Monthly Archives: March 2012

Mar 30 2012

Bucket Battles and Baby Dolls

I am the only child of five to have brown eyes, brunette hair. Like my father. Like my father’s mother. My brothers and sisters are blonde and blue-eyed. I should clarify that they were all blonde when we were children. My younger sisters thick mane turned light brown as she got older. I was also the only girl of three who liked playing with dolls.  I don’t remember being disappointed because dolls were always blond and blue-eyed. Nor do I remember asking for a doll that had brown eyes. I doubt I even considered that there was such a thing. I was awed when my mother gave me my brown-eyed brunette Madame Alexander baby doll for Christmas. An extravagant gift for our family. Although I didn’t know that at the time.

It was supposed to have come from Santa, but I knew it was a gift, a message from my mother to me. I was not an easy child to please. I didn’t pretend I was excited about or liked something I didn’t. My brothers and sisters were acutely aware of what mom wanted them to feel.  They became adept at pretending they were thrilled by whatever they received. That way mom didn’t have to give it another thought. Her duty performed, she could move on.  I made things much more difficult for my mom.  She couldn’t tolerate what she considered my unreasonable selfish demands.

My refuge from the chaos and fighting in our home was playing house. My dolls were my children. I made sure I kept them safe and always meticulously met their needs. Feeding, changing, and rocking them to sleep. Tucking them into my dresser drawers, their cribs.  I muttered reassuring promises as I scurried around my bedroom house, “I will never let anyone hurt you.”

I made my brothers and sisters knock at the door before they could enter my home. Before I let them in they had to promise to be careful and quiet while they were visiting. Which wasn’t often. They thought I was a kook. I spent hours held up alone in my room with my babies. Singing them to sleep, then cleaning and organizing ‘our’ home.  To me, my dolls were as alive as I was.

I don’t remember how old I was the Christmas my brown-eyed baby was born. I was strong enough to pick up and swing a five gallon bucket half full of coal at my father’s head. It was Christmas Eve. My parents were drunk and fighting. Somehow the battle ended up outside in the driveway. Dad pounced on top of my moms back. His hand, a claw gripping the back of her scalp; he was grinding her face into sharp shards of stone that covered the driveway.

When the bucket hit the side of his face he barely flinched.  Not sure what hit him he searched madly for the culprit. Springing to his feet he spun around, locking his wild eyes on me.  I launched the coal bucket into the trees and took off for the house!  To this day I have no idea how I managed it. I squeezed myself into the space between the wall and the hot water heater which was only about four inches wide. Stuffed into the crack like wood putty, I held my breath. He stormed through the door! The moon shining through window gave everything an eerie blue glow. He raged through the room. To look under the bed he flipped the mattress and box spring upside down.  He tore the closet apart, tearing clothes from hangers, ripping the rod right out of the wall. I could hear his snorting breath. Smell beer, his musk, my fear, as he frantically searched for me.  He saw me go into the my room and knew there was no way for me to escape. It was an old house and all the windows were painted shut. When he couldn’t find me he flipped on the light.  Stood silent as death, listening for my breathing, he sniffed the air like a wolf. Finally, the light went out and he was gone. After he passed out my sister and I tried to squeeze ourselves into my hiding spot. No matter how much we sucked in our breath we couldn’t make our heads small enough to fit.

The next morning we all piled out of bed and headed for the tree. My parents sat mute with their coffee and cigarettes. My brothers and sisters pretended they were surprised and happy about what Santa had left under the tree.  No one said anything about mom’s black and blue face. Little frowns cut into her left cheek. Dad sat slumped over his coffee. Mom bruised, indignant.  Both seemed stunned. Trying to make it ok us kids erupted into neurotic yips and chatter. Christmas morning cheerleaders. Hey, did you see this? Wow! I can’t believe Santa remembered, I wanted this so much!  Big sad smiles plastered on our bewildered faces.

