Untitled

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Every stroke of the brush
every word on the page
every touch of every inch of her skin

kills another demon
distroys more pain
gives depth to this dull world

paint to free my spirit
write without shame
touch with true passion


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old man and a napkin

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how many times had I seen him?
alone amongst the sweet smell of the decorated cupcakes and cinnamon twists

today with a napkin
and
a pen in his shaking hand
scrawled lines... placed perfectly on the small white napkin
by a hand, still shaking... a hand that has seen almost a century of life
forming an image
a farm house
a fence
mountains
beautiful mountains
eyes drawn to those mountains

he looks up, out the window
his glassy eyes searching for something
a faint smile and the pen begins again
guided by an expert hand
filling in...
thoughts?
memories?
dreams?

want to ask for it...
the art, the napkin, the story
want to tell him it touched me
wait for him to finish
he, unaware of my presence

he folds the napkin with care
and
of course!
it becomes a gift...
perhaps
for the attractive young cashier?
his care taker?

no
again it is
a napkin
used for small crumbs
a small spot of coffee absorbed in it's pores
then stuffed into an empty cup

he drops it into the trash
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Sex

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Guys talk.

They talk about sports, movies, making money, girls, cars and sex.

I know one of those things well: movies. I don't know shit about sports and cars because I don't care much about them. I don't know much about making money because it involves too many numbers and too much planning. I don't know much about girls because nobody does. I want to think I know about sex, but the second you think you DO know about it, you become one of those guys who thinks he knows about sex, and honestly, they never know much about sex.

I was hanging out with some guys a few years ago and we started trading stories about what the best sex we'd ever had was.

I sat and listened to stories about conquest and staying hard for days and how many times he or she came. ALL valid and amazing things in my book.

When it was my turn I thought, well, "what is great sex for me?" it's all those things, but it's something more, something no one talks about.

I told a story, the first one that popped into my head:

"I remember this girl, this amazing girl whom I met at a BMX track in which I used to go to on a weekly basis. Every Friday night me and my friend Mike would load up our bikes and drive his beat up Chevy Nova 45 minutes out of LA to race. And every Friday I would talk to her... well, I would look at her. I was too fucking shy to talk to her.

But I did talk to her brother.

One Friday after the race (I finished third. I always finished third), I was talking to her brother and out of the blue, he asked me why I hadn't hit on his sister?

"Well," I lied, "I just figured she was tired of every guy at the track hitting on her."

"Oh, well, I think she likes you," he said dismissively.

What is the sound heaven makes when the gates open? That humming, golden, chorale sound. That is the sound I heard.

It took me a few weeks but I DID finally talk to her. I'm pretty sure I said something really profound and flirty. Or I may have said, "hey," as I rode quickly past her. I'm not sure which.

Eventually I gathered the courage to say more than one word at a time to her and it got to the point that we would talk between races every Friday. After a few weeks I decided it was time to make my big move. I decided I would put my arm around her. I thought about when and how to do this all night. ALL fucking night: While I prepped my bike. While I raced. While I watched my friends race. While I picked up my 3rd place trophy. ALL FUCKING NIGHT I thought about how it would feel to put my arm around her. To touch her. What would her reaction be? Would she pull away. Would she put her arm around me?

The standard routine was that every week, after the races were over and most people had left, I would walk her to her brother's car and we would and talk and I would want so badly to kiss her or to just touch her hand but, of course, I wouldn't. THIS time during that walk I was going to do something. Anything. I WAS going to put my arm around her.

We started toward her car. I could see the it in the distance, daring me, taunting me. "Coward," it said. We got closer. "Come ON dude, most guys would be in her panties, you loser," it laughed.

Half way there.

"Come on Chris," I pleaded to myself.

"Now," I said. And... I mean, I think I actually said "now," aloud. She may have heard, but didn't show it.

Slowly, slowly, I slid my arm around her waist. I could feel her hair on my arm, and her warmth through her white nylon jacket. It was soft but I could feel the firmness of her back through it. I could feel her muscles moving... Propelling this beautiful creature forward.

We walked that way for what seemed like hours but was actually two steps. Exactly two steps. I felt so content. So god damned content. She didn't melt, or run screaming. In fact, she seemed to actually move closer to me. Our hips touched. I wanted so badly to look at her face, but I wanted to enjoy THIS MOMENT just a bit longer.

Two more steps and she was still there, still next to me.

Then, the most amazing thing happened... She put her arm around me. Her delicate and amazing arm. It, filled with blood from her heart and life from her soul. She put THAT arm around me. Her hand, with it's beautiful fingers. Fingers that had a life of living and touching ahead of them. Her fingers with her nails painted pink. I wondered when she painted them, if she did that for me. The gold ring that her mother gave her on her index finger.

All of that around me. And every ounce of my current existence around her.

It was in that manner that we walked the remaining distance to her car. I didn't kiss her that night, and I never did get in her panties.

But, it was great sex. It was AMAZING. It was real.

Perhaps even the best.
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