canary.

so i’m seeing the girl from the speakeasy. which means, given my pre-disposition to falling for every chemical substance known to man when i’m not trying to be insanely careful, that i’m taking big risks.

so i bought a pack of cigarettes i have no intention of smoking. it’s in my shirt pocket, opened up, so i can smell the sweet smell of the tobacco. it’s distracting. but my addictions come in waves, and i know, from experience, that if i fall down one hole, i’m falling down the niccotine hole as well. so when i smoke on of these cigarettes, it’s time to move on from her. for my own health. my canary.

i’ve resigned myself to the fact that she’s not going to stop yet. she’s younger, still immortal in her own eyes, far from the rock bottom i can see staring at her. i’m juyst happy i get to know her now.

i’m not the type to save people, everyone makes their choices. she’s smart. maybe too smart for her own good – she’s tired of thinking so much she says, she’s taking this time to indulge herself and stop thinking. but she’s smart enough to own this decision.

the smell surround me all the time, interrupting my thoughts. i really want a cig.

this blog is ostensibly about sex and not drugs so i guess i’ll mention we’re fucking fairly regularly and that she’s a licker. in the mornings after we are together i wake up with my entire body’s skin covered in a fine layer of dried spit. i end up smelling like her. it’s lovely. she licks me like i were her cub. always ending up in my groin, and then we fuck.

i’m seeing her again tonight. i’m going to try to straight edge it. she won’t. i doubt she can. we’ll see how it goes. i’m not entirely sure if i’m flirting with her or distaster, to borrow a cliche.

speakeasy. two.

if you’ve grown up internalizing the worst of mrs. reagan’s anti-drug messaging it may surprise you to know that addicts are actually quite normal, tender and sweet people, provided they have the means and funds to maintain adequately.

one of them is playing footsie with me right now. tenderly. we’re staring into each others’ eyes.

also coked up.

she used to be my type. definitely trouble. definitely not someone you’d want to know six months longer down this road. but right now, she’s full of life, smart, sassy and seemingly smitten with me. maybe a bit suicide girlie, but not much.

she keeps calling me her “dirty librarian” – apparently it’s like the sexy librarian devoid of anything wholesome. i dress like a librarian i’ve discovered.

she’s not a librarian. tom-boy – but sexier. younger than me… she tells me later she thought i was five years younger than i was.

but right now i’m really concerned with our feet. and her eyes. blue. vivid.

my friend’s cut me off from the coke, but’s not happy that i’m making eyes with her. he keeps giving me an evil eye, but i’ve decided i could give a shit about what he thinks.

feet playing, toying under the table. it feels innocent and subtle, even though everyone knows what’s going on.

we’re talking, too. she likes chuck palahniuk, reads all his work. i weighed the options of ignoring this and simply moving forward in her attraction versus giving in to my contempt of him and challenging her. maybe it’s the coke, but i hope it’s me that ultimately takes her on for her fandom.

we argue/talk/tease each other about our literary tastes for a few hours, exhausting the community of the speakeasy. they leave one by one, tired of drugs, bored by our conversation. we stay.

eventually we can retreat into a dark corner. this bar has a lot of dark corners.

i kiss her, she returns the kiss.

i like her. but this is bad.

when i kiss someone i generally can imagine a future, a future i’d like to investigate. this girl would kill me. fuck, she’s likely to kill herself soon. she’s already told me as much. that’s she’s self-destructive. has been on a tear for a while now.

but i like her. she’s smart. warped. immediate.

i kiss her with a different urgency. the urgency of getting to know her while i can. before she’s gone.

speakeasy. one.

it’s not a speakeasy. or it is, but only if you strip the word of all romantic associations associated with the historical and contemporary fine cocktail bars in the better cities that call themselves “speakeasy.” it’s an illegal bar. a firetrap. if you need a bathroom, go piss in the back alley. but it has community and i’m privileged that my friend brought me here.

“wanna bump?”

cocaine. yes. of course i do, but i have rules. drugs aren’t consumed with friends, aren’t consumed with habitual users, and aren’t consumed with a dark soul.

“yes – pass it over.”

shit. at least three people at the table are on a dark road that no one should get on.  and i’m hurting.

he passes me a spoonful, carefully – not passing the stash.

i’m now high.