When I peeled back the wrapping paper, saw her, my brown-eyed baby, I was stunned. I don’t know why but I looked directly at my mother. She was studying my reaction, staring at me hard, as if to say, Is that good enough for you miss prissy? And indeed it was. I was delighted! She was the most beautiful doll I’d ever seen. The front of the box a clear plastic window. Carefully posed she was wired into place. It made me smile when I looked at her chubby beautiful face. Her tiny arms reaching for me. “She has brown eyes,” I squealed!

Dad gently cut her out of the box and carefully handed her to me. “Here ya go honey.”  Her dress, the most beautiful dress I ever saw, a delicate butter colored chiffon. I was dazzled by her matching silk booties and the beautiful bow that adorned her coffee-colored hair.  Her wrinkled feet and hands curled like someone was tickling her and I felt loved.

Mar 28 2012

Dancing Societies Shadows

Memoirs are the back stairs of history. ~ George Meredith

***

As I move forward with my memoirs I am aware of the extreme discomfort parts of my material causes for some of you, my valuable witnesses. It seems there are various opinions about the genre. Some seem to think I write as some sort of personal therapy. A way to work out “my problems.” And indeed, getting into it does help me to sort out facts from fiction. Which when you think about it is interesting, as what I perceive as fact, another may perceive as fiction. I think that at least in part, that’s because we have been taught to edit out certain facts. Just the way we edit certain facts from our history books. Those who insist on staying closer to the bone, more times than not, are silenced. Or they learn to write in code,  like a poet. I admire and play with poetry but find it doesn’t always serve the greater public when it comes to making history honest.  

Then there are those who interpret my reactions, feelings, and memories,  as “demons.” As if in some way, because of what happened, I am possessed. That the writing is a sort of exorcism. I believe that puritanical mind-set to be down right dangerous. So typical of our smoke and mirrors society. To discredit the victim is an age-old tactic that allows  perpetrators to continue to get away with it. Like priests who violate children, who then grow up feeling dirty, unworthy because they were convinced that they wanted it. When they began to come out of the shadows there were people who accused them of sinning for telling the truth!  Women who have been raped many times are raped again, physically, psychically, for telling the truth. They are considered suspect until the rapist is proven guilty. Forced to prove they didn’t want it. Deserve it. Cause it.  And in my case it’s the thousands of children who grow up with violent insane alcoholic parents. Live in homes where the unspeakable is a daily occurrence. But if we choose to tell, we are breaking that all important Commandment: Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. No matter what.

I have heard that you are only as sick as your secrets. My experience is that this is true. I have also heard that the nature of insanity is that it can’t be fixed. It must be given up. Another term for my so-called demons has been crazy. Insane. I believe that writing my memoirs is my way of giving the insanity up.

I also want to address those who feel I am doing it because  I have an ax to grind. That I am violating the age-old motto that “Some things are better left unsaid.”  Why I ask are they better left unsaid? And for who? It seems to me that child abuse, alcoholism, and drug addiction [including prescription drugs], all the secondary issues that arise as a result, are just another layer of the facade of the American Dream. The lie that families in America are always good and right and happy.  Mom and dad know,  and then do what’s best. If yours didn’t, they don’t count. And you don’t count because you must have done something to cause it. We are the shadows dancing in the huge cracks of that facade.

***

Every work of literature has both a situation and a story. The situation is the context of the circumstance, sometimes the plot; the story is the emotional experience that preoccupies the writer: the insight, wisdom, the thing one has come to say. ~ Vivian Gornick

Mar 27 2012

Taking Up Arms

Us kids huddled together in the dark bedroom we shared.  The caboose, the end room, on my parent’s single wide trailer house. Our room was meant to be the master bedroom, the largest on the train. Me, my sister, and both my brothers shared the same space. Spent plenty of nights curled together in a double bed, listening to the fighting.

