For a few months, I’ve had a story rolling around in my head, and it won’t leave. I didn’t want to write it down, I had other ideas. This one felt incomplete, so I pushed it to the rear of my thoughts. It kept resurfacing, and each time it does, it has grown. Every time I think about it, the tale gets deeper, the faces become more clear, the events more precise, but these faces and events are presented in two separate ways, completely different. It flips unexpectedly from past and present tense, it’s confusing and jumbled, but, it’s there, explicitly so since I saw The Lovely Bones last week, and I can’t rid myself out it. So I’ll put it out there, as is, no editing or proof reading. Just stream of consciousness out there:

“Are you married, PopTart?” he asked.

“I’m only 18.” I answered.

“Mmm, marry me?” he moaned, grabbing my thighs, causing me to stumble towards him, catching myself on his shoulders. He planted wet kisses along my abdomen, along the hem of my bikini bottoms. I laughed, and ran my fingers through his thick, white hair.

“I’m a bit young for you, don’t you think?” I whispered, picking his face up and looking into his pretty grey eyes.

“Hey,” he said, looking hurt, playfully. “I’m not as old as you think. “This” – he pointed to his hair – “is premature. Started when I was in college. How old do you think  I am?”

“Ummm, 45?”

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, clutching a fist to his chest. “Close, but no cigar, PopTart. I’m 37.”

“And you don’t think that’s too old?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down, placing it on his cock, which was hard and swollen.

“Not where it matters.” he whispered into my ear. I squeezed the base and he whimpered. “Marry me.” he repeated.

“You know, Max, I get the impression that you’re already married.” I said as I started to stroke, gently, giving him the friction of just a few fingers.

“How come?” he breathed, tucking my hair over my shoulder and fingering my neck.

“You just…you have an eagerness that the single guys who come in here don’t. Like, I’m an escape. You’re invested in the time you spend here, you obviously look forward to it. It’s not casual. For the married ones, the unhappily married ones, it’s never casual.”

Max sat back on the couch and looked at me, eyes narrowed, hands on his thighs. I released him and stood back.

“You’re perceptive.” was all he said. I had offended him. I had said too much. When was I going to learn that my tendency to over share, to be too honest and forthcoming was not a good thing in this job? I searched inside of my mind for a way to repair the damage – he was one of my best regulars, I made more in one session with him than most other girls made in a day – a week even. He’d already paid my rent for the month, and we hadn’t gotten started yet. I couldn’t think of a remedy, so I told him the truth.

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind what?”

“It not being casual.”

“Mmm. Why’s that?”

“Because, when it’s casual, I feel like a piece of meat. I mean, I am a piece of meat, but it’s funny how being nothing to a guy except a pair of soft hands can make you feel unfulfilled, in comparison to the men that come in and see me as a whole person. Even if I’m just a whole whore.”

He sat up abruptly, frowning, and placed a hand on my hip. “You’re not a whore.”

I had found my way back in. I milked it. “Yes I am. I understand that, I’m alright with it. Someone has to do it, right?” I laughed, making sure it came across as pained and conflicted. I looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, holding them open longer than comfortable to make them water and pursing out my bottom lip ever so slightly.

He pulled me down onto his lap, and I clasped my arms around his neck. For the first time in all of our time together he ignored my breasts in his face, and looked only into my eyes. “You’re not a whore, PopTart. You’re a woman. A woman who’s not afraid of how beautiful she is, but knows how much more she is than that.” He ran his fingertips up the small of my back, and I felt the sincerity of his words in his touch.

“Okay.” I said softly, and I kissed him.

I had never kissed a customer before.

#5.
—————-
Listening to: Radiohead – Nude

“I think I’m gonna be sad,
I think it’s today, yeah.
The girl that’s driving me mad
Is going away.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

She said that living with me
Was bringing her down yeah.
She would never be free
When I was around.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

I don’t know why she’s ridin’ so high,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.
Before she gets to saying goodbye,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.

