(no subject)
"i want to get pregnant. i want to have your abortion."
the line that was later changed to "i haven't been fucked like that since grade school." but hbc didn't know what grade school was, and apparently was horrified, but only a little.
now, here, i am sore in places i did not know i could be, and in ways i haven't been since i was sixteen. on the seven o'clock drive back to his truck, he wore gunmetal grey snap pants with orange strips down the sides, a purple woods hole gulf tshirt, and blue and red pumas. style sends me to my knees faster than an underage raver to rehab.
its been a little while now, the inside of my head like sitting in a full cafeteria on the third day awake, rewinding time back, before everything sounded like talk radio underwater. far off quiet warpedblurredtogether mumbling...all mumbling shouts. writers block the fading sleepless haze, the words inhabiting growing louder and clearer, but still only miscarried screenplays and novels that would have changed the world, if only he hadn't been wearing a condom. through the din a line or FUCK or string of words just so perfect blare full blast inside my oversized skull.
i suppose this is where i purge, fingers spewing dead cells on gray keys exorcising these paragraphs, nonsense. the point of this whole blasted journal, fucking inane snot, finally. finally FINALLY, i feel like i can write.
wednesday happened finally, too active too early half dead in the centre, cocktease all night long. all considered, i think i did a flaming good job waiting patiently and quietly for it, no fanfare no compulsive tuesday confirmation phone calls, only late night warnings, 'i'm not coming home tomorrow...' just in case. that said the doors would lock behind my keyless person, and i would have nothing to do but go out and enjoy myself, find something to do, knowing my only alternative a cold night in my backseat at a rest stop on route 6.
dull as dogshit prodigal, three fucking hours worth, then to donna's. promised i would drink but not before i drive, marisa drinking half whining, 'why don't the boys make out', waiting for an orgy she would not have participated in. contrary to popular opinion, i would not have joined either. one oclock becomes four o'clock becomes back to hyannis and futon and spiced rum with root beer, and so sad, i knew and he knew and i know that i have been waiting thinking of it all the while between sunday and those last hours.
i am still not used to his lip ring, or his septem. i have not had him in the year or so since their arrival, but have grown so used to seeing them that i don't see them. anymore. i have missed this, that... kissing lips as big as my own, kisses as hard and deep as my own; the taste and smell and warmth of him, the way he looks at me only when he's inside. the third relapse in the past two weeks since the end of his rather life-altering last relationship, but the first time the two of us, not five of us; with no audience or distractions, the politics of orgy, or the beastly bastard 'everything but penetration' flaming stupid menstruation. fucking ovaries.
lovers for four years this past july, off again on again secret but not really, always friends never couple, trying so hard just to keep my fucking mind off of the way he smells when we 'relapse'. appropriate given our history, his history, i suppose. contrary to what the physical mathematics of his person would suggest, he is the only one who has always hurt me, the same jaw clenched taught entry flash as that day on the moss in the woods, when we were new to one another, both of us with long blonde hair and patchouli stink, underage hickeys from jawline to waistline, the only time we were really ever secret; casting shady glances over our shoulders scanning sidewalks for our significant others before leaving the volvo that smelled like sex for those months before he crashed it. lying beneath and around him i could not see myself ever not accepting this, not wanting that or him or whatever i should call it.
around four i lost my underwear. around four thirty i went numb in the lips. this is a phenomenon i have only experienced once with another person, and have yet to find an explanation for, but it is a good thing. a very good thing. usually happens after my third or fourth 'good thing'. around five my stomache muscles caught fire from being clenched so much, and somewhere before six i went hoarse from screaming. screaming. spewing profanities and blasphemies at the top of my dirty sweaty little lungs into the air, the pillows, through teeth clamped on my lip and his shoulder.
sixteen hours later my legs are still on fire. my stomache is still sore. my voice is still cracking. knowing full well it is beyond impossible, i want so badly to go see him again. right now.
i am still catching his smell here and there on me, around me, after a shower and nap and all day, he won't leave me alone. i'm going to have to do something about this. my name is alexandra, and i'm an addict. i am addicted to him. one last time is bullshit. flaming bullshit.