We rarely ventured out to see what was happening. Fell asleep to screaming slugs. By the time the sun came up, mom would have the broken dishes, food dripping from the walls and ceiling, beer cans and overflowing ashtrays cleaned up. Our job was to pretend nothing happened.

That night was different. The sounds pounding down the walls, more guttural. More dangerous than usual. I being the oldest went to investigate. When I reached the mouth of the narrow short hall, I could see that dad had mom backed against the stove in her cubicle kitchen. He was holding something in his hand.

“I’ll bash your fucking face in you god damn whore!”

“Dad!” I hollered, charging toward the kitchen. “Dad! Stop! DAD!” I watched in horror as he shoved the handle of the hammer hard into my mother’s mouth. Heard teeth crack. Blood pouring from her face. I raced for my parent’s bedroom where I knew my dad kept his guns. My intention clear. Kill my father. My brothers and sister clamored, clinging, begging, screaming, “Do something! Not that! Help mom! Stop dad!”

I didn’t know how to load the gun so I ordered my younger sister to do it. “Load the god damn gun!” I commanded, shoving the rifle into her hands.

“I can’t,” she said, almost pleading.

“He’s gunna kill her this time! Load it!”

“No! I can’t, please Leslie.”

Jerking the gun from her terrified fists I ran to save my mom. My stance, solid, a desperate child soldier. Twig arms shaking, I raised the barrel of the 30.06. Neither parent noticed I had infiltrated their war. When I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Drop the hammer!” they were both shocked. Calculated as a sniper I aimed the empty rifle directly at my father’s forehead. Time stood still. Silent. Like animals we waited to see who would make the next move.  I was surprised by their faces. Stunned. Fearful as elicit lovers busted for their crime.

I watched as my father’s eyes changed. Deadly. Suddenly, like a mountain lion, he lunged for me! I dropped the gun. Took off on a dead run, leaping the wrought iron banister, like a deer running for my life, I loped toward the back door! “You little bitch, I’m gunna fuckin kill you! Who the fuck do you think you are you little cunt! Get back here! STOP!

He caught me by my ponytail with his jaw fists! Yanked me off my feet, I landed flat on my back. Couldn’t breathe. He on top of me, punching me in the stomach, the face, yanking my hair. Snarling teeth, “I’m gunna kill you, you no good little bitch!” He tore out my ponytail and I blacked out.

In and out of consciousness during the attack I remember hearing my mother tell my brother to go get my grandfather. “Hurry!” she shrieked. I heard my grandfather tell my father that I’d had enough. That I’d learned my lesson.

Then I was sitting in a line up with my brothers and sister on the couch. My father stood in front of us with the gun. He loaded a shell into the chamber, locked the bolt. Starting with my five-year old brother he growled, “Do you want to kill your father?”

A tiny little voice uttered, “No.”

Moving on to my seven-year old brother he shoved the gun toward him, his voice getting louder, “Do YOU want to kill your father? Leslie wants to kill your father. Do YOU?” Four hollow bodies visibly vibrating with terror.

“No dad.”

When he got to me I fainted.

Mar 27 2012

Street Smart

I’ve written this for the Trifecta Writing Challenge:   www.trifectawritingchallenge.com.

This weeks word is cheap.

I am working from the third definition as stated in the rules.

a: of inferior quality or worth: tawdry, sleazy

b: contemptible because of lack of any fine, lofty, or redeeming qualities

  

~

They call me skeezy

but I’m just teasy;

tawdry tattoos highlight

my delectable derriere.

Nice

ain’t gunna pay the rent.

Naughty

keeps the lights on.

It ain’t easy bein cheap

upkeep costs money.

~

Mar 26 2012

Inspired to Teach

A few months back my family and I went to see Taylor Mali read at a theatre in a city not to far from us. He is the king of spoken word poetry and became famous for a poem he wrote titled, What Teachers Make.  Caught up in his quick-witted humor I laughed through the entire reading. I also felt uneasy for some reason.