I think I’m gonna be sad,
I think it’s today yeah.
The girl that’s driving me mad
Is going away, yeah.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

I don’t know why she’s ridin’ so high,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.
Before she gets to saying goodbye,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me
.
She heard that living with me,
Was bringing her down, yeah.
She would never be free
When I was around.

Ah, she’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

My baby don’t care, my baby don’t care.
My baby don’t care, my baby don’t care.
My baby don’t care. ”

- Ticket To Ride, The Beatles

I closed the door, completely I thought. I was wrong. The foundation had settled over the years, lopsided, being built on sand. The door frame was contorted and getting the lock to hitch itself into place proved itself harder than originally believed. I walked by the door, to the old house, all the time, glancing at it, wondering what was behind it now, if it was still the same, but never wanting to take a peek.

One day I walked by, looked up, and it was open. Just a crack, but still – open. I couldn’t not go back in but I couldn’t go back in. I stood halfway in, halfway out, for months. I tried to figure out what I should do. It was so comfortable there, in my old home. It felt safe, I knew what to expect in there. Outside, out where I was, it was frightening.

Looking around inside the house, it was impossible to not see all of the reasons why I’d moved to begin with. That shaky foundation. The floor was cracked, splits ran up the walls, paint peeled, broken glass scattered the floor, already littered with dead flowers and blood stains. Towards the back, from my one footed stance at the door, I could see a light. It was warm and bright and inviting. I wasn’t sure what it was. I was curious. If I was willing to make my way through the rubble of the uninhabitable, I would find out.

I wasn’t willing: it wasn’t worth it. I stepped back out and turned away. Out here, where I am, it was – it is – warm and bright and inviting. I can see where the light originates. I closed the door again, realizing that the house would never stop beckoning me back, never stop shifting and opening that door again. So I started to hammer nails into it each time I walked by. I hammered them in with so much force, so much resolve, that the wood splintered, the heads disappearing almost completely inside of it.

It’s not opening again.

#4.

Thinking back, they were the most hideous shoes I’d ever seen. They were shaped like tortoises, black, with thick white soles and turquoise shoelaces, fuchsia lightning bolts etched on the sides. Who in their right mind would have worn them is beyond me.

Back then, they were the most amazing shoes I’d ever seen. Mailed all the way from California, from my mom, for my birthday. It was the first time she’d ever sent me anything, and I was elated. She’d remembered that year. My grandmother wouldn’t let me try them on until I’d opened my other gifts. I tore through them, barely paying attention,  and flopped down onto the kitchen floor and started to lace them. I rushed, with such excitement, and I could barely get the strings through holes.

When I did, I shoved my right foot into one and was horrified to find that they were too small. I squeezed and pushed and forced my foot, my huge foot, my much too long for my body foot into the shoe until it was on completely. My toes were crumpled together in the front, my arch was bent to its max and unable to settle down on the sole. I did the same with the other foot, and stood. My grandfather asked how they fit and I blurted out FINE! as he knelt down to test them for growing room with his thick fingers. I stepped back, gingerly, as my feet were already burning with pain. I walked, carefully, around the kitchen attempting to convince them that all was well. My grandfather ordered me back over to him and immediately announced that my shoes were much too tight. I argued, but he held up his hand to silence me.

I took them off and my grandmother called my mom, who said she’d ship another pair as soon as they mailed those back to her. She apologized to me, wished me a happy birthday, and promised to send me shoes that fit.My grandmother and I sent them off the two sizes too small sneakers at the post office the very next morning. My mother never sent me that other pair.

#3.

I sat with Katie and Christina at the blue table and they were my very best friends. I didn’t have very many, being as the class I was in had a very small number of students – 12. They used to fight in the bathroom sometimes, over who was more my best friend. The day that Christina and I came to class wearing the same coordinated outfit (a white tank top and white shorts with big fuchsia polka dots), Katie didn’t speak to either of us for the rest of the week.

