Boy Next Door -- Part II

Did I blog Tuesday night? I meant Wednesday night. Rick died Wednesday night. Not thinking entirely straight right now.

Everything (household objects, cities, people) feel distant from the norm, atop of the Elisabeth Kubler-Ross stages of grief (surprisingly grief isn't one of the stages of grief), and the $800 Southwest airline ticket, majority of the tax and charge coming out of Los Angeles. I love you L.A. don't ever change. And the 3 1/2 hours layover in Phoenix.

As for the Kubler-Ross stages of grief: Denial, Bargaining, Anger, Depression, and Acceptance; I thought I was getting a grasp on things finally "accepting" Rick's death when I read that these stages don't have any particular order. So you could actually feel Acceptance but then end up with Anger being your final stage, resulting in therapy for full recovery. Great. I love it when medical professionals find a way to keep you coming back. Soul suckers. 

It's all b.s.

I was Depressed all day/night Thursday. I don't "Deny" Rick's gone, I know he is, so that stage is useless. I guess I'm in the Anger stage. I can't imagine what the Bargain stage is, nothing will bring Rick back.

I need to lay off the wine for a while, stick to imbibing only on the weekends like I used to. I walked into the grocery store yesterday and before I could pick up a hand cart, clerks were telling me what wines they recently tried. Hey, I do buy food here too.

I picked up a bottle of Mirassou Pinot Noir on one of their suggestions. Not bad.

And then uncorked this afterwards...

It's funny what things you remember about people when they're gone.



I remember Rick's family had the best haunted house on Halloween.



I remember several years ago sitting in my brother's livingroom one winter night after Rick and I (and some friends) had just gone out for dinner and drinks.

I was staying with my brother in Minneapolis during the holiday. My brother was out on a date, Rick and I had the house to ourselves; romantic winter night, snow gently falling under the bright moonlight, and I thought maybe something could happen.

"I know everything about you." Rick playfully said.

"Not everything." I said back. "Did you know when I was 15 years old I made out with your younger brother?"

Now he knew everything about me. But no, nothing happened between Rick and I, and we were both content with it.

It is a very different kind of love when childhood friends mature into man and woman. It is a marriage of memories that takes life of its own without religion or promises.   



"New thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours of my life were changing." -- Charles Dickens, David Copperfield





Where the heart is

The Boy Next Door

It was a beautiful warm early afternoon. I think it was the start of summer. The sun provided a protective comforting warmth and there was not one cloud in the sky.  I remember the wild bunnies were back under the full bloom of the Lilac trees, toads were hopping across the lawn, and the neighbor's beautiful Irish Setter had her head poked through the wooden fence curious to see what was going on. 

I was about five years old. Perhaps younger. I don't recall being in school yet. I was playing in the sandbox in my back yard. I love being outdoors. Always have. As soon as the sun rose I would bound outside regardless of the season. I'm still that way. Couldn't care less if it's raining, snowing, 20 degrees or 100, I'll find an excuse to be outside.

As a little girl, and you knew me from our neighborhood, I was most likely riding my bicycle, drawing on the sidewalks, jumping my Lemon Twist Skip, or playing in my sandbox, like I was on this particular day.

I was building a castle. I loved building castles in the sand or snow. I don't recall how far I had gotten in my castle structure, and don't recall hearing Rick, an older neighbor boy, walk into my yard or jump into my sandbox with me, but then all of sudden there he was. 

Rick and his family lived 5 houses down from me, on the other side of the street. I never paid Rick any mind, he was just another boy from the neighborhood. Our parents knew each other before either one of us were born. 

Rick was always tall for his age. Skinny and tall. Back then he wore Buddy Holly glasses with thick black rims (that is, until contacts came out, then he wore those) but on this particular afternoon he was wearing his glasses, dark hair tucked behind his ears, t-shirt, shorts, white athletic socks pulled up to his skinny knobby white knees, and tennis shoes. He jumped in my sandbox, lounged on his side, elbow in the sand, his hand holding up his head, top knee slightly bent above the bottom knee. He just looked up at me and smiled, but didn't say a word. Then, randomly, for no particular reason, Rick poked his index finger into my sandcastle. Unexpectedly a worm wiggled out of the hole Rick just punctured with his finger. Rick grabbed the worm, threw it in his mouth and started chewing it. I could see smashed worm pieces in between his teeth. I was horrified.

"Why did you do that?!" I cried.

But Rick didn't answer me. Instead, he picked up a handful of sand, threw it at my face, then jumped up crushing my sandcastle with his feet, and ran off.

And that is how we met, or rather that is how Rick "introduced" himself to me.

And,

We've been friends ever since.




Rick and I at Psycho Suzi's. Our favorite hangout in Minneapolis.  

I don't have a childhood memory without Rick in it. Not one that matters.


Yesterday, I woke up and as per usual, while drinking my caffeine I wrote yesterday's blog, I think it was around 5:30am. When I was finished typing the blog I clicked "publish" and then checked my phone and email.

Rick died 11pm the night before. Just 6 1/2 hours before I published my Thanksgiving blog.

I haven't the words.

We knew Rick was dying. We've known for 2 years. An inoperable brain tumor. The cancer slowly spread.

I thought, we had hoped, we had one more holiday season with Rick.

He fought so hard. He was so young. No parent should ever have to bury their children. Ever. My heart just goes out to his parents along with his family and new bride. Rick married his girlfriend last year. My heart goes out to all of them.  