the line that was later changed to "i haven't been fucked like that since grade school." but hbc didn't know what grade school was, and apparently was horrified, but only a little.
now, here, i am sore in places i did not know i could be, and in ways i haven't been since i was sixteen. on the seven o'clock drive back to his truck, he wore gunmetal grey snap pants with orange strips down the sides, a purple woods hole gulf tshirt, and blue and red pumas. style sends me to my knees faster than an underage raver to rehab.
its been a little while now, the inside of my head like sitting in a full cafeteria on the third day awake, rewinding time back, before everything sounded like talk radio underwater. far off quiet warpedblurredtogether mumbling...all mumbling shouts. writers block the fading sleepless haze, the words inhabiting growing louder and clearer, but still only miscarried screenplays and novels that would have changed the world, if only he hadn't been wearing a condom. through the din a line or FUCK or string of words just so perfect blare full blast inside my oversized skull.
i suppose this is where i purge, fingers spewing dead cells on gray keys exorcising these paragraphs, nonsense. the point of this whole blasted journal, fucking inane snot, finally. finally FINALLY, i feel like i can write.
wednesday happened finally, too active too early half dead in the centre, cocktease all night long. all considered, i think i did a flaming good job waiting patiently and quietly for it, no fanfare no compulsive tuesday confirmation phone calls, only late night warnings, 'i'm not coming home tomorrow...' just in case. that said the doors would lock behind my keyless person, and i would have nothing to do but go out and enjoy myself, find something to do, knowing my only alternative a cold night in my backseat at a rest stop on route 6.
dull as dogshit prodigal, three fucking hours worth, then to donna's. promised i would drink but not before i drive, marisa drinking half whining, 'why don't the boys make out', waiting for an orgy she would not have participated in. contrary to popular opinion, i would not have joined either. one oclock becomes four o'clock becomes back to hyannis and futon and spiced rum with root beer, and so sad, i knew and he knew and i know that i have been waiting thinking of it all the while between sunday and those last hours.
i am still not used to his lip ring, or his septem. i have not had him in the year or so since their arrival, but have grown so used to seeing them that i don't see them. anymore. i have missed this, that... kissing lips as big as my own, kisses as hard and deep as my own; the taste and smell and warmth of him, the way he looks at me only when he's inside. the third relapse in the past two weeks since the end of his rather life-altering last relationship, but the first time the two of us, not five of us; with no audience or distractions, the politics of orgy, or the beastly bastard 'everything but penetration' flaming stupid menstruation. fucking ovaries.
lovers for four years this past july, off again on again secret but not really, always friends never couple, trying so hard just to keep my fucking mind off of the way he smells when we 'relapse'. appropriate given our history, his history, i suppose. contrary to what the physical mathematics of his person would suggest, he is the only one who has always hurt me, the same jaw clenched taught entry flash as that day on the moss in the woods, when we were new to one another, both of us with long blonde hair and patchouli stink, underage hickeys from jawline to waistline, the only time we were really ever secret; casting shady glances over our shoulders scanning sidewalks for our significant others before leaving the volvo that smelled like sex for those months before he crashed it. lying beneath and around him i could not see myself ever not accepting this, not wanting that or him or whatever i should call it.
around four i lost my underwear. around four thirty i went numb in the lips. this is a phenomenon i have only experienced once with another person, and have yet to find an explanation for, but it is a good thing. a very good thing. usually happens after my third or fourth 'good thing'. around five my stomache muscles caught fire from being clenched so much, and somewhere before six i went hoarse from screaming. screaming. spewing profanities and blasphemies at the top of my dirty sweaty little lungs into the air, the pillows, through teeth clamped on my lip and his shoulder.
sixteen hours later my legs are still on fire. my stomache is still sore. my voice is still cracking. knowing full well it is beyond impossible, i want so badly to go see him again. right now.
i am still catching his smell here and there on me, around me, after a shower and nap and all day, he won't leave me alone. i'm going to have to do something about this. my name is alexandra, and i'm an addict. i am addicted to him. one last time is bullshit. flaming bullshit.