforter. My sheets. My pillows. Thank goodness. Without these things that are mine to wrap myself up in, I would have no comfort in the chaos that surrounds me. I take my ipod, my vitamin water, and my underwear-clad body and slip it underneath the 600 thread count sheets that always stay crisp and cool. The air conditioner is silently buzzing. I keep a light on. I have yet to feel safe or comfortable enough in my new space to lay in the dark. I stay on the right side of the bed. That was my side for the majority of our relationship. It was the right side in Brooklyn but not at his place. It was the right side on 163rd Street and 173rd Street but not at 64th Street. Then it was the back to the right side again on 46th Street. I stay close to the edge but never fall off. I force myself to close my eyes. I am exhausted but can't sleep. I can't get my mind to sleep. Everything is so new, different, scary, sad, lost, forgotten, fast, fucked, fragile. These are only a few of the emotions that keep my blood warm and pulsing. I do it to myself. I start thinking sad thoughts. How time flies. Memories. Smells. I add my soundtrack. With three to four clicks of my ipod wheel it begins....
"Sometimes it's hard to know where I stand,
It's hard to know where I am,
Well maybe it's a puzzle I don't understand.
Sometimes, I get the feeling that I'm
stranded in the wrong time
where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme.
It sounds by,
Is it any wonder I'm tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?
Oh, these days, after all the misery made,
Is it any wonder that I feel afraid?"
Is it any wonder I cry. Keane can do it to me all the time.
But, it's been such a strain to find the time. Then when there is the time, there isn't the will or energy. Then when there is the will or energy there is no computer at my disposal. The computer wasn't mine. It belongs to the Nurse.
I am not a 9-5er! In this crazy world of blogs, I have found that the 9-5ers can really shell out posts on a regular basis. Which means I put my stuff out there in hopes that people still remember pokeandpour exists...alas...
I moved. I moved out of my apartment in Hell's Kitchen and to a different apartment. I moved to a new neighborhood and live by myself for the first time in my 29 years. But, really, I moved out of my life. I moved out of my comfort zone. I moved over--to give him and myself some room. I moved into a different life. I moved into a different atmosphere. The lighting is different. The smells are unique and unfamiliar. The stairs feel awkward to my feet and my legs. There are drippy faucets and tiny noises that keep me awake. There are colors on the wall that are not agreeable. There is no hustle and bustle outside my building anymore. The air even feels different from up here in the 100's. I walk down the street and no one knows me. I don't have a favorite coffee shop yet. I don't know which laundromat to trust. I don't have a favorite take out place to order in from. Which bodega has the best selection of BEN and JERRY's? I don't have a television or a computer. I don't or can't share toothpaste, or steal anyone's socks, or spritz with someone else's cologne. The carpet wasn't my choice. The sofa and bed aren't mine.
The blanket is...thankfully.
My blankets. My down comforter. My sheets. My pillows. Thank goodness. Without these things that are mine to wrap myself up in, I would have no comfort in the chaos that surrounds me. I take my ipod, my vitamin water, and my underwear-clad body and slip it underneath the 600 thread count sheets that always stay crisp and cool. The air conditioner is silently buzzing. I keep a light on. I have yet to feel safe or comfortable enough in my new space to lay in the dark. I stay on the right side of the bed. That was my side for the majority of our relationship. It was the right side in Brooklyn but not at his place. It was the right side on 163rd Street and 173rd Street but not at 64th Street. Then it was the back to the right side again on 46th Street. I stay close to the edge but never fall off. I force myself to close my eyes. I am exhausted but can't sleep. I can't get my mind to sleep. Everything is so new, different, scary, sad, lost, forgotten, fast, fucked, fragile. These are only a few of the emotions that keep my blood warm and pulsing. I do it to myself. I start thinking sad thoughts. How time flies. Memories. Smells. I add my soundtrack. With three to four clicks of my ipod wheel it begins....
"Sometimes it's hard to know where I stand,
It's hard to know where I am,
Well maybe it's a puzzle I don't understand.
Sometimes, I get the feeling that I'm
stranded in the wrong time
where love is just a lyric in a children's rhyme.
It sounds by,
Is it any wonder I'm tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don't know what's right?
Oh, these days, after all the misery made,
Is it any wonder that I feel afraid?"
Is it any wonder I cry. Keane can do it to me all the time.
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