From that day in my sandbox, Rick grew into this magnificent structure of honor and strength. Truly one of the good guys. He was varsity champion of everything but never lost his sweet, down to earth, boyish charm. He graduated St. Cloud U and went on to become a corrections officer, then a probation officer. And at some point both Rick and my dad thought they needed to do more for our (their) community, they took a class together, a program for male adults in the community to pose as role models for first time juvenile offenders who most likely didn't have a strong male role model to receive guidance from. With strong male guidance, those young male juvenile offenders are less likely to offend again.

Rick and I never dated, never kissed, there was never any romance, but there was a wealth of mutual love and respect, and for whatever his reason, all while growing up, until the day he died, Rick chose to be my champion, my hero, a part of my family, as I his, and I am forever grateful. Humbled by him. The little girl in me wants to cry that a part of me died with him last Tuesday night, but that's not what Rick would have wanted.


Yesterday, today, this weekend, I'll weep and mourn him 

I'll go home and say goodbye,

And then

I'll live,


For both of us.  

Simone. Gordon.

The last of the Midwest wanderers have returned home for Thanksgiving. Obligations in Los Angeles prevents me from joining them.

I exaggerate, there's an odd feeling of solitude like what I imagine being the sole survivor of an airline crash is like; fatalities of gross magnitude but one. Feels strange. Friends keep me company with texts through-out the day and night along with pictures and videos, like we've been divided by war. I love it!

As small as the world is compared to the universe, more specific the actuality that I'm only 5 hours away (and 2 hours time difference) by plane, my friends just feel so far away.

Friends are your chosen family. I have only loved one man in the way I love my friends, and when that relationship ended I don't think I ever fully recovered. I was young. Some things linger with you forever when obtained in your youth. It is why all psychology starts with your parents and childhood.

The loves of my youth are the loves that will stay with me until the day I die,

Like my nom de plume,

Simone

And

Gordon

I met E. Gordon when I was 14 years old.

I met C. Simone when I was 21 years old.

 

E. Gordon.


E. Gordon was a boy I met when I was 14 years old. I knew nothing about boys. I still know nothing about boys! Absolutely nothing!

A few years prior to meeting E. Gordon, a boy named Michael L. kissed me in my backyard, but that's it, that's all I knew.

E. Gordon and I were formally introduced by a woman who was friends with both our parents. It was a blistery Minnesota winter afternoon luncheon at this woman's house. Like myself, Gordon had been saddled to join his parents to this luncheon, as way for our parents to prove what "great kids" they had.

E. Gordon was 16 years old, average height for a boy of 16, thin, toned, blonde curly hair and blue eyes - as describes most boys I grew up with.

When we were introduced, Gordon looked me directly in the eyes, tilted his head, smiled, cordially stuck out his right hand, but said nothing.

"Nice to meet you." I politely said, shaking his hand.

Gordon shook my hand in return, then laughed, and walked away.

That's how we met.

I didn't see Gordon for the rest of the afternoon or season, nor cared to. I thought he was rude, spoiled, and (spite the fact he looked like every other boy I knew) I also thought he was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. It would take obsessing over Gordon for the remainder of the winter to understand it was the eye contact. That's what moved me. It was the way he looked at me, directly in the eyes, unflinching, unwavering, and with a conviction of something though probably not good, or so I thought, since he laughed at me afterwards! Still, even if I never saw Gordon again, he would remain a part of me today because of that steady confident eye contact.

The following Summer however I did see Gordon again in a less formal environment. We were just a bunch of kids in a friend of a friend's basement listening to music and hanging out. In fact, I saw Gordon almost every day that Summer, and every day he ignored me, as I ignored him, all with the exception of that amazing wonderful eye contact! We never spoke a word to each other, not one word, but we looked at each other a lot!

On occasion I would hear Gordon laugh. It was beautiful, music to my ears. I would look at him, he would look at me, smile, our gaze locked for 5 to 10 solid seconds until something distracted one of us, breaking the spell.

By end of that summer, at a lake a bunch of kids and I hung out at, Gordon approached me and said, "I'm moving. My dad got a job in Chicago."

It was the first thing he said to me (ever!) since we met that one winter day.

I was heartbroken.

Gordon and I spent the rest of that day and evening together, inseparable, laughing and having fun. Though we didn't kiss or hold hands, Gordon played with my hair, touched my arm, even hugged me once. We never mentioned the day we met, or why it took so long to talk, we just enjoyed our time together, simple, uncomplicated, sincere, for whatever it was worth.

"The simplicity of childhood is a wondrous thing lost in adulthood."

When that day ended, Gordon and I merely said our goodbyes, and I was prepared to never see him again...

Until we did.

Gordon and I saw each other one more time the following summer.

I was now 15 years old, Gordon was 17, and we saw each other in the stands of a high school baseball game. I was with my friends. He was with his friends. And through-out the entire game we locked eyes and just stared at each other, and smiled.

When the game was over, Gordon, and myself, merely got up and went our separate ways once more.      

I never saw Gordon again after that.

It wouldn't have been difficult getting in touch with Gordon, then or now, our parents had/have mutual friends, but there was (is) a magic there I didn't want to break.

Gordon was special to me, obviously, or I wouldn't be using his name now as a nom de plume.

I think about E. Gordon, almost daily, and will most likely continue to for the rest of my life.