“dude, she was hot, she was smart, why’d you fuck up?”

“…”

“you fucked up, fucked around again, right?”

“seriously? now?”

he’s asking me about why we ended out relationship, after 7 years, without communication with friends, without the standard pre-breakup rituals. i think he’s hurt that he heard about all this in historical statements.

“did you fucked around again?”

“i didn’t.”

“so then…”

it’s not clear to me how i’ll explain this. i’ve avoided discussing it. i’m fucked up now.

“i haven’t fucked around in two years – but i broke up with her because i fucked around. she couldn’t forgive me, it just took two years to figure that out.”

“but you fucked around on her only after she fucked around on you.”

true. irrelevant. this might take explaining for him.

“she fucked around on me, but i could forgive her. she couldn’t forgive me. it’s not about who fucked who, and keeping score. it’s about what we could give each other, and she couldn’t give me forgiveness.”

“but you stayed with her for two years.”

“i wanted to give her time, and then it just took a long time to realize it wasn’t going to change. i’m not sure she believes she can’t forgive me yet, but i couldn’t go through the rest of my life feeling guilty about the past.”

i got tired of constant suspicion, constantly reminding her of her pain soley through my presence. got tired of failing to live a full life because i had to watch what significance my actions carried in reminded her of the past. i got tired of hearing the anger in her voice.

in truth, not cheating was far more exhausting than trying to hide the fact that i was cheating. i loved her, but we failed each other and rebuilding ourselvers afterwards failed.

“you’re a pussy.”

“fuck you.”

“have another bump.”

“thanks.” i reach over becoming a repeat offender on my rules.

we’re going to keep talking about this for a while now, i might need the feeling. he was one of the ones that fucked her.

i’m not sure that he knows she told me it was him. knows that i got over it. it was raw, and hard, but worth it.

i just wish he’d tell me some day. i love him, he’s dear to me, but i’d like to know he’s half the man i believe him to be, this should be his opening to honesty. tonight. i hope he will, i’m getting tired of the secrets, it hurts a little, exposing myself to this.

i’m snorting again. i’m challenging myself. risk.

i’m taking risks.

texan. two.

(drinks. 2nd avenue and 2nd street. there used to be a bar there, i’m not sure it its still there. the bar was in the emotional purview of the texan, not mine, so i’ve never been back and it’s been almost 10 years.

“so you liked that, the other night, huh?”

i’m blushing a bit. not sure what to say, not sure if admitting it will mean she would judge me (i was young) or if she’ll do it again, which would be nice.

“um… yeah, very much so.”

“i could tell, heck, i can tell now”

i’m hard.

“so are you open to…”

“…”

“… the ass? can we play with our asses?”

i’m blushing, but excited, unsure what to say, i just nod.

“ok, but you’re going to have to pull your weight.”

she smiles, reaches across the table and kisses me passionately, her tongue penetrating my mouth violently, lingering there long enough to get the attention of the remainder of the bar.

“we should go then”, she says smiling widely.

it’s not far to her apartment. we get their quickly. she turns on me in the elevator on the way up, grabbing my cock through my pants and whispers, “i want you in my ass.”

i’m not quite sure what to say, blushing, she puts a finger to my lips and lets me get away with my silence and leads me out of the open door to her apartment. opening the door and pulling my inside.

we make out as we normally would, but i’m distracted, worried and nervous. i must have started shaking a little because she noticed and hugged me close, promised to guide me though it. (i didn’t realize how literally this was)

it wasn’t much longer before we’re naked on the sofa, my cock in her mouth, my tongue inside her. she breaks off our embrace and we head to the bed.

“so this is lube…” and so forth. all of the mechanics are being explained to me patiently by a woman i was starting to feel something special for. exhilarating. she’s patient with my questions, keeping the mood going by occasionally stroking me, and letting me pet her.

when the time comes for me to slip into her ass, it’s difficult, i get the angles all wrong. everything’s a slippery, glistening and beautiful mess. but i finally get inside of her.

“not so fast, go slowly”

i push in slower, hearing her gasp.

