I’ve been thinking a lot about how and when I decide to give a guy the heave ho. “What if?” are words that whisper in the back of my consciousness. Do I want to live with the glaring gaps that seem to show up sometime between the first email and the 4th date.
Take the Cyclist, for example. A very nice guy. But we definitely had a humor gap! Our emails were too brief to know for sure, but after an hour with him, it was fairly apparent that laughter and silliness weren’t a part of his personality. I thought maybe it was nervousness, but the second date was even less fun. The Beer Guy was hilarious – in emails, on the phone and in person. We had a natural repartee that was stimulating and delightful. He was intelligent too. But we experienced an emotional gap: he performed the “push me, pull yous,” with so much ease I soon realized it was second nature for him to “invite me in, and then push me away.” He even copped to it when I called him on it. But he wasn’t able or willing to try to change. The surfer and I had a different kind of emotional gap. He got scared when things got too close, and off he ran.
The Engineer and I had a “values gap.” He owned a huge house and wanted to buy land and build, and have more and more stuff. He drove a fast Porsche on the weekends, and SUV during the week. I’ve had a few “what if” moments about him. But I let him loose before I did a reality check.
Sexual gaps? I’ve encountered a few of those. He can’t get it up. He’s not that interested in sex. He kisses badly. STDs. Or the Forestry Guy who made love with his eyes open. I had great sex with the Beekeeper, and often. But his old girlfriend was obviously still in love with him, and kept showing up.
I want to be able to go for a hike or a bike ride with my man. I don’t think I can tolerate much of a “physical gap.” The surfer was great for a 50-mile bike ride, or a hike in the hills. He was a great kisser, but couldn’t get it up regularly. The Engineer liked to ride bikes, too. The Beer Man liked a stroll, but didn’t have much stamina. The Cyclist and I never got around to a bike ride. The Beekeeper and I rode bikes together and he could have sex for hours. I went on a 1st date stroll with a Lawyer last August. He panted and sweated the whole time. But he took me out to dinner and played some great rock and roll on his most-excellent stereo system.
Which brings us to the cultural gap. This can come from age difference, ethnic differences, or merely mindset differences. Music, food, events, and other lifestyle issues make up our culture. I like to try new things, but I want some comfortable compatibility in the culture arena.
The Urban Farmer is hilarious, sexy, handsome, intelligent, fun, easy-going, physically fit, forgiving, and kind. And he lives 1000 miles away. Distance is definitely a gap.
I’m not about to break the no connecting first rule just yet, but it doesn’t stop me from getting obsessive about checking my phone. Doesn’t stop the dreams from coming. Every night. I’m infuriated with myself for letting him get to me like this, for even thinking that I was going to be more than a weekend of pleasure for him. Thinking about it he’s probably got girls scattered everywhere the bastard. So on we go, trying to get back to normal after meeting the best fuck of my whole damn life so far, and that’s not easy.
I work in a small office in the City, most of the girls work in the type pool, I’m a PA, and my boss is a jackass. Not to put too fine a point on it, he’s old enough to know better. I’m the only PA he’s had who’s lasted longer than three weeks. That’s because I don’t let him get away with anything. And keep commenting on his wife and children. That usually brings them back to the real world pretty quickly.
Anyway, this morning I arrive in early take my position in front of my phone and computer and order coffee for the meeting at ten. It’s empty at this time of morning just before eight. Dreams woke me up hot and bothered before six, so I took a run through the local park to de-sex myself before work. It’s now seven twenty. I drift and think of X, I feel the small fair hairs on my thighs react to the vision in my head of his fingers on me. And then I am ripped from the moment from a loud grunt from my boss’ office. I sit in silence a moment in panic thinking what to do when someone has a heart attack, because that’s what it sounds like.
Grunt.
Strained breath.
Grunt.
Fuck, why me? I don’t want to touch him let alone give him CPR.
Tentatively I get up and press my ear up against the door of the office, the glass surrounds are covered in blinds which are all drawn.
Grunt.
Either he’s close to death or being strangled alive.
I burst the door open and it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. But the do.
What I see before me is the office junior, butt naked bent over the desk. She’s twenty, maximum, incredibly skinny but gorgeous in a fragile way. She has one hand in between her thighs, the other still tugging her non existent breast. And him, stood there behind, grunting pants around his ankles, sweat dripping off his face. Grunting.