C. Simone


Simone was her middle name. I refer to Simone in past tense because Simone died. She killed herself at the age of 27. She hung herself.

I had just turned 21 years old, and had just moved to Los Angeles. I worked for a company that was 100% image based. That's where I met Simone. I thought Simone was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She was a natural beauty, girl next door, long sandy blonde hair, every color of blonde entwined, perfect sexy beach body, perfectly sculpted face, perfect nose, perfect hazel eyes, but even more impressive she was an artist and writer, possessing a wealth of heart and soul, extremely talented, which is why she and I became better acquainted. I was in awe of her.

I saw Simone at work maybe 5-10 minutes a day. Getting better acquainted took several months.

We, Los Angeles, use the word "friend" rather freely. I however take this word very seriously as I know who my friends are, as I've always known. You and I may call each other friends but there's a very good chance we only know each other for the good times, as a mutual understanding.

Simone and I called each other "friends" but in truth we were co-workers who talked about life outside of work, shared a lot of writing, and went to lunch maybe once a month.

What I knew about Simone I mostly knew creatively. Aside from that, I knew she had a "part-time" boyfriend, I knew where she grew up, and I knew where she worked (obviously.)

And because both Simone and I wrote prose and short stories, we would write things specifically for (only) each other just out of the sheer enjoyment knowing someone else in L.A. also loves Shakespeare, Jung, Bukowski, Kerouac, etc., and we left these poems and stories for each other at work, and sometimes mailed them to each other.

One day I received a letter from Simone in the mail. Her family had institutionalized her. They thought Simone was a danger to herself and others and felt it best she receive around the clock psychiatric treatment. I was shocked! I thought she was kidding! But the address on the envelope, the postal stamp, and the letterhead were not a joke.

By this time I was 22 years old, and had no idea (no idea!) how to maturely process any of this. I spoke with one of my older brothers almost daily for consultation!

Simone and I continued to correspond with each other same as before, poetically, idyllically, but sometimes not, sometimes we just told each other rather plainly about our day.

Our friendliness evolved while Simone was institutionalized.

In time, Simone was released from the institution, we resumed our "friendship" as was prior to her being institutionalized, and it was as if a giant pink elephant was constantly in the room. It was intense, and nerve wracking, confusing, unsettling, mostly because she never wanted to talk about being institutionalized,  not ever, not who, not what, not where, not when, and not why, not ever! So we didn't.

A few months past and Simone disappeared again. More months past and I still had not heard from her. I found her brother's phone number in an old correspondence and called him for the first time, out of the blue, looking for Simone.

Simone's sister-in-law was the one who informed me Simone had been re-institutionalized, released, but within days of her release she hung herself, and days later died in the hospital.

I could write a thousand pages about Simone, but unfortunately only my side of my relationship with her because in truth, I know very little about her.

"When was she released?" I asked her sister-in-law

"Last week." she replied.

And Simone's family refused to tell me anything more about her death, why she was institutionalized, or answer any of my questions regarding anything about her.

A few days, literally days later, after learning about Simone's death, I received a letter in the mail from Simone. She had mailed the letter from the institution upon her release, but for whatever reason I did not get the letter until after she died. 

What was said in that letter is my one and only (very private) connection with her. It is all I have left of her. I've considered several times publishing our correspondence, hers and mine, back and forth, amazing letters, poems, short stories, prose, small plays, etc., but I don't have the heart to do so, and maybe I'm just selfish and want to keep them all for myself, I don't know.

What happened to the writings I gave her, also I do not know.

Simone Gordon

I've had to learn to just let these people go. Both Simone and Gordon left on their terms. One day they were both physically part of my life. Then one day they were not.

I chose this name, Simone Gordon, and use it now because these are two people I think about almost every day since I met them. I can't explain it. Simone and Gordon are in my head, and for a person like me, being in my head can be just as potent (sometimes) as being in my heart.

This blog is as real and sincere as I can be in writing. Drunk. Sober. Angry. Happy. It just is what I am, what I happen to be, like it or not, whenever I write.

My only "mistake" was trying to include people in my inside jokes and that clearly doesn't work. You don't know me. You don't know my friends. So it doesn't work. My friends and I have known each other forever! We're horrible to each other, and tease each other, and make fun of everything we can invent about one another simply because, well, we enjoy being dicks to each other! It's funny and we love each other!

Neither Simone, or Gordon, were people I considered true friends, but oddly, very little goes on in my daily life when something doesn't remind me of them.

I miss my friends.

I miss Simone and Gordon.

Nothing more I can say really.


In conclusion;

Forever,

Thank you,
Simone Gordon

Where The Devil Drinks

The La Cienega/San Vicente intersection messes me up all the time, even on foot. But in my defense it's not like I'm on that intersection every day, plus I have a billion things on my mind, and I was only 5 minutes late. 

On second thought, no excuses.

Hell with it

I was late

5 minutes.

And while friends and strangers over the internet "weep" the misuse of there, they're, and their, please unclench the anal-retentive irons when in person! One petty contemptible rhetoric after next, like links on a chain evanesced from melted down faded nickels and dimes, hard labored and falsely casted as wrought and steel, disharmonious welded knots of an ominous entanglement, I imagine such a chain to be used for ill capture rather than poetic bondage.    

This wasn't at all how I fantasized us having sex. (I mean dinner.)

I surrendered and once more he disapproved.

I waved my white flag and he threw his fist on the table.