“slowly… sloowly”

i slow to a crawl, following her instructions as carefully as i can. i push i deeply and withdraw, and push in again.

her back arches, as if she’s on the verge of something, “oh god, shit, my god”, her cursing turns me on, but i’m nervous i’m hurting her. she assures me i’m not.

it’s only now that i start focusing on my own experience. it feels wonderful. i’m not sure, even in hindsight, if i’m more turned on by the act, or the idea of the act. the experience in intensely satisfying. i come quickly. too quickly. like when i was in high school.

afterwards i hold on to her close.

“i love you inside me there, stay in there a little bit”

i hold her for what seems like ages, still parsing out the taboo we’d broken. this was all new to me then, this is before the ubiquity of pornography had made this almost normal.

i wasn’t sure what this made me. i was blinded by morals, norms and preconceptions. feeling guilty and confused but also enthralled, i was already starting to become more open-minded.

the artist. two.

the artist and i have been on a few dates. enough to know we like each other. enough that i feel like it might be time to exit man-slut mode and own up to my actions to her.

dinner at a fashionable german restaurant. celebrate our commen heritage.

it’s loud, not intimate. so i picked that part wrong. i let us get a little tipsy on kolsh beer.

“so i’ve seen a few people while we’ve been dating, just so you know.”

“oh.” – voice isn’t so strong.

“yeah, um, well i wasn’t sure how we were doing, and i met an ex while i was in new york.”

“i see.” – voice is shaky now. i’ve made a mistake.

“also, i kissed a boy, but it’s not something that should be a concern.”

“…”

“…”

“i broke everyone off for you, haven’t seen anyone else, and it’s not like i didn’t have a choice. and you didn’t tell me you were gay.”

“i didn’t ask you to do that, and, um, i’m not gay… we just kissed.”

“well did it happen before, then yeah, you’re fucking gay.”

the rest goes roughly the same. exhausting. she’s emotional, holding back her outbursts as much as she can, but they visibly move through her, under her skin.

ugly words come out quietly. “whore”. “slut”. “queer”.

i feel bad about only two of them. one makes me angry.

i do feel bad, i try to explain to her. slutting around happened, seven years of “monogamy” undone unleashes a lot of sensual nonsense. she’s not having it.

in short, she walks out. leaving me there, with a bill, with my actions, my history.

i can’t blame her for being angry, i’ll forgive her epithets regarding my boy-kiss as a result of anger induced nonsense..

but that said, my greatest hypocrisy is probably my impatience for her anger — just as i feel my own anger welling up as well. i’m not sure what goal it solves. it seems like such a vestigial remnant of our primitive pasts yet it, and fear of it, drive our actions to the point of distraction.

it feels like anger is basically the opposite of empathy. and while i was wrong – at least in most people’s eyes – empathy might have been in order, too, or at least just disappointment that i didn’t meet her unspoken expectations. at least understand why i upset you.

so when i see her walk out the door without bothering to try to understand, my respect for her wanes. i’m already moving on.

ken doll.

i had an ex-girlfriend who used to refer to men as “ken dolls” when she wasn’t attracted to them.

“ken dolls, you know, no parts”

ah.

that comes up later.

i went to a professional function the other night. open bar. at 32 you would think i’ve figured out how to handle situations with class and dignity.

more or less you would be wrong. i got drunk. again.

during which time i met a boy, a corn-fed, kinda aryan, wholesome boy.

preppy. way too preppy.

i don’t really like boys. by not really i mean that i don’t. and though i work with them a lot, i dislike preppy types.

boys are all ken dolls to me. some nice, some not, some friends, some attractive, but no parts.

because i’m in full slut mode, i kissed him anyway. i liked his smile.

he makes me feel tender.  i want to take care of him.  i haven’t felt that way in ages.

now i’m currently dealing in the scandal that i’m gay, which i maintain i’m not, though a public kiss like that undercuts that argument.

but i did like him.

it happens maybe every 3 – 4 years. kissing a boy.

he was cute. i’ll admit i found him cute. and i liked him, he was charming, more so than any woman i’ve met in a while.

but for the life of me i can’t imagine his cock. and don’t really want to. i just really liked him. romantically, if not sexually.

he likes me, i’m getting texts. i’m not sure what to say, because i don’t remember what i did say. and mostly because deep down inside, i might want him, and i’m not prepared for that. not in the slightest. but i want to see him again.

