Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Just Classic

I stopped at the light. My head resting back on the seat, fine hairs lifting and separating, landing upon my gin soaked lips, dancing across my collarbone and lapping at the tip of my nose. A long day at its end, dinner consumed, out, and with the lube of not one but two martinis. The long light giving me pause to try and tuck the wildly flipping stands of white blonde behind my ear and plunge my pudgy paw into the center console in an effort to retrieve my increasingly disoriented radio remote. Lady Gaga, flip, some Irish sounding “rock” band, flip, the shallow and tinny sound of studio produced music taking less than a few seconds to turn me off and inspire my wandering thumb to scroll up and down.

“Layla, you got me on my knees” the soulful plucking of guitar strings in place of electric screeching and intensity, the groan of the taught wire palpable as the thick-skinned fingers pressed them hard against the vibrating frame of the curvy instrument. “Begging darling please, Layla” and older, calmer, more longing Eric Clapton’s voice a mix of want, remembrance and wisdom as his long ago ache spilled out into the warm caverns of my 2007 red Camry…before I knew it I’d slipped my fingers around the tight little top button of my uniform shirt and in one fail swoop, set a tiny bit of my work day flesh free. Clapton’s voice groaned with the kind of desire I am especially accustom to, that knowing what you want but not being allowed to have it thing. Hair being restrained, the grumble of a long and trying work day, in the form of a stiff spine, slightly softened by icy cold chunks of shaken gin served in a high and tight triangle glass, sitting across from the face of a man that adores me and the skin tingling purr of relatable music wistfully spinning about me on my ride home.

A very deep growl simmered inside me. Started right around my weary ankles and slowly began to creep up the fleshy bits on the back of my thighs. I felt the day being lifted from my skin with each rumble much in the same way I used to lift the comic images from the Sunday comics with Silly Putty. Everything still there and visible, just flipped in front of me rather than sitting weighty on my chest. That growl slipped from between my lips in a way that might have embarrassed me…if I hadn’t been distracted by, “scrape, pop, hum” the sound of little rubber wheels skipping across the sidewalk.

That particular sound, the dragging of firm rubber across concrete a sound so familiar to me it could be my middle name. The secret language of skaters, be they roller or board. I spent nearly every summer with my feet laced onto wheels, my increasingly rounding body sailing down every hill I could find…often with my heart resting at the very top of my throat and beating so loudly, and before we were all plugged into nerve rattling music, it became my soundtrack. Scraping, the sound of warm air whizzing past my ears and pulling my skin and hairline tight, the thump-thump-thump of a heart that didn’t know, or care, how or when we were going to stop. The way those extra hours of sun were spent until I could slip my chunky frame into the barely lit and sloshy cool pool…the rolling, scrapping and sloshing my best friends way back then, ones I miss now when I hear them call….

“Scrape, pop, hum” like a crooked finger rested upon my jaw pulling my head to the left. I felt my heart start beating more ardently; very much in the same way I felt when I would fly down a hill, wheels ablaze beneath me, tiny pebbles and bits of tossed aside life being rolled over as I heard my mother’s voice calling me to dinner. I knew it was time to go, end the freedom and exhilaration, hard rubber wheels that just seconds before brought be absolute liberation now ushering me back to the house I ached to be let free from. I saw the newish sneakers, the crushed black material, thick laces and well-worn soles, one foot rested firmly on the thin slab of a board and the other dragging and pushing the frame of an aching to sail soul down the broken buckling sidewalk. I was at first mesmerized by the calling of, well of that middle name thing but I was quickly jarred back into my reality when I saw that the “Young man” fleeing and exercising his summer was my age, older than my age actually, probably had ten years on me and here he was, jeans, skater sneaks, sailing, rolling over broken bits and letting his heart thump away a soundtrack of long ago.