Damned if I do.

Damned if I don't.

We went our separate ways.

Last he text, "This is why I'm alone."

"Me too," I wrote back. "Me too."

It happens.

Sex, like everything else attainable, is the easiest thing in the world until you get bored with it.


Be that as it may,  

Earlier I didn't drink because he doesn't drink, and now I wanted a cocktail badly.  I don't recall last time I gave up a drink for someone but I must have.
Be warned: Not doing it again any time soon!

No hard feelings. Whatever for? Los Angeles, the world, is too small a place for those with a decent memory.

But,

I still wanted a glass of wine. Cleanse the mental palate. Vino, not to forget. I drink because that is simply what I do, and I enjoy it.  

Along the boulevard of pretty cars, pretty people, all with nowhere to go but everywhere, I heard a familiar song and looked to see where it was coming from.

I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a mans soul and faith
And I was around when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain

What's this? An old Dodge Charger? In my neighborhood?  

Please to meet you
Hope you guess my name

And suddenly I was no longer preoccupied with the balladry of hammering square pegs into the proverbial round hole. I wanted to go where the driver of that car playing that song was going.

But What's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

And as if his car suddenly ran out of gas, the Dodge Charger rolled into the next parking lot towards the valet.

Fortuitous? Who am I not to tempt fate, or at least seize opportunity to share spirits?

While Mr. Dodge Charger had his vehicle parked I went inside the lounge and finally got my glass of wine. I then made myself comfortable at the bar and observed the room; groups of beautiful people ignoring other groups of beautiful people, and while I entertained the thought of introducing this group of people to that group of people, I nonetheless admired their individual Dumas credence, "All for one, One for all" even if their loyalty was only just for tonight. It's all we have really, tonight, tomorrow night, following the next night (and if we're lucky) following another.  

Enter Mr. Dodge Charger, currently alone, who took up a seat at the other end of the bar and ordered a beer, green glass bottle, probably a Heineken.

And there we were. 

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the Sinners Saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
Cause I'm in need of some restraint    

20 random minutes past from the moment Mr. Dodge Charger and I silently connected on the sidewalk though he'll never know it. He'll never know the course of my night which brought me into the lounge with him. He'll never know why I'm sitting at the opposite end of the bar with him enjoying my glass of Pinot Noir. 

He'll never know any of it. 

I finished my glass of wine and intentionally brushed past Mr. Dodge Charger while I headed out the door.

"Where you going pretty girl?" He unexpectedly asked.

"Home." I cheerfully replied.

"Where's that?" he pursued.


Minnesota, but that's not what he meant.


The answer to his question,

No idea, my handsome friend, but I'll let you know when I get there, next we meet again.

And I'll think of you,

And play our song.


So if you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well-learned politesse 
Or I'll lay your soul to waste
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name

-- Rolling Stones, Sympathy For The Devil 
  

1963 Dallas Texas

I watched Steven Spielberg and Robert Di Niro this morning talking about where they were during the JFK assassination. Though never an enthusiast, I've always believed his assassination was a conspiracy... and Robert Kennedy... and Marilyn Monroe.

JFK assassination was before my time, but remained a strong subject in my youth and from thus born my first "rebellious" notion regarding blind faith conformity.

Alice In Wonderland.     

Won't be long now before I'm writing beatnik poems about hanging out with Walt Whitman at a California supermarket. Cheers to you Mr. Ginsberg! 

I'm looking forward to seeing Kill Your Darlings with Daniel Radcliffe.   

Below: Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady On The Road.

The two men responsible for the woman I am today, well sort of.

The modern version of Ginsberg's A Supermarket In California would be me racing $400 battery operated Feber Ferraris with Joaquin Phoenix at Walmart.
Bring your A-game Mr. Phoenix!

I'll call my rendition Drive hard. Smoke the Phoenix. Clean up on isle 7.

I've been consumed, overwhelmed as of late.

It took three tries but I finally saw last Monday's episode of Sleepy Hollow. Loved it. Crushing hard on Tom Mison as Ichabod Crane.  

The past hour was spent chasing around the Ginger Pussy. After feeding him he knocked over his water bowl, then kitty puked, then filled the litter box, then knocked over the new bowl of water, then ran around in the hallway when I threw out the kitty poo, then had a meow fit, then ran around the condo knocking over all the dining room chairs. I'm jealous of the cat's energy! 

I got my flu shot, up my nose, both nostrils. First time getting the flu shot that way.

Made it to the Beverly Center yesterday. Riding up the escaladers, looking out the giant glass window, directly at the Sofitel Hotel. Smiled. Big, big smile. One year ago January.

Sigh.

January. Another year older, and only wiser because I'm too busy and boring to be anything else. 

My nights have been spent staying in, late, beat, tired, passing out on the sofa with the TV on, 20 pound cat sitting on my legs licking himself (show off!), last night it was a bottle of Apothic red. I have 60 pages left in the book I'm reading Bad Things Happen by Harry Dolan. I know "who did it" so I've completely lost interest now, but I'll finish it anyway. I was eager to read Hollywood Said No by Bob Odenkirk, David Cross, and Brian Posehn, but heard it wasn't a good read. Really?? We'll see.

For so many years I've merely been a voice on the phone, an email, a name on an invoice, but since I've been out and about kissing hands and shaking babies it's interesting seeing the reaction on peoples' faces when we meet. I'm getting used to it.