I woke up at 2:00 am to the voice of Lily, one of the protagonists in another of  Mr Mali’s poems titled, Like Lily Like Wilson. Mr Mali talks alot about the importance of kids. That it’s important that teachers inspire them.


Dear Mr Mali:

Like the nation, where like millions of people will starve this year. I was so inspired by your performance last night that I decided to act like a verb, take some action, and like write you this letter. This is big for me because I’m like usually more of a noun, more of like a thing.

I listened to you very closely Mr Mali. Giving you my undivided attention, because that’s like what you said you and other teachers like want the most. I laughed a few times at your funny jokes. You are really smart and handsome with your long ponytail.  I saw some YouTube videos of you with short hair. I like wondered if you grew your hair out because you’re no longer a teacher, and like don’t have to worry about setting a good example. Not that a ponytail is like bad or anything.

I watched when you pulled money from your pocket and felt relieved to see that you, like my mom, only had one dollar bills. If I’m really honest, like you said I should be, I was surprised because you like talk a lot about all the places you like travel, so I thought you must be like rich.

Mr Mali, I need to tell you something. It made me feel like really weird in my belly, when you asked the kid in the front row if he would like take your money and get you a beer from the bar. Maybe that’s because it reminded me of my uncle, who pays me quarters to get him beers from the fridge, so he doesn’t have to like get off the couch. I’m not complaining it’s the only money I have. Mom tells me I should be grateful he is willing to pay me for something I should like be doing anyway. It made me feel happy when the bartender told you no. I hope you don’t like think I’m mean Mr Mali. It made me feel like I’m a weirdo when everyone but me like thought it was funny.

I asked my uncle once why he drank so many beers. He told me that it was so I didn’t like stress him out.  You said it was so the seven state Poet Laureates’ in the audience didn’t stress you out. My mom tells me she drinks so she doesn’t get like so stressed out she has a meltdown. I guess that’s like how it is when you grow up. Oh, and it was nice of you to like give that kid your pen. I wish I would’ve been in the front row.

Have you ever heard of alcoholism Mr. Mali? I read about it online.  Anyway I read that there are like 17.6 million adults in the United States that are alcoholic or have serious problems with alcohol. I like looked it up one night while I was waiting for my mom to come home, [when she like remembers to come home], from the bar where she like works. I know I’m probably a strange kid to be like looking up this kind of thing.  It’s just feels like I’m alone alot of the time. Like I’m the only kid that doesn’t think drinking is like fun. It’s like I’m the only one who gets real mad when I see people drink. I also count people’s drinks. I figured out that doing that helps me to know when things are going to go from like funny to angry. I always try to get my mom to stop at that point, but she like never does.

I counted your beers too. I’m holding up three fingers Mr Mali [smiley face]. In the just over ninety minutes you were on stage you drank like three beers. I only know how long you were up there because you asked someone if you like had been up there for ninety minutes already. Then you told us that a poet is like not supposed to do that. Which confused me. But I seem to get confused like alot these days. Then when everyone thought it was so funny I felt bad for not like thinking it was funny.  Actually, in reality, you finished two of them while you were on stage. The third one the bald guy with the glasses handed you, was like still half full when you were done.

I know, I’m like a weirdo, a thing, like I said, but I got real mad when you started to slur your words. You’re supposed to have more respect for words than that Mr Mali! You’re like supposed to understand that words, the thoughts that form the words, are like things. So you were creating blurry things! You seemed to love the beer more than you loved the words; smacking and licking your lips, swallowing slow, savoring each drink. Making jokes about like not closing the bar. I wondered if it was guys like you that kept my mom working longer than she was supposed to. Which made me hate you. I’m sorry Mr Mali.