Might have been the gin, might have been that damn soundtrack but I found myself speeding ahead, pulling along the right side of the road, hitting that hazard button jobbie on my dash and climbing out of my car. Resting my thick rear end against one of those weathered fences watching the salt and pepper hair float in the wind as that grown ass man let his inner him coast. His thin frame evidence of his good behavior, the speed with which his sneaker clad foot raked and pulled at the concrete evidence of his rebellion and ache, “got me on my knees Layla” still pumping through my speakers adding to the “pop, scrape” and “hum” the beauty of the realness so powerful it nearly brought a tear to my weary and not-as-cynical-as-I’d-like-to-think eye. Ended up crossing four lanes of pre-freeway traffic just to sit closer and smell the sensual aromatic of clean but freshly sweating skin, feel the pulse of not giving a fuck, for a second, and be reminded that no matter how old we are we still ache for, and crave that heart thumping. 

His name and scent now part of my heart pounding. My fearless stopping of his ride to tell him how much watching, feeling, hearing, smelling and comprehending his feelings meant to me, adding to his heart-pounding and making us both bits of left behind road to smile about as we rode over them on our way back to the voices that called us for dinner. 

Wheels not so much needing of reinventing, just maybe craving some fresh air and heart pounding.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Grooving On Up

“The boys, they are um…looking a little rough” me tattling, sort of, when Aline finally made it down to the belly of the hotel where I had been waiting for 35 minutes. Josh had been the next to arrive, big blue eyes swimming, or floating on leftover whiskey shots and finally Jim made his way down, out of breath and with a look that assured me that my lost night, well it had partners. I sipped away on my second double espresso, the dark and bitter elixir like punishing spikes clipping down my throat as Aline tucked her wild and wavy hair behind her ears and headed outside to gauge the situation by chatting with the struggling gentlemen. Her nearly lyrical lilt splitting the sliding doors, “Bonjour!” her rallying call, “What the hell happened?” the hysterical grumble from Team Booze Sweats as they paced and took nerve settling draws from smoldering tubes of nicotine.

Once our somewhat unruly bunch crammed our bags back in the car and were on the road to wherever our lovely French guide would lead us, we found that any sort of embarrassment was overruled by gut-splitting laughter and finger pointing as we retold and ribbed each other for the little bits of recollection that floated through the tight cabin on tufts of air scented with leftovers, dark brew and a comfort unlike any I’d ever known on one of these trips so early. I let my tense shoulders rest against the backseat, my legs stretching a bit longer and looser, the vibration of giggles and joke-slinging like strong fingers rubbing the anxious knots, massaging my throat and making my voice and laugh just that much louder. I sat there, my ass rumbling as the tires spun us to our next destination, knowing that this trip was to be one full of personalities and honesty. The four of us, the sights, the food and the wines we were to encounter, they were selected by this one bright-eyed and stylish French woman that had the insight, and sense of adventure, to not only select the wines that drew us all in, but to bring us there, together, to see why and share our story with the people that would eventually take home the bottles, set them on their table and add another night, laugh, memory to that label and the family that made it so. I let my fingers trace the buttons on the car door as I listened to the churning of anticipation and banter. 

We spent the next few hours tasting with a cooperative, sampling some value driven reds, whites and roses all the while swallowing mouthfuls of refreshing liquid as well as crunchy bits of local bread that had been slathered with fatty bits of pork and seasoning. Restorative in the form of nourishment, and getting us back on the path of seeking wines for the folks back home. The Terrebrune Anjou Rouge and its luscious and friendly fruit sprinkled with black pepper, the Rose from the same producer,  that zipped across our fatigued and waiting palates, giving life and incentive to keep plugging along if for no other reason than for, one, more, sip. A Muscadet from Garniere that reminded me to sit up as its sexy little acidic claws drug down the sides of my palate, made my tummy flip with oyster cravings and had me smacking my wanting lips for more. Wines that we all unfalteringly agreed we needed to share with our folks back home, and we could offer for wicked cheap come late summer when the only thing we all crave is simple, juicy, fresh tasting wines that don’t challenge us as much as give. Gots me some stacks a-coming people.