"Wow you're cute!"

What do you say to that exactly?

"Uh. Thank you ... ??"

I'm neurotic, to me it sounds like a polite way of saying, "Wow I thought you'd be ugly!" followed by a very forward, big teeth smiling face, wide eyed, full arm thrust hand shake. The first time someone came at me that way I was a little scared. Not scared like chloroform, park bench, stolen black market kidney scared, but close. When people come at me with eager full affection, I take a Musubi dachi heiko stance of cynical paranoia. No one should be that happy to see me, ever! Unless of course I'm shopping. Then I like it. 

"The world has turned into a cesspool of filth and decay. Now where's my Bourbon?!"

I'm trying to talk my friend, a writer, into scripting something of our own to pitch. He's one of those guys who's got a ton of talent but requires a lot of romancing. Here we go! Where's my chapstick?    


I was contacted by Google yesterday.

I have one of the highest search engine blog hits. 

Update 4,491 blog hits since I started writing 4 weeks ago.

Thank you!

If I knew Google kept count of their search engine hits I would have titled my blog -- HOT DIRTY FREE SEX WEED METH LAB CAT TORPEDOES

Next time.

Sexual Geometric Ennui?

I didn't want to throw the flowers away but they were dead.

For a week every morning when I opened my eyes I saw the pink and red roses along with (some kind of beautiful elegant green flower with arced flowing pedals) wilt a little more. As the days past I kept fresh water in the vase, resting the flower bouquet in the sunlight, then some place cool, and tried keeping the flowers alive for long as I could.

I'm horrible with plants.

Out of sight out of mind, but I didn't want that night to end. I considered plucking a small number of flower pedals and drying them out, but then decided against it and threw the whole bouquet away.

They say people who care for plants are the most loving and nurturing of people due to how much work it takes keeping just one plant alive, let alone several, and dozens.

"Your thoughts betray you."

Yes, I know, Lord Vader. I've managed to create a romantic social profusion and thus found myself upon its apex. But I'm a salesman, I'm hoping to auction it off one day as a performance piece, or simply leave it by the curb and pretend I don't know how it got there.

I can't date escorts for the rest of my life. Wait, can I?

No, no I can't. I don't have enough money.

"A mind that is stretched by new experiences can never go back to its old dimensions."
-- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

" The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science."
--Albert Einstein

"I've been things, seen places."
-- Mae West

Sums it up.

Carl Jung said, "A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them."

Maybe that's what happened, I passed through the inferno and now there's nothing left?

Maybe it's the caffeine. I do drink a lot of caffeine.

It's not like I sit under a table lamp turning it on and off to a mental metronome while chanting "tick tock, tick tock, tick tock", though really what's the difference between that and chanting "ooohhhmmmm, ooohhhmmmm". I don't chant. I meditate. Could never get into the chanting thing.   

I saw something once on the Discovery channel, a scientific theory that people are sexually attracted to others based on face and body geometry. And when people go against their usual geometric "norm" it's merely an affirmation of attraction to the original geometric shapes. Carl Jung wrote a book on the same theory, that all your chosen life surroundings are of similar geometric shapes.

The extreme opposite being those who suffer from dysmorphia.
 

I totally got off subject.


I think it's like cats. If you give a cat too many dietary options the cat becomes finicky and doesn't want to eat. But then I feel bad for the cat. Who wants to eat chicken kibbles for the rest of their lives?

I wonder if he's thought about me since, my escort date.

The company does a follow up, settle the financials, make sure you had a good time, and they give you a nice compliment supposedly by your date, etc. I just smiled. It reminded me of my friend's narration of his Brothel experience. He said it was very sterile, as in cleanliness, hygiene, lots of bathing, rubber gloves, condoms (of course), the whole body scrub down after each sexual act, only listening to this guy on the phone was more verbally phlegmatic than antiseptic. Nice guy though. 

The date itself, his companionship, was amazing! It's a good thing I'm not wealthy or I would never vanilla date again.

I probably shouldn't admit that out loud.

It's just a phase.



Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.



I think I'm sexually attracted to quadrilaterals, with complex internal trapezium compositions.



It would explain the glasses.

I like guys who wear glasses.

Static Yellow Tint

The 70's are making a comeback. The vibe. The fashion. The static yellow tint filters. The shady mirror chroma, bell bottom scammers. The righteous pump their veins with a sick weary angst. The battle of good and evil swirl under the disco-technology of a heavy fat bass lick.

And,

For a while I've been pondering a Friday Night Fights event.

Back in my early ad days I knew a certain astro large "sports entertainment manager" continuously trying to organize other managers for an all new girls "foxy" boxing association. I still have shorts and gloves that were given to me as a gift.

But because of all the past aka "fake" sexy girl boxing matches,

People really wanted to see girls beat the hell out of each other!

The slogan back in its day was,

"Draw blood, get paid!"  

The concept was ahead of it's time.

Today, with all these guys smack talking each other, makes me wonder,

Is it time to get in the ring, boys?

Girl fights.

Guy fights.

I can haz trainers and promoters!   

Grudge matches!

A place where all the "talkers" can become "walkers" and get in the ring! Call out your opponent, invite them for 5 rounds, no holds barred,

"Draw blood, get paid!"

I'll hype the Shaft out of it!

Oh. And. Of. course. I'll keep it "legit". 