I’m quite aware that my mouth is wide open at this point but I can’t quite get my jaw to listen to my brain and shut up, so I raise my hand to cover it up instead. She has noticed I’m there but he is past caring and makes the most hideous squealing noise, and releases into her. He then coldly asks her to “go clean up” and she squirrels away getting dressed quickly looking at me all the while.
He simply hocks up his old man pants and Closes his zipper, completely unabashed that I’ve just seen his cock and will mortify me for life.
“Discretion Miss Woo, is the better part of valour.”
I get it, he wants me to keep my mouth shut? Well it will be interesting to see what he does about my pay rise at Christmas. I nod, still unable to remove my mouth from my hand or close my mouth. I can do secrets, but I will tell a few select friends, of course.
I return to my desk, and glance over the face of my mobile. Used to seeing nothing there, I switch on my pc and do a double take. The screen is flashing with an alert. 2 missed calls and a text. No voice mail. I grab it and run to the ladies where I find junior patting her face with tissues. I run to the fist free cubicle and take a seat.
“Tried to call, things difficult here. Will call soon. X.”
I hold out my hand, beckoning her to take it. She looks up at me and laughs cooly, the moonlight glancing off her flushed cheeks. She wraps her fingers around mine and I pull her up on the rock. Our jeans are rolled up; still wet though after wading through the frothy surf. The barnacles scratch the soles of our feet, but I guess she didn’t seem to mind much. The incoming waves pound against the rocks in front of us, throwing up foam that caresses our faces. The night is clear, except for a single wispy cloud near Sagittarius. Off in the distance, there the city sleeps quietly with its lights glowing gently, while around us the sand basks in the glow of the moon and stars.
My finger points at the swirling froth in the waves, clockwise, counterclockwise, each spin shimmering with the welcoming lights of a million bio-luminescent creatures coming to life. I can hear her mouthing gasp, her amazement, her childish wonder, her anticipation of the wait. I pick my moment, slipping my fingers between hers. We both crack a sarcastic smile before bursting into laughter, piercing the dry night with life.
It’s moments like these, it’s moments like these, she repeats softly as I lead her back to the sand, taking short hops from rock to rock. It’s moments like these, as our toes wiggle into the wet sand. Moments like these … as we plop onto the blanket I’ve hidden with care behind the towering cliff face. Yeah, it’s moments like these that I truly love.
The sudden breeze tucks her wavy hair behind her ears, and she glowed. She puts her hand on my heart, and asks, “Do you always have to be like this, J.?” How could I reply to such a question? I mumble, I mouth a reply, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore once our lips are locked. And it’s moments like these, that the world stops around us, leaning in, struggling to hear the whispers inside.
How many crazy fucking days has this been going on? I don’t know how much more I can take at once without losing my mind- or what is left of it. Last night, I was informed that not only had Steve decided to put my cunt into retirement… he told K all about it. He told K a lot last night about me… my sick obsession with this game… my twisted, broken body… my twisted, broken mind. My fear and terror of his women, particularly her. She laughed her ass off at me. So did he.
Heidi fucked me last night, with one of our giant, specialty dildos while egging me on verbally to get a rise out of me because I had just shut down from exhaustion, humiliation, fear, tension… you name it. She finally revived me with the information that she and I had to find Steve a woman for today or tonight as none was scheduled. She pointed out that in times like these I won’t be capable of servicing him and her odds aren’t even that high… he needs fresh meat. It’s the only answer. And she’s right. I can’t take it. I’m not really coping anymore. But she’s right. So, he must be served… we must provide.
First, some stuff: I’m no longer updating the Benrik blog because I’ve quit doing the Tasks for this year. Next year I’ll attempt the next book, but until then . . .
I’m also going to try and update this blog every day, and to make sure that the entries are actually coherent instead of just the random musings of a madman, which is all we were going on before.