On the bumpy road to our next stop I thought about how many and how varied the voices are in our little world of wine. Big and powerful, bone shaking wines like those of Pithon-Paille, the simple and easy, less demanding and lip parting gems that can be found when a bunch of hard working farmers get together, as a collective, and produce simple table wines that won’t change anyone’s life but can, and do, most definitely make a contribution. How each of us hears, smells, feels and tastes something in each offering. I sat quietly that evening, my teeth sinking into another couple platters of preserved pork, gorgeously sinewy pillows of warm bread dispersed between firm stalks of crunchy green lettuces doused with sharp vinegar and mouth coating oil. The wines not so much speaking to me but the retailer in me could pick up on the angle the hipster wine maker was throwing out. I could sense there was a place for the wild and somewhat unwashed wines I was tasting but not sure our little corner of the wine world was ready…or moreover, wanting for that kind of challenge. Fuck, I’ve been doing this a long damn time and even lit up and full of adventure I was having a hard time swallowing. Cool for two sips, weird and redolent with hinny hole the rest of the bottle? I was wide open and listened as my LA counterpart (totally flattering myself, he is way fancy in the pants area) made a case for those wonky stinkers but I stood firm….those car ride laughter massages reminding me that I too had a voice worth hearing. Took a pass. I’m sure there is some wine bar in San Francisco that is calling me an idiot, that’s okay, I know there are a bunch of my people that are grateful that their next glass of sparkling wine from the Loire won’t wreak of body odor and horse poop. You are most welcome…(insert curtsey here)

Back in the car and we were on our way
Mineral Rich
Saint Bris and…
Bringing My Want Back In The Worst Way.... 

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Strength In Laughter Part 2, Kind Of (Re-Post)

Been one hell of an emotional couple weeks for me. Started last Sunday with me opening a Word document, the contents of which would set in motion a roller coaster of feeling that I have been strapped into and riding ever since. I sat at The Wine Country an hour before closing flipping the pages, the ones I printed out so I could focus on them rather than read them on the screen of the store computer. The pages containing a summarized history of the father I never knew. Much like I responded to the Uncle’s email I took if far lighter than the situation may have called for. Just hit print, even stapled the pages and began reading as if I were not at all attached to the story that I was reading. Got up to help customers on the floor, rang people up, answered the phone then went back to the pages like I were returning to some novel I had flipped face down, spine spread on my desk.

Wasn’t until meeting my husband at our Sunday dinner spot, Tracy’s Bar & Grill that the story began to seep in. I sat there watching him turn the pages, his face intent, eyebrows raising now and then, felling much like I were across from him, fingers slipping between the buttons of my top, fists gathering clumps of my shirt as I ripped the material leaving myself completely exposed. He slid the stapled sheets back in my direction while searching my face for some direction. My husband is the sweetest most patient man I know, I mean c’mon he’s married to this raving case, he has to be but, well heavy emotion and deep conversation kind of freak him out. I know this, respect this and truth be told I’m not much of a “Lets’ talk about our feelings” kinda chick so we work exceptionally well in that respect and yet….here I sat, the words I had read just an hour before becoming more real as his big brown eyes left the page and fell upon me.

I leapt into full rattle. Just jumped into the retelling of revelations and very faint memories, somewhat manic I suppose but I was sitting there so naked and feeling the twisted anguish of someone that loves me not knowing what to say to me. It was perfect for a moment, I was able to think not about what I was feeling and instead turn my attention to soothing him, reassuring him that I was fine….that was until one of those freakish coincidences slaps you in the face and leaves you wondering just who the hell is trying to reach you.