This day, all of us wore different things, and we were getting along fine. In P.E. we had practiced running the mile for the President’s Physical Fitness test and we were tired and famished. “Stupid presidents and their stupid fitness tests. Girls can’t do pullups and climb ropes.” Katie huffed and puffed. “María could” Christina retorted. Katie didn’t say anything but looked sullen as she started opening her milk carton. “Only climb the rope. And one pullup.” I offered. My grandfather had built me a jungle gym in our backyard when I was in California for the summer as a surprise and I’d developed quite the upper body strength over the past few months. Katie still frowned as she she drank, pulling the carton down and revealing a chocolate mustache. She saw me looking at it and wiped it away with the back of her wrist.

My grandmother had packed my lunch that day, but I wasn’t sure what she’d given me. Probably fried bologna I complained to myself. My lunch box was plastic, yellow with a fading Charlie Brown scene painted on the front. It came with a thermos, which I opened first, happy to find apple juice, still cold. I poured some into the lid of my thermos which was also a cup and pushed it aside. I had a bunch of grapes, some with their stems still attached, of the red seedless variety. My sandwich was peanut butter and grape jelly, on whole wheat, and some plain Lay’s potato chips were in a small bag underneath it. What did I have to do to get my grandmother to buy some chips with flavor? I really wanted to try those sour cream and onion ones, but, all in all this was a good lunch.

We ate in silence, waiting for Katie to lift herself out of her mood since Christina and I had learned that it was impossible for either of us to do so.I finished my food messily and rabidly. By the time I was finished I had crumbs all over my shirt and peanut butter spread over my chin. Christina finished her cafeteria spaghetti, or as much of it as she was willing to stomach. The class was lining up to go back alreadyso we decided to leave Katie where she was, still poking her fork in her pizza, eating only the little cubes of pepperoni off of the top.

She was standing behind us soon enough, smiling from ear to ear because Jonathan Crutchfield asked her if he could have her sugar cookie and their fingers touched when she handed it to him.

#2.

I was 12, and I loved him. I loved him so much, in that awkward stage between woman and child. My breasts had just started developing, and I was being noticed by boys for more than my curly hair and my big ears. It was a magical time in my life. I wanted him to the be the first one to touch them, see them. Well, besides Javier, but Javier didn’t count – he groped them without permission in class one day, and I punched him in the arm.

I hated New York, but I loved it. I was used to North Carolina, to mild winters and quiet nights, people who spoke with warm twangs and comforting colloquialisms. New York was bitter, there were no smiles or salutations to strangers, the ‘children’ weren’t really children at all. They traded their parents’ porn in the hallways at my middle school, smoked real cigarettes instead of just pretending they were with empty fingertips and their warm breath against cold air. It was terrifying, and it was invigorating.

I loved that New York boy. He lived down the street from me, and he and his friends would play curb ball outside of my house. I would sit in my living room window and watch them, out of sight. Not that it mattered, they never looked in my direction, even when I was out in the open. They were too cool for the little bony girl with broad shoulders and big feet. They hadn’t noticed my new tits. I wanted them to. To notice me. And my tits.

The day after one particularly heavy snowfall, I heard the sharp bring! of a basketball hitting cement, over and over and new that a new game of curb ball had just began. I was prepared, I was going to be seen today. I was already dressed, in the tightest jeans I had, which weren’t actually tight, just too small for me after my latest hormone induced growth spurt, and a clingy shirt. I slipped on my mother’s heeled snow boots and my black coat, checking my hair in the mirror and prancing delicately out of the door and down the stairs.

I worked my way over to them, this little brown girl attempting to saunter like a grown woman and failing miserably at it. They didn’t look away from their game. I was almost across the street, to the opposite side of where the love of my life was standing, almost directly in his line of sight. And I slipped. The sole of my mother’s boot made contact with the slick black ice on the asphalt, and I went flying. In a second, I was spread eagle, on my back. I looked as if I were attempting to make snow angels where there was no ice.

“Daayuummm!” came the exclamations from the curb ball boys. I closed my eyes, too slow to attempt to play it off, too embarrassed to think of anything else to do but just lay there. I opened my eyes to find my love leaning over me. His long lashes fluttered as he blinked at me. “You aiight?” he asked. Before I could answer, he decided I was and walked away, continuing his game with his friends.