As y’all know (I’ve told you enough), I’m serializing my urban fantasy novella, Ghost Dance, on another WordPress blog. Chapter seven (in which Linda kicks some more ass, the true nature of Ol’ Scratch is hinted at, and Linda’s father has shenanigans) was posted just the other day. If you like mythology, folklore, the north Georgia mountains, or any of the various subdivisions of fantasy, I suggest you check it out. It can be found here: http://authorofghostdance.wordpress.com/
And now, onto the meat of today’s entry:
The other night, in a fit of what may have been temporary insanity, I wrote the following letter to Brian Keene of http://www.briankeene.com:
Brian Keene
P.O Box 281
Craley, PA 17312
Dear Mr. Keene,
You can call me Nate. I just turned eighteen in December, I’m an aspiring novelist (amongst many other things), and I live in Mississippi. You may remember me; I used to post on the Keenedom, but I had a bit of a “fanboy moment” (sorry about that . . .) and decided to quietly make an exit; I’m not much of a forum guy anyways. I’m writing you because the other day I picked up The Black Train by Edward Lee at my friendly neighborhood bookstore and it reminded me of how much I like paperback horror novels (I’ve been moving more towards classics these past few months); as soon as I got home I randomly picked The Conqueror Worms off of my bookshelf and devoured it in just a few hours. It’s not your best, out of what books of yours I’ve read, but it’s still very good and I enjoyed it even more upon the second reading.
I remembered seeing a P.O box on the contact page on your website and it occurred to me that I haven’t gotten a letter in the snail-mail in years, so I decided to send one off. I haven’t been following your blog since my silent departure about a year ago, so I hope that things are going well for you and you have my condolences and good wishes if they’ve been less than awesome. I look foreward to hearing from you just as soon as you find the time and/or money for stamps; I’m not going anyplace. I wish you the best of luck; so long as you keeps on a-writin’ them there books, I’s gonna keep a-buyin’ ‘em!
Sincerely,
Nate.
P.S.: I’m a little short of funds right now, but as soon as I can spare fifty bucks I do plan on subscribing to the newsletter. If it’s half as great as the other stuff you’ve written, that’s chump change.
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As some of you may or may not know: Brian Keene is a totally awesome horror writer. He was born in Pennsylvania sometime around when Brian chased the Dane (he falls into the “not as old as my dad but still alot older than me” demographic) and still lives there to this day. He’s the author of such celebrated titles as The Rising, City of the Dead, Dark Hollow, Ghost Walk, Terminal, The Conqueror Worms, and many, many others. I found out about him a couple of years ago through a History Channel special on zombies and was hooked immediately. I cumbered around on his forum for a little while until the aforementioned “incident”; since the place had never been to my liking anyway, I ducked out all silent-like instead of making a big stink because I really respect Brian Keene and didn’t want to piss him off too much or pollute his forum with aimless griping. (Since then I found out they banned me, which thought was weird since nobody’d mentioned it before I left; I reckon that once it became clear I’d sodded off, they figgered it didn’t matter.)
(NOTE: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS SPOILERS)
Excluding Sympathy for the Devil and Unhappy Endings (an article collection and a short story collection, respectively), I’d order those books of his I’ve read from best to worst as follows:
Ghost Walk The Rising
Dark Hollow
Ghoul
The Conqueror Worms
City of the Dead
Ghost Walk is my favorite for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it’s exactly the right length to tell the story. Keene is a very verbose writer, and it seems like in some of his books (especially the last two) he’s mincing words; Ghost Walk is without a doubt the slimmest volume listed. Second, the mechanical execution is flawless; I got a real The Great Gatsby vibe while reading it, by which I mean that I didn’t see a single wooden phrase, dying metaphor, or poorly-chosen word in the whole thing. Third (and perhaps most important of all), it’s the only end-of-the-world-is-imminent book listed where the humans (er, human, in this case) manage to thwart the Thirteen. The others are full of ass-kicking (zombie upon zombie upon zombie gets wasted in The Rising and City of the Dead, and the scene in The Conqueror Worms where carl kills Behemoth made me almost as happy as in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves when Friar Tuck piles all those heavy sacks of gold in the bishop’s arms and is all “And here’s thirty pieces of silver, to pay your way to HELL!” shoves him out the window), but in the end things always turn sour for our heroes (except in City of the Dead, which as a sort-of happy ending; at least, as happy an ending as can be expected). Ghost Walk doesn’t really have a happy ending either, but the world gets saved and the evil monster dude gets thwarted.