“Oh little Jeannie, you’ve got so much love” fucking jukebox. My heart started pounding like a fist inside my chest, like it had had quite enough of this ignoring bullshit. I was mid sentence and my words simply froze in mid air, my eyes watching my fellow Sunday night reveler, the one that had chosen that particular song, stroll slowly back to their seat at the bar. My mouth was still half open as if I had been hung up or searching for the next word but the truth was I had stopped breathing. I was holding my breath, jaw slacked and heart ripping away at my flesh. I turned back to my husband and had the wind knocked back into my lungs when I saw his face….his face looking at mine that was now streaming with tears. I hadn’t even noticed that I was crying but was helpless to stop it, “I am so not going to be this woman dude. I am not gonna be the crying in a bar chick. You get the bill, I’ll meet you at home” grabbed my backpack and made a beeline for my car.

Spent the next week with my heart and head wide open, devouring every bit of history my Uncle sent, stuffing the information in the gaping holes, coming to terms with the idea that bits of this story, my story will never be fully filled in now that my mother is gone. Been missing her a lot as of late, missing her and wishing she had been more honest with me, more open. Feels a little like trying to finish a T.V. Guide crossword puzzle from like three decades ago….so many of the answers no longer at the tip of anyone’s tongue…

I woke this past Sunday feeling like the Sunday before had happened months ago. Like I had spent an entire month in my head roaming, picking things up, blowing the dust off shelves and finding places to hang my father’s things; his almost photographic memory, his angst, his rebellious nature. Holding the two of us up in a mirror and seeing how we fit. Laughing as I realized that I was not so much unlike my mother, just much more like my father. I may never be able to solve seven across and four down but, well it’s really amazing to get just a little closer.

I popped on Facebook Sunday and made some comment about how I could skip my shower and be enjoying eggs, hashbrowns, steak and sipping a martini in 20 minutes. The first two “likes” came right away along with a couple people chiming in that they wanted to go. I sat in my jammies looking at the clock, could I really start my Sunday in a dark coffee shop bar? Um, yes, yes I could. Tossed the day-before curls in a loose ponytail, painted my face, sent a “Meet us there in 20 minutes” text and headed out.

Walked into Hoff’s Hut and went directly to the bar. I love this bar. Gotta love a bar when you are one of like five people under seventy right?! I was blinking wildly as my eyes tried to adjust, (note to self, get sunglasses dammit) and I searched for the other crazy chick that was down with wasting away in whatever-ville with me on a lazy Sunday morning. Found her sitting at the bar, (I would have gone for a booth God love her) sipping her Bloody Mary and waving at us. Took my seat and was there not two whole minutes before I felt a tap on my arm, “Do you remember when we were married?” older gentleman sipping a margarita with his buddy just to the right of me, “I do and I really miss you” I responded, the grin that he tried to choke down melted my heart and I let out the first of many giggles that I would share with my new ex-husband that morning. He told me “off color” jokes, I laughed and played along with being his wife, discussing the children…our two dogs of which he has custody and whose vet bills are the reason his alimony checks are late. I went back and forth between the ex and the people I had come with, my head far away from puzzles and sad stories, just laughing and feeling so vibrant.

“There is nothing sexier than a woman that can laugh like you do” such a simple comment tossed out by my ex’s buddy but even in my somewhat crazy headed state I let it hit me. Took his unbelievably sweet observation and the dreamy eyes with which he delivered it to my newly open heart. My husband, (the real one) and friend both shook their heads as I bid farewell to my ex-husband and his buddy who took their leave just as our meals were being served. Laughed my ass off as the hostess came into the dark bar, craning her neck before walking up to me and telling me, “I was asked to tell you that your husband just left” say what you will about bars and the people that might be found there before like noon on a Sunday but what I found at that Hoff’s Hut bar with Guy and Mike, well it was just the sermon I needed.