And to make certain it stays legit, naturally, I'll manage you and your opponent. Anyone know where I can get a Cochese Sabotage Don King wig? My hair just won't go that way on it's own, I've tried!    

I need a cool "sports entertainment manager" name,  

And cooler shady mirror chroma sunglasses.

Ladies and gentleman,

Nothing sells love like a little war.

Think about it.


We're gonna stimulate some action;
We're gonna get some satisfaction.
We're gonna find out what it is all about.
After midnight, we're gonna let it all hang down.

--- Clapton, After Midnight

Ginger Kitty

My friend, after surgery, feeling his mortality, felt the need to make his last will and testament. -- Who by the way is thankfully doing great on the mend!

Since I've known, loved, and taken care of his cat since the cat was a little kitten, my friend asked if (God forbid!) in the event of his death, will I take the cat in an official capacity, meaning name me in his will as the cat's new human.

Of course I said yes. I'm honored he asked. I know what pets mean to people. I've had pets, and after losing my last cat, I decided not to have any more pets until I'm older and perhaps life slows down a bit. But I understand my friend wants to know his beloved cat will be in good, safe, loving hands.

This is the little Ginger Pussy,

I saw he was slipping off the bed, and I know I probably should have helped him rather than scramble to find my cell phone to take a picture, but c'mon that's funny!

"Aaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

   

Yes, this Ginger Pussy always has a home. And I will continue to love him as I always have. You have my word.

2 broke Mama-sans

There's a television show called 2 Broke Girls. A friend turned me onto this show and luckily it's On Demand.

The other evening as my day wound itself down, my friend said, "You have to watch this episode called And The Girlfriend Experience."

In short, it's about their Korean boss, Han, who sent his traditional mother a picture of a girl and said she was his girlfriend. The girl in the picture is a local Asian stripper/prostitute he found in some magazine and sent the picture of her [assuming just the face] to his mother. But when the mother says she's coming to visit, and wants to meet the girlfriend, the [2 broke] girls are left to assume the responsibility of hiring this stripper/prostitute for Han, hence the title And The Girlfriend Experience.    

There's a scene in the episode where the [2 broke] girls are at the strip club where this girl works. They had to hire a private lap dance in order to talk to the girl privately. In this scene, the [2 broke] girls baby-wipe down the sofa they are going to sit on. Thinking they have cleaned the sofa best as they could, the stripper begins her routine, turning off the florescent lights, and turning on the black light, exposing all the c*m stains on the sofa, wall, floor, chair next to the sofa, ceiling, etc.

It was awesome!

And,

It reminded me of this place downtown.

Years ago when I was a young whip, just off the Greyhound Bus [aka Southwest Airlines], I saw an ad in "a newspaper" about a job dancing for money. Back in it's more "legitimate days" I believe those girls were called taxi-dancers, for taxi dance halls during prohibition to stimulate the economy, etc., and as a way for girls to make an income selling dance tickets [Google it, I'm not 100% positive of the specifics.]

But,

I saw this ad and went downtown to "the dance hall". 

It was middle afternoon, week day, and when I arrived at the address given, a brick building, no windows, heavy steel security door, camera mounted at the door, and a buzzer with an intercom, a woman with a thick heavy Asian accent buzzed me in. 

The front room was an office, two desks, filing cabinets, and two older Asian women who wanted to be referred to as "mama-sans" [their word, not mine] one of which offered me a chair to sit in.

The moment I started talking, the two women realized I'm American,

Yup, I'm legal,

And "mama-sans" wasn't going to cut it with me, not really, but back then I would have called you General Master Ling, if it was something I was into. 

The women then had me stand back up, turn around, turn around again, and sit back down in the chair.

In their Asian accents they began the interviewing process

Do you have family here in the states? Of course.
Do you have a boyfriend or husband? No.
Are you against wearing sexy clothes at work? No.

And that pretty much concluded the Q&A portion of the interview.

One of the women unlocked the door behind their desks and we entered the club. 

Even in broad daylight, the club was so dark it took a while for my eyes to focus under the very dim red and black lighting. Because it was early afternoon the girls were not there, and the club was not yet open.

The club itself was loaded with red felt furniture, red felt floor, and red felt walls, even the pool table was lined with red felt.

"The girls just play board games, just play pool, and just dance with the clients, but there is no prostitution! Girls are not allowed to leave once their shift starts, until their shift ends. Only the clients can come and go."

Or so they're hoping!

After the tour of the club, I thanked the "mama-san" for her time and left the club.

Running!          

I have no idea if the girls who work at these clubs make any money. 

Anyway,

That episode of 2 Broke Girls, reminded me of that afternoon.


2 Broke Girls - On Demand - CBS - Love this show!


I have no idea what the actual time slot is, most of my television viewing is On Demand.
   

Girl Meets Boy

For 24 hours leading up to my Mission Black Tie date, friends had text quotes from American Gigolo, Risky Business, Angel, etc.. just to be funny. The word "inappropriate" was jokingly tossed around quite a bit. 

During my pre-date interview the rules were established, sign, sealed, and delivered. There was to be nothing inappropriate or the date would end.

And while friends all said they understood this was about the adventure, doing something different, the price of convenience, and getting something I desperately needed -- more than all that I was really looking forward to the propriety and simple pleasantness of the date. 

Every step I took leading up to my MBT date had a bit of ceremony (etiquette) to it unlike any other date previous. I took every measure from head to toe best I could to look ceremoniously becoming for my date, more importantly for this specific type of date.    