The middle ones all have their ups and downs. The Rising is epic, not just long but really epic (of Stand-like proportions), and the characterization and description are beautiful, but it’s Keene’s first novel and has all the faults one might expect in a first novel; the language gets a bit choppy in places, for instance, and I think he really screwed the pooch on the ending (hint: he never intended to write a sequal). Dark Hollow and Ghoul are both personal favorites of mine; both are tragic, brutal, and humorous in just the right ammounts and places, and both revolve around awesomely horrible monsters (Dark Hollow is one of the only books I’ve read that made me really honestly lose sleep; if you’re a man, or if you’re a fan of Bill Hicks’s Goatboy sketch, I reccomend reading it with the lights on). The Conqueror Worms we’ve already discussed.
I put City of the Dead at the bottom of the stack because it’s much too fat; it has all the same qualities that made me love The Rising and with fewer of those first-novel flaws, but it seems to just go on and on and on forever with no tangible hope of a happy ending (sort of like being trapped in a videogame you know you can’t win). But all of the good qualities far outweigh the bad, and if you don’t mind a good long yarn (and a bit of a shaggy dog story, let’s be honest) I highly reccomend it; if you enjoyed Stephen King’s Dark Tower books, you know what I mean.
So enough about that crusty old bastard. Let’s talk about ME!
I finished reading William Golding’s The Inheritors the other day; I enjoyed it, though it was kind of sad. Today I cracked open The Phantom Legion by Cameron Judd; I loved The Shadow Warriors (the first book in the trilogy) and I can’t wait to see what happens in this next volume, plus I really need the inspiration for the Overmountain man story I’m trying to write.
I picked up a couple of printed-on-dead-trees job applications from stores, and I’m about to start filling out an online one for the Books-a-Million at the mall here; looks like my trip to Canada this summer will be a go! I don’t need much cash, as I’ve got no qualms about eating spam-and-ketchup sandwiches and sleeping in my truck for a week or two. The most expensive thing will probably be gas.
After a bit of deliberation, I’ve decided that, yes, I will go to community college. I feel like an elitist ass for objecting to it for so long, but the truth is I only want a college degree so I can get my teaching job; anything I could learn at some fancy-pants expensive-as-Hell university, I could teach myself at a public library. So what does it matter if I get said degree from a community college?
I’ve hit a little bit of a roadblock on my writing. I can’t wait for ScriptFrenzy (www.scriptfrenzy.org) to start so that I can get all of these ideas for my Song of Roland stage play out of my head. I’ve decided that once I get my hundred pages for ScriptFrenzy done, I can start on this awesome new novel idea I had; this commitment is important, because I have a bad habit of throwing all my energy into a new project for a week or two and totally burning out. This new idea was inspired by Forbidden History, an anthology of fringe-science and fringe-history essays put out by the folks behind Atlantis Rising magazine; not to say too much, but it involves cavemen. Thus my reading Golding’s The Inheritors, and placing Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear next in my stack after Phantom Legion.
I’m going to try and put most of my energy into finishing Parcel O’ Rogues (a zombie novella that is without a doubt the most politically-charged thing I’ve ever written) and the sequal to Ghost Dance. Said sequal will be called Houses of the Holy, and if I splice it with Ghost Dance, well, I’ll have myself a complete novel! I’m hoping that Dr. Pus (http://libraryofthelivingdead.lefora.com/) will be interested in it.
Desire can be a sign of positive bloodflow. Photograph courtesy of Victor Jeffreys II, phiary.com/diary/victor.
Dear Yenta,
I’ve been dating my best friend Taylor off and on for about two years now. It’s been really great and I love him so much. He’s helped me through my dad’s death in the past year and we are very close. Lately though I’ve started having feelings towards other people and being less interested when we are intimate. On top of that, I’ve stopped ignoring the feelings I’ve had for one of my good girl friends. She wrote me a letter and in it told me how she’s always felt about me.
She said in it that when she first met me that she knew there was something nerve-wracking and beautiful about me. I don’t know what to do because I think about her all the time and how wonderful it would be to be with her! I think about the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs and how she always looks perfect to me and I just have this desire to be with her, even though she thinks she is dorky. I don’t know if this is just a phase or not. Also, lately I’ve just been wanting to have sex a lot. With Taylor and with my other guy friends that are interested in me, or my ex boyfriends. It’s like I don’t even care anymore.