When I was designing my first tattoo, (only have the one but there is one or two more to come) I knew I wanted to include the motto that had seen me through many a dark day; the living on pancakes, the never quite fitting in, the being the mother of a biracial son that I wanted to make sure was never ashamed or in any way hurt by his differentness, the sitting in the front room of my apartment while my baby slept and I poured coffee for the police that were there to file yet another report. Strength in laughter. The one thing that no one could take from me was my ability to laugh, desire to laugh and find some bit of light in the face of things that I was unwilling to let crush or consume me. Took a couple of strangers in a dark bar on a Sunday morning to remind me but I started laughing and began feeling like me again…

Wasn’t even really thinking about it when I reached in my fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. Don’t think I even really looked at the label, just removed the foil and drove my corkscrew into the neck of the bottle. The perfunctory motions of opening a bottle, the glugging sound as the liquid splashed into the glass, the replacing of the cork, the mindless saunter back to my little couch perch to peruse crap on the information super highway. Cigarette lit, television on, mind off and wandering as it tends to do. I reached down, my fingers taking their assigned places on the glass, the quick swirl, the half assed sniff, my lips parting as the cold lip of the glass slipped between them, the saturation of history….my history, the one that I’ve made for myself spilling across my palate. Francois Chidaine, Francois Chidaine Touraine….

How many times had I had this wine? How many bottles consumed with friends? How many cases sold? How many people now know and love this humble producer because of the words I’ve shared about him? This wine is just as much a part of me as any of the things I’ve learned over the past week or so, in some ways more. This kind of wine, the voice that exploded inside me that demands that I find, drink and share wines like these....this is the me that I know, the laughing me, the me that I think my parents would both be proud of. Could not stop laughing. Been so caught up in the before picture that I had lost sight of the after. I am a product of my parents, their love and passion for one another but it does not define who I am now.

I owe so much of who I am to people like Randy and Dale Kemner, owners of the store where I get to….where they let me thrive. Michael Sullivan, the importer that took me on that life changing first trip to Europe, answered all my questions, laughed with me, believed in me and my palate. Ron Washam and his undying love and support of whatever it is I do here, his finding some sort of beauty in this beast regardless of typos and horrific grammatical errors. Charlie Olken and his even knowing who this humble wine slinger and fumbling blogger was, in letting me tease his palate with grower Champagne, arguing and getting me to take another look at wines that I had long ago given up on. Eric Asimov for sending me that first message telling me that he read me and admired what I was doing here. Thomas and our shared and understood love of the fried potato. Alice and her palate that I understand, her relentless voice and strength when I know it’s not always easy. Jess and Dave for flying or driving out to visit me and partake of my tastings, you two have no idea what that meant and still means to me. Another Day of Crazy, chris, Kevin, Michael Hughes, Benito, Heather, Vicki, Andy, Bill, webb, Sara, John Kelly, Stephen, Alfonso, Nico, Jeremy, David and Wayne….the list just keeps growing and just so you all know, with your help and support, so do I. Thank you. Thank you all…

Just felt like I needed to get that off my chest
There, now you own it
Now I can get back to my silly nonsense

Understanding My Terroir Part 1 (Re-Post)

Oh little Jeannie, you got so much love, little Jeannie. And you take it where it strikes and give it to the likes of me. Oh little Jeannie, she got so much love, little Jeannie. So I see you when I can, you make me all a man can be” my six year old face stretched as I crooned along with Elton John to what I thought was the sweetest love song this side of Oh Mandy.

“Turn that off” my mother’s jaw tight and eyes now slits where her big, blue eyes once were. I reached up and pushed the chunky rectangular button on the VW radio, settling on Kenny Loggins which I knew would please her. I let my back rest upon the warm and rubbery smelling seat wondering why she reacted so harshly every time that song came on…..