we can add this to a long list of things i’m preparing to disclose to the artist.  it’s very likely she’ll handle this worst.

i’m still thinking this all through, dealing with this class of issues. i’m 32. that’s sorta sad.

at least three of you darling readers will likely start writing your obnoxious emails again now, using this as another excuse to be rude and close-minded. fuck you.

how i actually pick you up.

i see you at the party, sitting quietly. pretty. listening to friend chat about something, i can’t remember what.

i lose track of you for a while. i have people to catch up with, news to get, give. broken promises to make up for, and more promises to make now.

i see you later, though. and you see me, you smile at me, i think. i hope. it’s a lovely smile, wide, friendly, genuinely happy.

it’s surprisingly attractive, your happiness, a break from the normal seriousness.

i sit down with your group. make the introductions. get your name.

we chat and folks leave to get more drinks, leave us alone. we deal with the small talk.

“i live most in ___ and come back here frequently, i’m more or less a ___”

“32″

“i know jake”

you tell a joke and we start laughing. i think it’s beautiful that i can’t remember who touched who’s leg first, who started to press our thighs together in a covert suggestion of attraction.

not subtle enough though. we get disdainful looks from friends as they return with stiff drinks. i think they’re directed at me.

man-slut. the one who ends up in these situations way too often, the one making out in the back of the bar, dark corners, what-have-you. already back at work after my hiatus in “monogamy and commitment”.

i am easy. i guess they haven’t forgotten that.

it reminds me to worry that you don’t know about me. but you make a quick joke about ass-fucking and how you like to get desires out of the way early on. early on like now.

i’ve decided we might be of like minds.

the little matter of the artist bears down me briefly, bringing damning guilt as my hand plays over yours. holding hands like school kids. school kids whispering about ass-fucking.

we can’t leave yet though, i have friends i want to talk to, and sex distracted as i am i’m aware of the rudeness of just leaving with you in tow. we end up holding court, friends circling by to talk to us.

we chat for hours and still we leave as soon as we can, late at night, hungry for each other. hail a cab because you live in queens.

queens. new lands.

first time sex together. awkward. dark. sounds of unzipping in chaotic orders, each of us prioritizing each other’s body parts in difficult orderings, each primaly needing to see the other. at least i’m not worried its not really mutual attraction.

i work your shirt quickly while you undo my belt, bending forward to work on my fly. i’m trying to finish the last of your buttons, dragging you back up – bending me down. you give me a quick look, eyes flashing, and throw my arms off, away from your blouse.

“time for that later”, laughing.

my pants fall down, i’m still standing back up from a bend, lose my balance and fall.

you stand still, biting your lip.

frivolity. it’s the funniest thing we’ve ever seen, me pants-less on the floor, you over me, until i pull you down on top of me.

giggling.

kissing. lips pressing. wetting each other.

laughing.

licking. tongue on cock, pussy.

chuckles.

we get around to fucking, but there’s so much laughter and chuckling its a bit slow going. it’s nice. sex has been coming out of a dark place in my life lately. this is different. happy, silly.

sex should be goofy silly sometimes. i feel more alive tonight.

later, i hold you a bit, but it’s not tender in any way. each of us keeps smirking and looking at each other until we can’t bear it and we laugh out loud.

the levity drops out when i leave. it was nice. no future. but i’m leaving a little bit of me behind with you. some of me existed in those special moments of laughter.

making my past more complicated when it should be cleaner and more nimble is becoming a habit – one that’s going to hurt me later.

right now i just not excited about restricting myself, not interested in fitting in my friends norms. though they may be right. there’s no future here, but it’s fun. and funny.

how i try to pick you up.

i’m not great at this, but it’s necessary. we have to meet each other somehow.

i’ll look at you, i’ll have figured out something about you that you seems fascinating.

fascinating is key.

i’ll be nervous about it, my eyes wandering over you — too much would be creepy and weird, too little and i’ll miss something interesting about you, maybe the key bit that will get us talking.

i’ll hope to catch your eye, and i’ll flash a smile. it will be shy and emo-kid-esque. i’m not yet clear if that end up giving you the right impression of me or not.

i’m enough of a coward that i won’t move forward if you don’t smile back.