As teenagers, there were courtesies my dates and I performed before going out. Boy goes to girl's house, boy has flowers for the girl, boy meets girl's family, boy takes girl to his house, girl meets boy's family... two hours of ceremony all before we could go to the movies. It was a matter of respectability. To go out with a boy even just to play tennis and not know each others parents was considered "taboo". It is, in part, why all of my friends know my dad and brothers. Well that, and most of us grew up together just a house (or so many) away. 

At some point, I'm not entirely sure when, I got tired of the propriety. I just want to go to the damn movies with this boy! Why does it have to be so hard?! 

Looking back on it now, I stopped appreciating what a father goes through raising a daughter. And out of sheer frustration dad at some point made the decision; I did best I could it's up to her now.  

Since then, I didn't always make the best choices but I learned from them and/or became something more from them.

I wanted a night of etiquette, genteel, ceremony with an edge. Sounds silly knowing the paperwork it took to obtain this date but it wasn't about sex. Is it ever? If I just wanted to get off I can quite literally do that myself in a matter of minutes, I've had years of practice!

Getting ready for the Mission Black Tie date was utterly nerve wracking. Many times I had to sit down and catch my breath while getting ready. I worried I might actually faint at the restaurant we were meeting at. 

I seriously worried!     

I considered having a cocktail at home while getting ready, calm the nerves, but decided against it. I joked to myself; maybe he'll cancel. But they don't do that with these types of dates. Not last minute.   

Even the walk to the restaurant was unlike anything I've experienced. I had the limo pick-up option but that would have been too much. Too cotton candy. I greatly welcomed the crisp cold night, it calmed my nerves a little. But a million things flew through my head as I walked. I hope he likes my shoes. I got them, wearing them just for him. I really, really hope he likes my shoes! I changed my nail polish three times I hope it matches my dress ok. ...  

It's nutty I know. They're just shoes. It's just nail polish. But not tonight. There was no "just" in anything I did tonight. It was all done with meticulous precision. I was on a mission. And the funny thing with missions is, you can fail or they wouldn't be called a mission, they would be called something else; peanut butter.

When I reached the restaurant I checked my cell phone, I was 10 minutes late.

I took three deep breaths, holding the last breath in, I opened the door to the restaurant and exhaled. 

My date was standing by the bar. Handsome. And just as dashing in person. It's mostly why I picked him, he has a dashing look to him. That, and he listed himself an avid reader. I considered if nothing else we can talk books for the next four hours and have a nice dinner.

He smiled at me. I smiled back. He came over to greet me. It was like we were passionate caring lovers from years gone by, removed and once again reunited. He didn't embrace me but held on to my shoulders firmly and gently kissed both cheeks like we already know each other. As if there was an already existing affection.There was a jovial tone with which he spoke in.

Honestly I was expecting a handshake.

"You look absolutely stunning." he whispered in my ear, and smiled, warm and genuine.

Loved his smile.

My hands were numb and ice cold. Probably best we didn't shake hands. I have no idea why I was so nervous.   
  
My date had flowers and for some reason I giggled. It was a nervous giggle. I mentally told myself; stop giggling you sound like a moron! 

But what struck me odd was during the first 20 minutes of getting better acquainted he never once said, "Nice to meet you." Not that that's important but, conversing with him was like we already knew each other. Maybe this is common practice for men in his profession?

Sitting in the lounge having a cocktail with my date, thankfully my hands warmed and I was less nervous. He was very, very kind, constantly smiling an amazing smile, which put me towards at ease.

I was so curious about him. How did he get here, with me, this way. And I'm sure women ask him all the time how he chose to be an escort, and for that specific reason I made up a list of other things to ask him, to talk with him about, all of which I had completely forgotten. It's no good trying to pre-plan nights like this one. There's no script.   

"Do your friends know where you are tonight?" He very pleasantly asked. 
"Yes" I said, "they're all sitting right over there." I teased nodding at a table of strangers. 

He didn't even look. He just laughed as warm and genuine as his smile.

"I did tell a few people." I embarrassingly admitted.

I told everyone!

"Funny you should say that," he said. "My friends are all sitting behind us." He teased back, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. Or so I assumed he was teasing for all I know they really were sitting behind us! Security, in case the little Asian girl went out of control and tried to ninja rape the 6.0 tall quarterback looking guy!

"Truthfully I don't care if people know where I am, who I'm with. I do what I want. Besides, those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." I said.

Yes I know, big dork, I quoted Dr. Seuss, but I love that quote! 

Our conversation did loosen up a little. I told him some things. He shared some things with me. Nothing inappropriate. After all, neither one of us could forget the nature of our date.

And as if Fate was having a little bit of fun with us, while being escorted to our table from the lounge, my date and I past two women mid-conversation, "I've never had two men at the same time." one woman said.

"Really??" Her friend sounded shocked.

And I'm like, "Girl, you haven't had an Oreo Cookie until you tried double stuffed!"
And the girlfriend was like, "Girl!!"
And I'm like, "Girl!!"
And then we hi-fived each other.  

Ok no we didn't, but I thought it!

Up until this point in the evening my date and I didn't broach the subject of sex. It was my understanding this subject wasn't allowed, or it was frowned upon, or something. Either way I didn't want to be anything less than respectful of the rules, and of him.

However, when my date and I got settled at our table he (rather comfortably) asked me, "So have you ever been with two men at the same time?"