I lifted myself up out of the road when I heard a car round the corner. I wanted to die, but I wasn’t brave enough to do it that way. I figured jumping out of that window I spied on them from so often in the past would be quicker.

#1.

From the first time I paid attention to him, over a decade ago now, I’ve thought he was genius. He has a way of seeing and interpreting movies that not many other people possess. Even when I disagree with him, I still see his points. And he’s right on with this answer from his Answer Man column about kids and film. I’m determined to make sure my girls enjoy all kinds, see all kinds. I decide what is appropriate for them, not the corrupt and ridiculous MPAA and most of what’s out for kids right now, in America, is crap. Entertaining crap, but crap nonetheless.

____________________________________________________________________

Q. My 8-year-old son Andrew has taken an interest in my movie collection. We’ve been watching movies atypical for someone that young: “Rushmore,” “Spellbound” (the spelling bee documentary), “The Right Stuff,” “Tell No One” (with subtitles no less!) and this past Friday, a movie near and dear to you: “Dark City.”

It appears that kids can handle complex characters and story lines better than we think. Very rarely do I have to explain what was going on, and his comments indicate that he is getting it (during “Rushmore”: “Sometimes Max is not nice, but I like him”; on the ending of “Dark City,” “He knows all about her, but she doesn’t know about him!”)

What strikes me the most is how “natural” cinematic grammar is understood by children. No one has to sit down and explain things like cutaways, flashbacks, dream sequences, POV shots and the passage of time in films. How do they learn this stuff? Also, do you think the thematic material in the movies I listed is too much for 8-year-olds, or can I continue to brag and bore my friends?
Mike Spearns, St. Johns, Newfoundland

A. Start bragging. IMHO, kids up until about the age of 11 are more open to good movies than they will be again for some years, unless they fall prey to the deadening effect of peer pressure. A kid knows, as any adult does, that “Twilight” is a crashing bore. I suspect many teenagers like it because they have been ordered to by their peers.

Younger children instinctively love a Miyazaki animated film more than the meaningless action of films like “Monsters vs. Aliens” or “Kung Fu Panda.” They’re open to the magic. Later, some seem to need to be battered by noise and chaos.

I’ve never met a preschooler who did not respond well to silent comedy. A film critic friend of mine and his novelist wife raised their daughter on nothing but good films, and so she developed such good taste that she never has been able to stomach visual junk food.

As for understanding the language, the grammar of film seems to have evolved directly from the instincts of the first filmmakers. It requires no theory to understand the difference between a closeup and a long shot, or that a dream sequence is a dream sequence. A good movie contains all the instructions you need about how to watch it. This is true of the greatest films. Only junk like “Transformers 2″ requires an instruction manual.

I don’t really spend money on material possessions for myself, unless you count what I spend on t-shirts. (I don’t.) I spend it on them. That’s how it’s been since Bella was born pretty much. Of course I’ve bought myself things over the years, but compared to what they get? I’m like a hobo. I won’t think twice about dropping a large amount on my daughters, but for me? Rare.

That is going to change. I’ve almost decided that within the next few months, after I pay off my loan shark, I’m going to buy myself something nice. I deserve it.  It might not happen, I frequently buckle when I’m about to press the ’submit order’ button if it’s not something for my munchkins and I don’t doubt that it’ll take me some time to work up the nerve to make this purchase, but I know that I want it. And I have ideas!

[.via]

An iMac. My laptop has been giving me a lot of trouble lately, and while I love him, he needs to either be replaced or he needs to be used less. He shuts himself down at inopportune times, he runs super hot, he’s just one malfunction away from me losing everything on him (and yet I still haven’t backed up, jeeze). Since just about all new computers now come equipped with Windows 7, it seems to be a good time to make the switch to Apple, if I’m going to do it. I do want another laptop, but it’s a not a dire necessity, and I miss having a large display. I can postpone that, especially if I keep Patchouli (that’s my laptop’s name).