god help us all if there’s no alcohol available. you’ll be forced to hearing me write/re-write/edit/re-edit my words as i’m speaking. it makes it hard to understand me. a few drinks takes out a few steps, cutting it down to write/re-write.

i’ll comment on what you are reading, listening to, watching, wearing whatever i can figure out, with whatever words i can muster. there’s almost no chance i’m not at least a little nervous. i’ve gotten better at hiding that though.

if we’re at a bar, i’ll wait for you to go up the bar, or break away from your friends. in an art gallery, i’ll find the piece i like best and see if you won’t come close to it, so i can talk to you about it. if we at other places, well i’m not very good at other places yet. i can’t master the sidewalk pick up, i can’t work that fast.

it’s an embarrassingly large amount of passive effort to get around to what’s a pretty defining active expression. and part of what it means to be a man in our culture.

this was way easier when i smoked. the volume of “hello nice to meet you may i bum a cigarette”-s in life are countless. the numbers of them that have lead to emails or phone numbers aren’t countless, but aren’t bad.

i’m thinking about all of this, because i need to be more careful about the type of people i date. they need to match all my lives, not just the one or two in play at the time. and that means i’m going to have to become more engaged in selecting my dates, seeking out the ones that fit all of me. i’m not sure how to determine that yet though.

practice will tell, i hope.

there may be other ways, though. you, the girl from the Boat that wrote her number on a coaster and threw it at me as you walked out. pure impulse, all risk. that was a fun idea. i’ll be calling you, if only to figure out why you picked me.

i wish i had thought of that. maybe my approach is just too contrived.

facebook is my pimp.

seriously, is there anything that gets you more action then the “broken heart” status update? what the hell?
it’s unseemly how it brings out old flings, girls in waiting, and the generally horny, all of whom seem to assume that you are, at least temporarily, available as a fuck-friend. not that i’m complaining.

when did this happen? i’m not bad looking, but nothing ridiculously notable either, and emotionally, i am like this blog, so it must be something in the medium. i’ve been “taken” or at least “it’s complicated” (stupidest term ever) for the entirety of the social networking craze; i hadn’t realized the killer use was easy sex. i’ve been awash in renewed interest from exes, forbiddens, and the previously poorly timed, and its an unbelievably efficient process. awkwardly so.

this is a world in which proposing coffee and crepes is a unique first date solution, and likely overkill. “poke” indeed.

so nothing more today. i’m out of steam. i’d just like to point out that under that nice preppy exterior facebook is a filthy hall of tramps like me. i know i’m late to this party, but i’m surprised.

crack.

about 4 years ago, under the influence of william t vollmann and other sordid authors who follow me on subways, buses and coffee shops everywhere, i began a six month long effort to procure and try crack cocaine.

there are, i believe, services that will enable this quite simply, for a fee, so that you don’t have to leave white, successful enclaves you might not want to leave. i didn’t have access to these services, they are significantly different from the pot service you might use now, harder to find and more awkward to ask about.

the effort was more focused on logistics then anything else. i had a live-in girlfriend who wouldn’t approve (the emotional wall between us is worth its own post) and a highly professionalized job from which this was to be kept secret.

you need time to smoke crack in secret. time to go buy it, to find a place to smoke it where the crass odor won’t linger, and time to recover from the cranky monster you’re about to become. it’s frankly a pain in the ass.

but the high.

words can’t do this justice. i’ve tried a lot of drugs. they’re all hard to describe. but this one might be the most special. you can be god, briefly, if your brain responds correctly. mine does. you feel empowered, free from real constraints.

the high lasts seconds, maybe a minute. but the low is pretty rough. you feel spent, possibly shamed, and general wasted away.

i tried this three, four times. not much. not enough to get into trouble. but it was fun, i liked it. i’m willing to admit it was a stupid idea, though.

i mention this now, because that feeling, back in my head, that rush, is the feeling i might have when we come together tonight. drugs, alcohol and sex are a mix to me, not just as vice, but sensation. i try to separate them but i fail.

it can’t be the best association, but it can’t be the worst either.

i’m glad to have discovered that we have this in common, but you need to know, that for an instant, one split second, all i’m thinking about is that old fix. then i’ll be back with you.