Monthly Archives: April 2017

I stood over the water, watching a regal goose stalk the dead arms of branches on top of bracken. I followed the waves with my eyes which lapped up to the shore in soft surface breaths, though with my desire for action mounting, this was anything but calming. I sat on the bench reading and waiting, my impatience making barely noticeable the sound of the water’s exhalations.

Finally I was allowed upstairs, but the man was giving too many directions to my desire. First this, then that–mechanics. When what I wanted was to debauch. He held my wrists back and told my fingers not to penetrate. I couldn’t kiss him. My lips couldn’t touch him anywhere on his body, nor his mine. It was a completely sterile and useless affair–like the bare white walls of his room (decorated with little plants here and there — iridescent orchids on the windowsill), it was reminiscent of a monk’s room. Eventually my member couldn’t penetrate. My lips never touched his body.

I should have known what to expect based on his profile and his picture, because a high position in life and eyes as big as blue jewels always belie madness. We called it then, and he confessed that he was using me to get himself loose for someone later on. I was somewhat taken aback, but what I really minded was the limitations set on our experiences. Because he didn’t want to experience me per say. As well as the myriad steps it had taken to even get to bed–shower, lubricant, slow entrances–then the series of interruptions, the man stopping to check my cleanliness and the cleanliness of his sheets–no variation, just penetration.

I capitulated to each demand, which carried me further away from carnal depravity. When it was the only thing I wanted. To touch my own depravity in someone else.

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Money Problems

This morning I had to make an extra stop at the Best Buy to replace my laptop charger. After five years of use, it was already mouse gray and broken–the copper wiring knifing its way through. I was keeping the thing together with black electrical tape. Alas, the little green light failed to turn on this morning while working on a project.

After hemorrhaging eighty dollars I didn’t have, I ordered an UBER to work, because I wouldn’t have gotten there in time, and because lateness is bad for work ethic. A Jamaican woman drove up to me in a cherry red Kia Sedan outside the entrance of Best Buy. Her name was Asan, and talking with her on my way to work helped assuage the pain of having only five dollars in my account.

From the moment I stepped into her car the mood and rhythm of time became jangly, skipping beats. We moved backwards, then forwards, outside of the parking lot, and drove through the Jersey City neighborhood into Hoboken, noting the strange placement of traffic stops. Asan was as animated as her speech, her body swaying as she drove, her hands uncorking a bottle of skin cream as we stopped. She told me about her kids, how she moved to Newark from New York and never wanted to go back (like everyone else who hates New York, she complained of the crowds). Inclined to agree, I told her I couldn’t scratch my butt in New York without someone being around to watch me. All this as Mr. Vegas crooned the all too familiar refrain: heads higgghh, kill dem wit it noww.

She told me how excited she was that summer was coming and about her tummy tuck. “Do I want to spend $10,000? But then I thought to myself–if I don’t do this now I’m always going to be thinking about it later. Now’s the time.”

Certainly when life is going well, now is always the time. No one wants to be left wondering what life could have been like when you have the opportunity to make such a drastic change, and for the better. Meeting Asan was a nice reprieve from depressive thoughts.

This morning I was speeding up the blocks, hung over, trying to ignore the pounding hollowness in my skull. I hadn’t had enough water after drinking, and I didn’t have anything to eat before leaving. Though last night I had binged on so much flesh.

My face was bare and my hair blew like fat wisps in a blistering wind. Good thing I was wearing my dark green Carhartt jacket–it’s worn and weathered but it keeps me warm. It was so early though. Keeping my eyes open felt like a nuisance. And when I got home and propped open my computer to catch up on work, my mind felt like a fresh wound.

Now I’m trying to decompress from this exhaustion, and use this diary as a stay against my horrendous anxiety. Anxiety about not having a stable source of income even though I have a degree. Apparently it’s really hard to be brown AND get a job. After twelve interviews, and hearing everything from we’ve already filled the position, to we think you’re too creative, to you’re overqualified, and we can’t justify hiring you, or, you’re just not the right candidate (15 interviews!) I feel quite ready to give up.

Though I am still moving forward by working small jobs here and there. It may be possible that this movement is motivated by a deadening depression. To get away from it, I am pushing myself into the world like a blue petunia. Chugging along, only to return to the anxiety which is always threading itself through. Anxiety about not being the same as all other adults insofar as I don’t have a steady job and I don’t have my own place. I’m living with my mother now, my sister, and my mother’s obnoxious boyfriend who should not be here. I can’t even use the bathroom when I want to. I have to stand at the window like a cherub and pee in long, splattering, ungraceful arcs.

Anxiety, a lack of self esteem, an escapist nature is a very dangerous mix, dangerous because of what it makes me do. Constantly running into other mens’ arms, sex is a way to ask if I am desirable even with my foibles and failures. One day, I hope to feel more fulfilled when I can give myself everything that I need.

For a while my writing was gaining momentum from new relationships, my friends’ cats, and from the Maine landscape. City life does not stimulate my creativity. It drains and kills it. My writing is crying out for something different.