I really love the iMac’s all in one design and the wireless keyboard and mouse. I love the minimalistic design and the clean lines of it. I’m a girl and I like pretty things, and I’ve yet to see a computer as aesthetically pleasing to me. I love the huge-mun-gus display. I’ve polled all the people I know and a good 90% that have experience with both PCs and Macs say Mac. I’ve talked a lot to the photographers I know and every single one of them has said a Mac is best for photo processing and workflow, and if they don’t have one, they really want one.

I have reservations about getting one, many of the just regular PC to Mac things that everyone has such as right clicking, the cost of the systems compared to that of PCs and a couple of other things, but yeah. This is one of my ideas.

[.via]

A Nikon D300. I currently have a d40 (the smaller camera on the right) and it’s great, but I’m really limited. I feel constrained, I’ll blow up a photo that I know could have been much clearer, much crisper and I know that it’s not necessarily me but it’s the camera. The D300 is not a step up. It’s like…6 steps up. It’s closer to the D3X, which is Nikon’s top of the line SLR for pros, than it is to the d40, which is the very bottom rung. I love my current camera, but as I explore Flickr and JPG and a bunch of photography blogs and sites, I see that my initial reason for getting a DSLR in the first place (to capture really good memories of my daughters) would be better served with a better camera, better lenses, better everything.

Now there are in between cameras and I’ve looked at those as well, but I don’t think that’s what I’d want to do, especially since my hope for the distant future is to own one of those D3s. I would rather be closer to the top than the bottom, get a feel for the functions, the weight, the everything, so that when I do accomplish that absolute goal, I feel like I don’t have as steep a learning curve. And, if I ever did decide to start *gasp* doing this photography thing fore real for real, I would already have a camera capable. A great starter. Also, it takes pictures like this. And this. And this. And oh, this. I want to take pictures like that. I believe I could, if I really devoted the $ to it. And I don’t mind purchasing a refurbished from Nikon because I know they cover their refurbs under the same warranties as new, and their customer service on my current (purchased new) camera has always been excellent. I’d also consider a used if it was under warranty as well, or had one available for purchase. And I know that it’s the lenses that make the shots, and that rack up the bills.

[.via]

A new television. I didn’t have a television in my room for quite a while, and I was fine with that. I don’t really watch tv because I’ve been spoiled by too much DVR and not having it here makes it so that I only watch my shows on the internet. Then my grandfather bought a small television for the girls, and now we have that. And too many times am I looking at something on this itty bitty screen and wishing it were larger, clearer, better. If I get a TV, I’ll be getting a 32″ flat screen. It’s the perfect size for my room – the length of space between were I normally would be watching from and it’s location and if I move, it would be fine for a living room display too, short term.

If I get a television, of course I will get a blu ray player and what not – that’s a given. But, I will get an XBox 360 Elite at the same time and my concern with that is the future time/$$ suck. I know how I am with video games. I get obsessed. I start one and I will. not. stop. until I’ve completed it or entirely given up (which is rare). I’ll spend hours and hours researching upcoming games, reading up on and reviewing current ones. I’ll spend too much $$ that I don’t have on new purchases. I’ll just…it’ll be ugly if I haven’t gotten any better at maintaining my composure over it in the last 5 years. Especially with XBox Live and the fact that I already know like 20 people that have texted/twittered/emailed me their usernames so that I can add them immediately when I procure my system. I mean, I could prevent the $$ suck by just pirating the games and movies that I don’t want to pay for, but the time? Yeah, unlike the past, I have responsibilities that cannot be postponed so that I can finish a level. If I don’t have a handle on that, it’s not a good idea.

Also, with the prior ideas, I can justify the expense. I need a computer for school, for writing, for play. I have to have a reliable computer, it’s just not optional. I could potentially use the camera to generate income, so it could be seen as an investment, and the memories I’d capture – that I already capture – truly are priceless. With the entertainment system, it’s basically just “I want it.” Although, it is the cheapest of all the options.

