22.dec.2003
this post was originally supposed to cover music crit.
--
peep. "yes?" "mmmmmorrre cooookiesss......."
The last Radiohead album I truly recall being giddy about was OK Computer. Since then, it's been comfortable and lethargic amusement. Sometimes, recent chords bathe me in liquid morphine, but I haven't exclaimed, deeply and fully, "YES!" into dark rooms over Thom Yorke's broken falsetto since the same year I raised an eyebrow at Depeche Mode's admirable yet failed attempts to produce something listenable.
I have a poetic respect for all of "There There", and I tend to insert into conversation, "Just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there." Slap me in the face with your lazy proclamations, your half-hearted passions, and dig your dirty nails into my soft and swollen shoulder-blades, Thomas. Kick my piano across the room and let me be.
--
Standing outside Penn Square Mall with my best friend of fifteen years, leaning against a lavender rail overlooking the parking lot, the most blue-collar and roughed neo-punk approached me. He asked, "How are you doing tonight?" to which I responded callously, "You want a cigarette."
"No ... do I look like that much of a bum?"
"I'm just preparing myself," I said, grinning asymmetrically.
The conversation progressed, despite my veiled allusions to lesbianism (i.e., throwing my black-blazered arm around my best friend's shoulders, stating she attends Wellesley, the lesbian capital of the earth ...), he continued to flirt with me by expressing he was recently released from a mental institution and he hasn't dropped LSD in years and he really, really liked all of my outfit.
Is that what it takes for you kids these days? Do the relational, sexual juices begin to pour over the slightest bit of that all-too-ordinary emotional dysfunction? Does it take a wallet chain and leather arm-bands with Sid Vicious spikes and Pink Floyd references? Is this why you're all so verily fucked up?
To add to my disgruntlement, he looked vaguely like Dustin (another of the romantically entropic morons I found attractive under the weight of hallucinatory drugs). I shook his hand, let him be, and waltzed away, brim of skirt swaying over top of knee-highs.
Despite my best efforts of ensuring otherwise, it doesn't take that kind of pseudo-crazed, flirtatious behavior, that, "I'm annoyingly dangerous, let's suck each other's blood.", to catch my attention.
That being said, all I really want is some cynically intelligent, six-foot-three, and salacious-eyed beast to wiggle his cold and emaciated fingers into my collar, gingerly pull my ear against his mouth, and murmur, "I am going to fuck you until you don't even remember where you came from, what you stood for, and where you've wanted to go with your life. After which, I ..." (be sure to trail in mid-sentence to stretch a tongue to my lobe and moan in a dark voice) "... will just emotionally fuck you up."
Yes sir! Where do I sign my name! Here, take my MasterCard! My Visa! My pin numbers are scribbled eagerly on this slip of paper! I live right off the Broadway Extension! I have handcuffs and candlewax! I promise to be so smitten with you it unnerves everyone I know! Please! Please! Fuck me up! Take my money! Leave me in a different city with no dignity left to my name! Meet my parents!
--
I sauntered off with such a fuck-you in my kinetic energy, it repelled the remainder of the shattered and insane neo-pandemonium junk-yard sex-swindlers.
After which, we drifted into FYE, purchased some goodies (I finally bought Wicked City), lovingly crashed a party of friends we hadn't seen since high school, I flirted ridiculously with someone whose goofy mentality matches that of one of my previous heart-beasts, and he stood to an astonishing height of seven feet (six-three, actually, but hyperbole turns an ordinary moment into something grand) and flirted back, viewed a movie filmed on Wellesley campus (Mona Lisa Smile - I want you to do yourself the favor of not wasting time), drove through my old neighborhood (Nichols Hills) and returned here, where I watched Wicked City and was so aroused by its typical hentai that I brought myself to stifled orgasm three times.
Seconds before the third, Jubal called, and to celebrate, I answered my cell phone and came as controlled as I absolutely desire to be.
--
I've been feeling hushed and sensual, sardonic and desirable, chafed and reasonably erotic. Jaded and heated and lip-bit and eye-stung and promising and hip-bent and swaggeringly sexual.
In the midst of conversation, in which Jubal was staid and equally darling, he would speak aimlessly and I would coo, "God, keep talking.", and over his chuckling, his banter, and his directional vocalism, I would coo, "I want to lick the sweat from your temples."
And he'd ask, "Wwwwhaaaat?"
And I'd reply, "Nothing, dear."
Or:
"You didn't hear what I just said."
"I did not," he'd say.
"A shame ..."
And:
"I should get going," he stated after a while of horrible sexual tension radiating primarily from my end.
"I'll be having dreams of you," I said.
"Undoubtedly," he said.
"That's so condescending!" I said fabulously. "You are so hot."
And he laughed.
And we rang off.
And the clock struck five (or, I merely looked at my cell-phone screen), and I retired to bed, and I awoke with my puppies beside me to a promise of ice and sleet and nearly refused to move.
My back feels twisted, as though I must have been locked into Kama Sutra positions in my sleep. I look forward to my next lover, as he shall indubitably be wrecked and smothered beneath the weight of my shimmering sensuality.
Because really, there's no time for inhibitions, strain, and being bored to tears by the demanded morning blow job.
--
time & machine