When we first moved to Long Beach to live in my mother’s ex-husband’s home, the big beautiful home full of cruel intentions and sad souls, I spent the majority of my time outside. Just rode up and down on the hill, the rubber wheels of my skates skidding when I would reach the bottom…the pounding of my heart and wheezing of my breath the soundtrack as I made the calf aching ride back to the top of the hill where I would stop, just long enough to catch my breath before kicking my feet out behind me and sailing my body down the hill once again. I craved the silence, the time away from puffed up but oh-so-sad hollowness of the kings of that castle. Coming from where I did, the roach infested, pancake house…well it seemed like a bastion of hope and honesty compared to that big…beautiful house.

As long as the sun was out or the street lights where on, I was out on the street and away from the sadness that seemed to encapsulate that home. Skates, Dolphin shorts and my freakish fetish for feeling the sun on my young flesh….out there I felt safe and was able to get my groove on, skate away the heaviness that weighed upon every spirit that crossed through that doorway. The young men that were coaxed there, promised a safe haven, a place to be who they were…the even sadder ones that clipped their hopes to the belt loop of a man that wanted nothing more than to take advantage of them. They came in, they had their 15 minutes of specialness and they were ushered out without fanfare. I knew what was happening, understood that my brother’s father was preying on those lost souls but was powerless to help or warn them…so I skated.

One afternoon I was out skating and had to dodge the moving trucks that were lugging in the furniture of the folks that were to be our neighbors. I watched as they unloaded the plastic covered couch, held my feet like a giant U as I swung my hips back and forth, my feet separated like a ballerina…toes out and arches high, my body swaying back and forth as the movers unloaded the boxes. I was captivated. Each box holding a story, every black marker scrawled upon bit of cardboard holding some clue as to who was going to be living in the house that rested even higher on the hill than the one I resided in.

“Hi! I’m Neesie” long braided hair, long slinky but powerful body. My new neighbor, also on skates, rolling around the hill that had been my quiet place. She was a couple of years younger than I, her skin dark and perfect glistening in the sun, her smile so bright that I was sure that her home was not the same as mine. I was slightly irked by the perceived intrusion on my playground but I found hope in her smile and willingness to talk to me. Before long we looked like a set of salt and pepper shakers sailing down the hill together. We would skate and play all afternoon but the playtime always ended when a Volvo would pull onto our street and park in her steep driveway. “I gotta go, my dad is home!” she would yell over her shoulder as she skated or trotted away from me.

At first I thought this meant that “dad” was the killer of fun. Just some mean man that didn’t want Neesie playing outside with the neighbor kid. I was afraid of him and I too would scamper off when that Volvo pulled onto the street, but one afternoon while playing in Nessie’s room she jumped up and sounded the playtime is over bell, “Dad is home!”but this time she ended it with, “Come meet him” I was terrified as I made my way to the kitchen, my feet feeling like bricks as I lifted them, my stomach twisted and gurgling, my hands producing so much moisture that I had to wipe them on my shorts after every few steps. Once we reached the entrance to the kitchen and I saw the tall sturdy frame of the man standing there, my heart started racing and I began scanning the joint for the quickest escape route but Nessie, the girl that would run every time he came home….well, she started to run again but this time it was right into his strong arms. “Daddy!’ she yelled as he lifted her to his chest and folded his long arms around her slender frame, “this is the friend I was telling you about” He held her whole body in one arm while extending the other in my direction, “you must be Sam then” his voice deep and smooth as honey as he took my trembling hand in his. “Very nice to finally meet you Sam” he said, his big hand swallowing mine, “How was your day baby?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the girl he was still holding in his arms.

“Why do you always run home when your dad comes home?” I asked her one afternoon, waiting to hear all the drama about how he insisted that she stay inside, or had rules against too much fun, what I heard was not at all what I expected and would leave me mystified and almost painfully curious, “He’s my dad and I want to be with him” Here I had been thinking that she was running off in fear when that Volvo pulled in the driveway but in fact she was running away from me to be with him. I didn’t get it. Her mom had been home all day, if she needed or wanted something she could have given it to her, what was the deal with this “dad” business?