You mentioned that your poem, What Teachers Make had like over three million hits on YouTube. I looked it up and to be exact it has like 3,222,557. For some reason that got me thinking about a song that Rhianna sings called Drink To That. Have you like heard of it? Anyway I went to her YouTube Video and she has like 34,261,329 views. I think you should invite her to the Bowery Poetry Club and have a slam. She isn’t technically a rapper, which reminds me of slam poetry, but she has like done lots of songs with rappers. She did one with Eminem, you’ve probably like heard of him. They did one that made me like think of all the screwed up stuff that like happens in my family when people drink too much. Eminem has also written songs about like getting sober. I wonder if he is telling the truth. And after watching you tonight I’m like wondering even more.

Are there any grown-ups anywhere that like don’t drink? Why am I so angry Mr Mali? Why does everyone seem to think the thing that terrifies me the most [drinking], is like so fun and funny? Drinking scares me like almost more than the things my uncle does to me like late at night, after everyone but him has like passed out. No quarters for that. Is there anyone anywhere who like cares about this Mr Mali? Or is it true what my mom says when she’s like drunk and sad. Lily, she says, the sooner you figure this out the better. What you think and feel doesn’t make a god damn difference! Time to grow the fuck up little girl.

Yours truly,

Lily

Mar 25 2012

Backyard Bird Fodder

Yarmulke wearing chickadee flit and flutter for peanut butter suet, even though it’s not kosher.  Polka dot woodpecker screech, when the basket is empty; they bang their head for bugs. Also a favorite of their prehistoric looking relative, the pileated woodpecker. Carpenter ants are this bongo playing bad boyz favorite food.

The purple finch, New Hampshire state bird, is actually the color of raspberries. Its bouncy lemon drop cousin turns brown in the winter. Cardinals sometimes charge windows, mistaking their reflection for a competitor. They’re named after the men, wearing red robes, in the Roman Catholic church. Serve as proud mascot of seven states.

The humble house wren, like the nun, is known for her jumbled scolding. And no matter what you’ve been told, the jay, blue zorro, wearing a reverse fedora, rarely eats eggs and nestlings. They’re vegan.

Even though the bluebird raises four brood a year, you rarely see them. Their numbers have declined seventy percent since 1970. The blackbirds song sounds otherworldly, like the cicada. It also lives in Japan and Africa.

Birds were on the earth one hundred and fifty million years before we got here. Some say the house of hearing is the first sense to activate, and the last to go when we die. I wonder if birds sang us to self-awareness?

Red tail hawk are monogamous and they mate for life. Man is the only singing primate. The early bird robin gets the worm, and cheer up, cheer up, cheerily sings its song at dawn.

Crows can be found all over the world. They make tools from leaves, mock my dog, and caw, caw, call out the owl’s secret hiding place. Chase the wise wizard, whos wings slice silently through the woods. Solitary Raven, ancient as onyx, speaks several languages. The old shaman stirs the compost heap seeking sustenance.

Tiny titmouse twitter through dry leaves and sand. Quiet as field mice, you don’t know they’re there until something stirs their silent foraging and they burst, like a confetti cannon! Birds don’t have teeth, they swallow their food whole. Dove cooing their mournful chants remind me to pray.

Hummingbirds’ wings beat fifty-three times a second. They use their beak like a sabre, tiny fencers fly upside down and backward. They double their weight to make the long journey to Mexico where they winter. And they kiss every flower they see.

Mar 23 2012

Converting to Introvertisim

The first thing I have to do is thank my dear friend, he’s knows who he is, for sending me the TED video at the bottom of this post. I woke up to it waiting in my inbox. I have been battling the urge to try to become the most read beloved blogger of all time! Checking my daily stats to determine my worth. Disgusted by my low-level desire. A direct threat to creativity.  I was so relieved after watching the video it brought tears to the edges of my eyes.

For most of my life I’ve been plagued by what feels like pressure to fit in. Also, living daily with a subtle signal coming from a deep place inside me, urging me to stand my introverted ground. To be myself. Equally, I’ve battled fear that if I do, I will be alone. If I need help it won’t come.