[.via]

New York City. Not really material, nor is it optional like the things above. I’m going for BlogHer ‘10 next August. I would have preferred to go to Comic-Con, but today I discovered that the 4-Day passes were not already on sale, but are sold out. So yeah, 2011 it is, which will be good anyway since The Avengers is still looking at a summer 2012 release and I know the Comic-Con previews and panels that year will be SO FUCKING GOOD.

I could go on and pay for the plane ticket and hotel stay, and put aside whatever spending money, instead of doing what I did last year and procrastinating on saving for so long that I almost didn’t make it. My issue with this is that I promised the girls that the next time I got on a plane, they’d be going with me. And I don’t see a trip (that requires a flight) in my budget between now and then. I could circumvent breaking this promise (it would be my first broken promise and also the first lie I’ve told them) by driving up. I’ve taken that drive before, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But parking at a lot for a week in NYC? No. Thanks. Yes, I want to stay for a week. I stayed in Chicago for a week this year, not my plan and it was hard the first couple of days but I came back home so happy and refreshed that I knew I not only wanted to make it an annual thing, but I needed to.

I suppose I could watch for cheap Jet Blue flights to somewhere inexpensive, and close, between now and then and take the girls on the first one that I was able to. I don’t know. I’d have to come up with something.

I have other ideas as well, but I’m tired of typing now.

“are you and joey back together?

“what’s going on with you and joey?”

“what’s going to happen with you and joey?”

“how are you and joey doing?”

“what’s up with you and your boyfriend?”

Those are real questions that I’ve received over just the last week. My answer to all of these questions is this:

“None of your business.”

It may sound harsh but it’s the only answer I feel like giving. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t have exposed my relationship with him so much. That is to say that while cardboard love would still be up and running, there would be no links on the about page to our blogs, it would be a pretty well kept secret of who the artist and the muse were. I can’t take it back though, and most of the time I don’t mind really: I’ve met some beautiful people and read some beautiful things because of it.

I understand, and I appreciate, that people are invested in our relationship, but I’d much rather they took more interest in their own love lives. It stifles my openness to know that there are people out there, reading my words, looking at my pictures, and dissecting all of it. Trying to find hidden meanings, different interpretations. It makes me want to shut everyone out  and not blog about being in or out of love at all.

I think after I have everything sorted out, in my head – not necessarily meaning with he and I – that I’ll be fine writing about it all. Whatever  ‘it’ is. I am a complicated person. My life, my relationships are so much more complex than anyone online knows. Hard to believe, but I don’t write about everything here. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, which I don’t.

I have a  pretty good idea what the future will hold for Joey and I. But I’m not willing to prance it out for the rest of the world. Not right now at least.

1. I am like a bomb when I’m angry. Cut the right wire and almost instantly, everything is fine. Cut the wrong one and just as instantly, shit will blow up. Also, sometimes there’s more than one wire. I’m pretty easy to diffuse, but you have to take care and basically know exactly what you’re doing because if you just wing it, there’s a hell of a price to pay for making it any worse.
2. I am made up almost entirely of contradictions. It stems from being overly introspective. I’m constantly analyzing myself and my decisions. Pair this with a penchant for honesty and the tendency to reveal more information than needed and you get someone that is seemingly unable to make up their mind. I believe that all it really is that I am just as likely to take you with me on my journey of self realization and personal responsibility as I am to go on it alone, inside.
3. So, I change my mind quite often.
4. I do not like to be wrong, but I’m usually quite fine with admitting I wasn’t right.
5. I hate when people try to figure me out. It’s impossible.
6. I hate it even more when people find out that you have some semblance of a diagnosable mental condition and begin to completely discredit all of your feelings and actions that they don’t approve of or understand by saying that it’s the crazy in you, not really you.
7. I will trust almost anyone with my life but I trust no one with my bare secrets.
8. I take my life and health for granted because I’m not afraid of dying.
9. I am just as easy to please as I am hard to.
10. I believe I feel more intensely than other people because fewer things cause me to actually feel anything. My emotion is heavily concentrated.