I never really knew my father. I have only vague remembrances of the shape of his face, his eyes the same as mine, the long straight hair, the smell of patchouli. I remember avocado and alfalfa pita sandwiches, the “funny” smell of his cigarettes and a faint feeling of sadness when he would “fall asleep” during one of my visits…..the panic I would feel on the drive home, my mother always crying so hard that I thought she must be in some kind of terrible pain. The way should would sob and shake her head when I would beg her, “What’s wrong mommy?!” She was in fact in terrible pain, but a pain I wouldn’t truly understand until now.

“God, you look like your father when you make that face” a phrase I would hear over and over again. Never quite sure what face she was talking about, what look would make her see him in me, always felt a little guilty when it happened and wished it were not so as it inevitably brought her sadness. Couldn’t change it but so many times I wished that I could. My mother was already so full of heartache and it killed me that my….face brought her even more.

“They found him at Jeannie’s”

She was sitting on the couch, legs tucked in under her bottom, the way she always sat. Her iced tea beside her, a lit cigarette in the ashtray beside it. I remember the phone ringing and the, “No! Oh God. Please No!” the sound of my mother’s hope dying….the thud of the dropped phone and then the sound of my feet smacking against the sticky linoleum floor as I ran to her. He was gone. A part of her was gone too. They found him in the home of the woman he was seeing, in Jeannie’s home….Oh little Jeannie.

My mother died some thirty something years later still madly in love with the man whose face I wore but whose story I never knew. She didn’t speak of him much. At first I thought it was because she hated him but the older I got the more I understood that she couldn’t talk about him, it was too painful for her to remember him. So “dad” or “father” never evoked more than an idea for me, had no feelings other than guilt to attach to what the word meant. Once I met my husband, saw the way my own son lit up, admired and felt safe around him I had a better idea but the actual feeling, well it was just never one that I understood.

“If you are the Samantha Dugan I am looking for I hope to hear from you, I’m your father’s brother” an email waiting for me at work last week. It was so easy for me to respond, to write back and tell him that I was in fact the Samantha he had been looking for. I did it so quickly, with no hesitation and so matter-of-fact. Was not at all prepared for the flood of emotion and feeling that would overtake me as the man whose face I wore story spilled out before me…his brother’s memories on the screen seemed to leap deep inside my chest and become part of me. “He wanted a daughter more than anything and your mother brought him peace in a way that no one else could”….the first time in my almost forty years that I felt like I was being scooped up and held in the strong arms of a father.

Feels like everything has changed in some way. Nothing really has, my life is the same, there is no Volvo to run to but now, well now there is all this information, history, texture to where I came from. He was more than a junkie. He was a very smart man, well travelled as it turns out, and although they died years and worlds apart, my parents were very much in love. I wish she were still here, so I could beam this face, this face that he and I shared….smile at her in that way that made her think of him and just this once let her see this new found pride behind it. Feels amazing….


Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Once Is Never Enough

You’ve done it again…..

Found that spot beneath my skin that scratches me from the inside out

Did you hear it calling you?
See my skin pucker and flinch?
Sense the aspirant groans of a dissatisfied and aching cavity that longs to be filled?

Could you detect the growl of desire tucked behind my confident repartee?
See the hunger behind my green eyes?
Smell the soup of confidence and fear that escape in the little oily beads of sweat that gather in the small of my back?
Feel the tornado that is me beneath this flesh of mine….

You’ve done it again…

Whet me
Spun me
Dug into me
Left me panting and lapping…for more

You’ve done it again…

How do you do this?
Spread me the way you do
Make me arch and bend
Shake and tremble
Touch me in a way that makes the soft fine hairs on the back of my neck lift and lick away at me

I’m captivated by you
Inspired by you
Afraid of you
Slippery with desire for more, of you

I'm here
Wide open and yours for the taking
Take me....

I don’t give a fuck how you do it
Just do it again
Once is never enough….