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life

No really, bitch, I LOVE YOU.

by Maria on March 19, 2010

in Friends & Fuckers

There’s this girl in my life, this girl with a love of t-shirts that rivals my own, that will cry over anything and everything lovely and sweet, that laughs with all the zest of a child, and will defend those she loves with a terrifying vengeance. She is too beautiful for words, inside and out. She deserves everything life has to offer and more. And I love her.

Last year when I wrote Miss’ birthday post, I hadn’t met her yet. This year, that seems impossible. I’m trying to figure out what life was like before the first time I felt her arms wrapped around me, squeezing all the air out of my lungs because she’s surprisingly strong. Life before I caught those contagious tears, doubled over in fits of laughter with her and realized that we roll our eyes at the same things, the same way. She is one of my very best friends, having been my main source of support, love and kicks in the ass over the past year in ways and situations I have absolutely no interest in detailing. She knows, I know, that’s all that matters.

Our lives are so different now than they were then, in many ways. She and I don’t talk as much as we used to but, in a way, it’s a positive thing. There’s no more pain and uncertainty to support each other through. Our relationship is solid, built on so much more than instant messages and phone calls – it stands on faith in each other, on loyalty and pure adulation for one another.

She’d be pleased to know that I’m sitting here blinking back tears as I type this, it always amuses her when I admit to it. It makes me think of our goodbye in Chicago last year, when I was trying to tell her  and the rest of our friends how much they meant to me, but I couldn’t get it out,  the words choked back by my heart swelling out of my chest with the love I felt. She held my hands as I struggled and we both tried to still our quivering bottom lips before just engulfing one another in a hug because it just wasn’t coming out, but she and they knew what I was trying to say.

3769614664 6edaa2ab2e No really, bitch, I LOVE YOU.

In a few months, I’ll see her again. It’s been too long. There’s only so many ways to tell her I love her from across the country and I plan on making sure she knows just how much I do when we’re together in New York. I’ve got the Chicago ready, all I need to do is press play.

OMG BITCH I LOVE YOU. Let’s continue driving each other insane forever, yes?


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Listening to: Michael Jackson – I Can’t Help It

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Different: Dance, Dance [VI]

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in Dance, Dance, Write of Passage

“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.
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Listening to: Radiohead – Nude

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The Gift.

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in Write of Passage

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.

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Embarrassed

by Maria on January 10, 2010

in Write of Passage

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.

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My 2009.

by Maria on January 2, 2010

in Self

I had my hair cut. I was tattooed by a super cute I think Irish guy with red hair. I got straight A’s. I stopped blogging so much and started twittering more. I kept reading everyone else, but quit trying to weasel out extra time in my days to comment.I found out that I’m not the only woman in the world that deduces exactly why celebrity men are hot. I discovered Supernatural. I battled an addiction to Chester’s Flaming Hot Fries. I saw Death Cab For Cutie live and it made me respect and like them so much more. I struggled with some demons and conquered them.

*

I met the most awesome-st, sweetest, best guy in the whole world who thinks I hung the moon (his words, not mine) and happens to be so cute I can barely stand it (WIN.). In less than a month it’ll be a whole year we’ve been together. We had some ups and downs, and they were all my fault (no like seriously, every single issue we’ve had, big or small, was my fault). He’s not really done one thing wrong the entire time I’ve known him and I’m pretty confident that he’ll never hurt me. It feels really good to feel like that. When you’re in a bad relationship for so long, you start to expect bullshit and harsh treatment, from everyone all of the time. It makes you bitter and defensive and just an overall pain in the ass.Well, it made me like that. In the back of my head, I knew that Joey and I would end or that it would turn ugly, and I went on my usual self destructing path and tried to sabotage it, even though I knew I didn’t want to lose it. I broke up with him at one point, pretty much convinced that I didn’t love him. Know why? Because I believed that if I loved him, I’d have the passion for him that I had for my ex. Where passion equals hatred.

I was in this…mindset. I needed sporadic friction. I needed to push and be pushed to breaking points and then build things back up (to tear them down again later). That’s how I expressed love and that’s how it was expressed to me. “Hey, let me really fuck with you, say and do some hurtful, unforgivable shit. Let me make you feel like complete crap and then let’s be okay again, because no matter how mad we make each other, we can always kiss and makeup.” What the fuck? … J. and I were really messed up. It took moving on to see that. Joey stuck by me while I worked all of that out. He believed in us, even when I didn’t, and it has made all the difference.

joey

Anyway, yeah, I’m not like that anymore. I’m not having those inner struggles, I’m totally happy with this boy that I love and my girls love and who loves us back. But enough about Joey, I don’t want him to get a big head.

*

One of the true highlights of the year was BlogHer ‘09, and not the conference. I mean the conference was wonderful, as usual, and I got to hang out with some really awesome people but the real joy was traversing all over Chicago with my makeshift band of sisters. They’re all amazing, and I can’t wait to see them again in 6 8 months.

red/miss

These two are physical proof that the internet is the best place to make friends. That the relationships we form through blogging are real and just as valid and marvelous as those nurtured in person. They’re not just beautiful, but they have hearts made of gold and primrose. They helped me get through tough times with sound advice and open arms and I love them. Also, all three of us went from competing for BIGGEST DOUCHEBAG EX to BEST BOYFRIEND IN THE UNIVERSE. Happily? There’s really been no clear cut winner in the latter category and probably never will be. I’m jealous that they live much closer to each other than they probably ever will to me, but you know. It’s ok. Makes me more special since I’m seen so much less. Heh.

*

My baby started school ohmygod and she’s doing wonderfully. She loves it. My other baby stopped sucking her thumb, simply because I told her to which I hear is pretty awesome. They grew and  flourished and turned 6 and 4 years old. They challenged me and made me a better person, again and again. They showed how resilient they are, how smart and calculated they can be. They made strides towards becoming the young women I hope they will be, tough and beautiful and intelligent and loving. For the first time we celebrated holidays and birthdays a new family, and they didn’t miss a beat.

GIRLS

They also have like THE best fashion sense in the world – especially The Bella. That girl can throw together an outfit. Did you know she wants to be a dentist that moonlights as a clothing or interior designer? She’s currently drawing designs for her new t-shirt collection as I type. Seems like a unique aspiration for a Kindergartner, and I completely support it. Goobie wants to be a Dr. Princess, which is totally average,  but still totally awesome.

*

So yeah, my year was wonderful. Except I gained 15 pounds. Small price to pay for bliss, I guess. How was yours?

cheese

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Listening to: James Morrison – If The Rain Must Fall

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