As a child I was considered painfully shy. It’s true that much of the time I prefer my own company and therefore do not always play well, nor am I comfortable with others. In my family, I’m now thinking there were others like me, I/they were labeled crazy. Anti social. Arrogant. Difficult. For years I believed them. Tried to fit neatly into the box. Failed. Today I am learning, by how the world reacts to me, that there are reasons why people work so hard to fit in. Perhaps it was my families way of trying to protect me. Get me to straighten up and fly right. Keep the world from shooting me out of the sky.

I moved on to marry and then join up with a religion. Before long however I was in conflict with self and others, as I seemed to consider, at a much deeper level, what I was being taught. When I went with my doubt, my questions, to the leadership [authority] of said religion, I was told that it was not my place to question God. That worked for a time but before long I was back to having my own thoughts, feelings, and opinions. All of which made me a bit of an outlier. Eventually I made choices that got me booted out of the church. I haven’t felt the urge to return since. In fact, I have spent time reading about the humanist movement as more times than not God means to join. To think, and not think, like everyone else. Don’t ask questions. If you choose not to convert, become one of the flock, then you are excluded from a large portion of society. Your children have no friends. Your neighbors who don’t see you at church avoid you. Or they try to convert you. Assure you that they love you, as God commands them to do, even though you are on the wrong path.

A few years back the inspiration to live sober overwhelmed me. I stopped drinking alcohol, taking pain pills, and using other mind altering substances. I began to attend a twelve step group in an attempt to learn more about the process I was entering. Almost immediately there was the old familiar pressure to quack like all the rest of the ducks who had once swam along in murky fluids. Granted I live in a small rural area that is predominately ‘Christian’ [albeit warring sects]. Although many of these folks say they are ‘recovering’ from said teachings, they subtly, perhaps even unconsciously, attempt to pressure me into believing. Or at least behaving as if I believe.  I have even been warned not to offend the ducks. Told that they will not be willing to help if I need it.  All I can say is that it’s a good thing I’m accustomed to the heat beneath the stake. Commited to building character for characters sake.

I once read a story about a woman who was homeless. After years of searching, her family found her and tried to bring her home. Offered to let her live with them, pay for an apartment, food, a car, anything she might need so she wouldn’t have to be on the street anymore. Her kids were shocked when she refused their offers. When they asked her why, she said that on the street was the only place she could have her own thoughts. Live her life according to what felt right, interesting, important to her. That the worst thing that could happen was that people would think her to be crazy.

I’ve never forgotten that story because I can relate to it. I’ve included a video here of a man in Portugal who looks to be homeless. He is also brilliantly free in his creativity, full of himself, playful and happy. I must confess that I have fantasized about being homeless. Just disappearing into the world, my mind. Freely falling into the portals that open up, like Alice in Wonderland. “What if I should fall right through the center of the earth? Oh, and come out the other side, where people walk upside down?”

I have a wise guide who reminds me that it is the seeking that’s important. I am finding that to be especially hard in a society where to have the answer, to put our heads together, come up with a ‘one size fits all’ solution, is the GOAL!

I even struggle at times in my marriage as there seems to be a blueprint that fits most couples that I do not find inspiring, even a little. Fortunately my partners mind is not completely rusted shut. As a mother it’s been very hard too. For me, and for my children. They were born into a marriage that was made inside the church I mention above. I have therefore ‘fallen’ way out of favor. OUCH.

I know now that part of the reason I used drugs and booze was an attempt to fit in. Dull the pain of not fitting in. The fear of not wanting to.  My wild mind seeking, always creating, seems to wear people out. I’ve heard so many times, in a tone that insinuates it’s, [I’m], not a good thing. Whoa, you are so intense. Or, I hear nothing. The phone does not ring. The face I am looking into for response, blank. Anywho, 3 or 8 glasses of wine, a handful of Percocet and voila! my colorful mind shuts off. And we all fall down, together.