Am I morally obstructed for wanting to be with more than one person?
-Sweet Jewish Girl
Dear SJG,
You would only be morally obstructed if you were to act on all of your desires while feigning commitment to your boyfriend. There is no sin in entertaining thoughts. However, nine times out of ten, when you start thinking about sleeping with everyone around you more than about sleeping with your man, it is a sign that things between you aren’t right.
When people help us through hard times, it is hard to let them go. Your boyfriend, I have no doubt, is a wonderful man who made the pain of losing your father far less difficult. But just because someone was there when you needed them most does not mean you need to be with them forever. relationships shift and it might be time to end the romantic element of this one.
According to Elisabeth Kübler Ross, there are 7 stages of grief. These are:
1) Shock stage: Initial paralysis at hearing the bad news.
2) Denial stage: Trying to avoid the inevitable.
3) Anger stage: Frustrated outpouring of bottled-up emotion.
4) Bargaining stage: Seeking in vain for a way out.
5) Depression stage: Final realization of the inevitable.
6) Testing stage: Seeking realistic solutions.
7) Acceptance stage: Finally finding the way forward.
You, I am guessing, are somewhere between the Testing and the Acceptance phases. It sounds like you have waxed and waned through the hard work of letting a parent go and are now ready to begin to come alive again.
You can still show your love and your friendship, but sticking around out of obligation or guilt is not what relationships are about. Your desire to sleep with your friend and to sleep with everyone else is just your body’s way of saying that it is time to move on. Get bad with your lesbian half. Find what makes you tick.
Sometimes, sadly, those people who help us through hard times also remind us of the suffering we experienced. It might be time to end your intimacy with your boyfriend because he holds a lot of the grief you just walked through, and now you need distance from those feelings. It isn’t fair, but it can be part of the process of mourning, moving on, and continuing to live a good life.
You only live that good life once, so be true to yourself. You can show your love and appreciation for your boyfriend without being his significant other. It is possible to end this era of the relationship, while expressing how important he was and is to you. For help, see these tips on gentle breakups from AllWomenStalk.com. Figure out what you want and then go get it. Just be sure to be kind and gentle as you untie yourself from this guy: he sounds like someone who deserves it.
A Canadian girl at breakfast this morning also advises going out with a royal final hurrah. She suggests giving your man a threesome before dipping out. To each her own.
As I wrote a few days ago, The Young One has decided to completely disregard my request to stop pestering me for sex. He is persistent – well he did chase me for 6 years before I gave in and let him have a sniff of pussy. Today he and I have been messaging each other, starting out tame (ish) on our work emails, then moving to our personal emails when the messages became less… tame.
I have been haughty and unattainable, he has been lustful and hard and explicit. He tells me it has been a long time since we have been so dirty, yet, to be honest, I havent been dirty (much), but I have been making him chase hard, and this has made me hornier than I have been for a very long time.
The breathlessness, waiting for his replies to my demanding texts, my pussy lips and clit swollen and slick reading the words of what he wants to do to me while fingers type prim and properly shocked phrases. Nipples as hard as marbles erect against my modest work shirt, betraying the tormented unsatisfied desire to my work colleagues and staff. Discretely crossing and uncrossing my legs under my desk, putting pressure on my clit as I type, thinking about him across town with an achingly hard cock, a cock that is hard precisely because I want it to be. Lust, desperate to release. Pics taken in the toilet and sms’ed to me, fingers again reprimanding such filthy behaviour and demanding further depravity whilst shakingly prying between my legs in my own work-toilet torment.
This is how it was for years before we fucked, and to be honest, it was better then.
I want to be chased. I want to be hunted, to feel predatory eyes on me, readying for the pounce. Skillfully evading each attack and further increasing the hunger and desperation of both. Sometimes succumbing to the claws of raw lust, only to scramble to safety at the last moment… I think perhaps he isn’t really that keen on catching me either. I think he likes this game, and it is one he plays very very well.
I am not sure that the catch is my favorite part of the hunt.