"No" I quickly lied.

My date just smiled that warm friendly, affectionate smile. He so didn't believe me.

My thinking was, what's the point of having an adventure if you're just going to be the same person you've been for the past 10 years? Is this the same guy who hangs out at the local sports bar with his buddies on Sunday afternoons? No of course not. We're both playing parts. That's the fun of it, we're both "role playing", kind of.     

Ever been to the Rio in Las Vegas, home of the Chippendales? They only allow women into the shows, but you don't even have to go into the venue to hear the pure utter mayhem of women screaming at the shows. Whatever capacity the venue is, was reached the night I saw them. It was a wall to wall clusterf*ck echo chamber of horny women screaming at the top of their lungs for these guys! Intense! And you either have to dive into the screams of chaos and join them, or get trampled and smothered out. My throat was hoarse the next day! That exact same energy is what I was feeling in the company of my date. This is what I came here for, and sure a lot of it was fantasy I made up in my own mind but so what? 

During dinner I told my date about the one and only time I've ever truly fallen into the unknown depths of passionate love. I was 20 years old.

"The poison was in the wound, you see. And the wound wouldn't heal."
--Professor Humbert Humbert, Lolita

I went as far as admitting to being with two men at one time. My date looked at me knowingly but he seemed genuinely appreciative for not trying to fool him.

I told him about my lifestyle, my opinions about sex and love, and my philosophies that are deeply rooted which gives me life and stability.  

I didn't mean to tell him any of this. It just felt so good to. Once I started talking I couldn't stop.

And he was an excellent listener.   

Some people buy Bentleys, and jewelry from Tiffany, and 70 inch television screens, and big houses, and it doesn't matter if other people like or understand why you made these material purchases, it's not for them, it's for you. I'm a Buddhist and I understand that. My date wasn't material. He was someone I needed for me. Other people compare his company to false elixir, but

Oh well.   

There was never a flicker of judgment in my date's face or in his voice. He didn't attempt to council me or offer suggestions. He just listened and talked with me, a complete gentleman more attentive than I could have hoped for. 

On the same property as the restaurant is a bar lounge with a beautiful view. After dinner we huddled under a heat lamp with some other couples, everyone was happy kind and sweet, all commenting on my beautiful flowers. 

My date put his arm around me as we briefly chat with a few other couples. My hands got cold and numb again. I wondered what the couples thought about my date and I, if we seemed like a real couple or if something seemed a little off. I wonder what their reactions would have been if I told them he was paid to keep me company.        

At one point his hand brushed against mine. I could tell he wanted to hold hands but I was hesitant. After a few more brushed I put my hand in his. Strange, I was still waiting for him to say, "Nice to meet you." This would have been the perfect time! But he never said it.

I was concerned with how to end the date. What was appropriate? A handshake? A kiss on the cheek? Do we just say "Thank you" with a polite genteel nod and go our separate ways?

I kept watch of the time. I kept looking in my purse, lighting my cell phone to see the time.

"Do you have to be home at a certain hour?" He joked lightly.
"Just seeing what time it is." I said.
"You don't need to do that." He said. "Not because of me."
"I'm sorry. This is my first time. I'm not sure how this works." I felt very light headed again, and my hands were numb.

Great; I thought. I'm going to have a heart attack.

"Are you having fun?" he politely asked.
"Very, very much so. Thank you." And I meant it sincerely.

With his free hand he reached over and brushed my hair back over my ears. If this were a vanilla date that would mean we're having sex. But on this date I didn't think it meant anything. 

"Want to go for a walk?" I asked him.

We spent the last half hour together walking, hand in hand. He told me a little more about him.

I ended the date and walked him back to the restaurant. There was a very awkward moment of silence. On any other date we would have kissed, which would have dictated whether or not we wanted to see each other again, then he would have gotten into his car and drove away.

It seemed like he wanted to say something, but didn't.
There were things I wanted to say, but didn't.
And after a few minutes of niceties were swapped, and a few awkward hand and body brushes, we both knew it was time to call it a night.

"Are you parked in the lot?" He asked.
"I walked. I'm not far. But I'm taking a cab back."

He paused for a minute. He wanted to say something I could tell, but he didn't.

"I'll wait with you until it comes." He finally said, nodding his head.

"No that's ok," I assured. "I had a wonderful, amazing time. More than I could have asked for. I mean it. Thank you. Please don't wait."

"I can't leave you here." He said.

"No, I promise I'll be fine." I said again.

"No. I mean I'm not allowed to just leave you here." He said.

Oh. Right.

I called a cab. While I was talking to the cab company operator my date looked at me, flashing that amazing smile.

When I hung up the phone. My date and were face to face again, in the parking lot, in the florescent gleem of the valet booth, him looking down at me, me looking up at him, in that awkward silence.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked.



I could write 100 pages about my date. I'm still living every nuance, every minute, looking at my flowers now in a vase of water. But when my cab arrived, when it was time to go our separate ways, I said to my date, "I don't know what the next few months will bring but if I'm able to, and the moon and stars align, can I request to see you again?"

And in my date's gentlemanly dashing way, he replied it would be his pleasure.

Maybe I'll see him again. Maybe I won't.

But that's how adventures go!

 
The following is dedicated to my friends in Vegas.

Commodore Norrington: "You are without doubt the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

Jack Sparrow: "But you have heard of me."

-- Pirates of the Caribbean