Years ago when Zoloft first hit the market there was a commercial that ran all the time.  A group of happy smiley faces chatted, laughed and bounced, like balls bounce, together in a group. But there was one sad smiley, alone, dejected and confused, standing by its deflated self. Until it pops a Zoloft that is! Then it bounces into the center of the circle of giggly others, and all are happy together. Every time I saw it I got angry. I knew intuitively what the message was and that it was wrong. Ranted to whoever was around about the psychic murder of the individual. Secretly though I would get scared that “they” were right. And my fear has been affirmed far too many times. When I share my concern with others, or at times the usual type of therapist, I am encouraged to try harder to fit into the group. Call them and invite them to go do something. Let them know you want to be around them. The truth is I don’t. Or I do, at times, but only if I can be my REAL self in the process. Which is not the correct answer it seems. Baa, baa, black sheep. We don’t want your wool.

I have 70 friends on Facebook. Talk about a loser huh. None of which comment on my very ME posts. And the more ME I become, the less I get comments on even the most center of the herd sharing I do. Which leads me to the next point. A handful of these people love what goes on in my mind. As long as no one knows about it. In my life I am like the mistress. The favorite that is kept secret. Yes, I know, it sounds so poor me doesn’t it? Mingled with a good dose on self-centered in the extreme. Today though I’m lifted by my friend who sent me this wonderfully affirming video!

http://www.wimp.com/introvertspower/

Mar 22 2012

Bride of Heaven Wedding Portrait

Moonless black ink sky

Diamond dew drops rise

Like hopeful groom wishes

His prayer;

A world created

With love.

Placing his easel

Facing east

He senses light

Before he sees it;

Solar presence,

His navel, morning portal,

Holy artist come

To paint a new day.

Amber fingers ignite life,

Glowing roots, brushes

 Dipped in fire lick

Edges of clouds, melting violet

Seeps across the sky.

Into morning she comes;

Golden glory

Blazing crown

Bride of heaven sent

To marry the world.

Mar 21 2012

Dreaming Demons, God, and Lovers

I follow him to his bedroom; wonder what the hell I’m doing there?

Pressing my body into the wall, he grinds his hips into mine, kisses me so deep I melt. Desire floods my underwear. Turning my body, facing the wall, he unbuttons my jeans, slides his rough hand over my belly button, sticks the tip of his finger inside me. I feel him pulsing against my back. Helpless, I’m submissive as a rag doll.

Holding my body up with the cup of his hand he wraps his fingers around my throat, squeezing. I can barely breathe. Suddenly I’m scared! Is he going to kill me? Kissing my neck, breathing hot steam, he bites hard. Panicked I try to break free!  He swallows me with a kiss.

Scared. Hungry to feel him inside me, I tear open the buttons on his jeans. Pulling my shirt over my head, unhooking my bra, he bites and kisses my nipples. Licking my belly he slides off my jeans, thirsty, laps up salty water. Just before I come he pulls away, peels off his shirt, takes off his jeans. My body shakes violently. God he is so beautiful.

Like a warrior who’s pinned his enemy, he kneels over me.  Lifting my hips, I open my thighs. Holding his penis in his hand, like an artist painting himself into me, he signs his name between my legs, kisses me so deep I gag. Licks my face with his lion tongue. I feel him stiff and sticky between my legs. Our pubic hair weaving a wild-eyed web as he makes small circles with his hips.

I wrap both legs around his waist and he slowly pushes himself into me. Like wolves after a long hunt, a good meal, we barely move. Lick each other clean. Then he strikes! Thrusts himself further into me and I cry out: Oh God!

YEEES, he roars! Shoving himself deeper he lets out a sinister moan, growls into my ear; You will always belong to me.

The phone rings.  Yanks me out of the dream. Relief rushes over me as reality returns. My body jello, as I stumble out of bed, warm fluid runs down the inside of my thighs.

Just before the answering machine picks up I grab the phone, Hello?

I dreamed about you last night, he croons.