Lipstick: Pt.I

+++

I tore my eyes from his and reluctantly turned my head, looking down and away, dreading his intentions. I gazed absently at the laser-show of colorful lights being played out on the floor, in sync with the interim music, and wondered if it was my semi-muted hearing that caused it to seem less voluminous. I let the thought pass and held the position, as I wanted to take no notice of who may be watching. I felt dizzy and my eyes were still unfocused and glazed, which only served to provoke him further.

The energy and anger pouring from him made my body tremble, and my heart pound.

He tilted my head up to face him, but when I opened my mouth again, to explain – again, he shut me down, by placing his cold fingers against my quivering lips. There was no evading this. He wasn’t allowing me any such luxuries. No excuses would be accepted, or even explanations, evidently.

He stood back and with the same two fingers he’d just silenced me with, pointed toward his eyes, and warned, ‘You will look me in the eye, understand? Do not break contact.’ He quickly reached down and released the last, lower buttons on his 3/4 length overcoat and stepped in close, straddling my legs. It was in that moment, before raising my line of sight to meet his again, that I noticed the rapid pulsing of the large vein at the side of his neck, and a desperate need to lick him there overcame me.

He must have sensed it, because he leaned in, placed his forearm against the wall above my head, and lifted my chin with a curled index finger, effectively en-forcing eye contact – paralyzing me. In a hushed tone, he said, ‘A little farther – now, Open,’ with a calm ferocity I wasn’t quite expecting. He nudged my outer thigh with his knee, took his hand away from my face and lifted the front of my skirt just enough to gain access. In one fluid motion, he placed his hand between my legs, sweeping my panties aside effortlessly and pushed two fingers into my pussy, up to his knuckles.

I drew in a sharp, hissing breath over clenched teeth, with a gasp. My breath released with a whimper, and I reached for his coat in a feeble attempt to cover us. He simply shook his head no … NO, and gave me ‘the look.’ ‘Place your hands back where they were, and don’t move them again,’ he demanded, and removed his fingers. He lifted them next to our faces, and began rubbing my arousal between his fingers and thumb. His inky eyes bore into me, searching. When he got no discernible reaction, he placed his middle finger on my bottom lip, and slowly painted it with my own moisture.

With a cold, rather detached smile, he placed his hand on the side of my flushed and reddened face, and under pressure of his thumb, smeared the oxblood-colored lipstick up the left side of my cheek.

When he took what was left of whatever wetness remained on his fingers and wiped them against my neck, I maintained eye-contact, but could not prevent the spilling of my emotions. I groaned from someplace deep in my chest, and tears fell, unabated, down my mascara-blackened, pitifully tear-streaked face. ‘Bastard, he’s just a friend,’ escaped in a sob, from somewhere in the back of my constricted throat.

He ‘Shhh-shd me,’ chuckled an evil little sound and sniffed my mouth, inhaling my breath. With a prolonged intake, while making an up-and-down, round-and-round movement with his head, he then stopped and spoke gingerly against my lips, taunting, ‘Your mouth smells like cherries, and your lips,’ and he hesitated … ‘like a whores,’ cruelly slithered out, and I winced.

His eerie calm was disquieting and alarming, when combined with the vibes emanating from him.

I felt marked; branded – with scarlet lipstick streaked up my face, and my own scent spread over my lips and neck. He had marked me with my own desire; with some obscene new perfume: Eau de Parfum – La Pusse Naturel!

I felt ashamed and embarrassed, and wanted to melt into the floor. It was everything I could do just to remain standing, but I couldn’t move, and was grateful for the wall at my back.

He pushed away, straightened himself, smoothed and buttoned his long coat and simmered, ‘When I get home, you’d better be there,’ in a tone that sent shivers racing. He tensely ran his fingers through his hair, and paused – as if to say something more, then decided against it.

Just as the band began to play their next set, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

+++

I have been a ‘drug addict’ for 30yrs, however, the label means nothing to me. The real problem is my mind and drugs were my coping mechanism. Before turning to ‘recreational drugs’ I used to cut myself to escape my pain. At 14 I had no idea why I was behaving that way, so the head-teacher took it upon himself to enlighten me. He called me a masochist, but I had no idea what that meant either. You’re ’some kind of sexual pervert’ he screamed by way of explanation and sent me home! Obviously, that didn’t help much either, but I now know I did it to escape, from the pain and confusion I thought and felt.

My parents ‘just wanted me to be happy‘ and were equally adept at avoiding their own pain. My personal quest for this illusive happiness lead me to start taking drugs. As soon as I did I stopped self-harming as that was painful too! Opiates/opioids are the most effective pain-killers available,  and these became my drugs of choice. Without fully understanding the nature of addiction, I believed I could spend the rest of my life bathed in a warm ‘readybrek glow’. Eventually the pain became utterly unbearable.

I now know that everyone experiences psychological and physical pain. I no longer strive to avoid the unavoidable and subsequently life is a lot richer.  This acceptance has made me happier and I can focus on stuff that really matters, such as family, friendships, and my health.

+x+x+x+

Sometimes it is only about pain, and the exorcism of whatever that entails. Sometimes, it is all about the need for the pain to be placed, or focused somewhere else.

There is pain, and then there is ‘pain.’

So, undoubtedly, if you didn’t understand me before, you’re really going to be confused by this posting, because this writing is EXACTLY how i feel – right now. I didn’t write ‘HIS Hand’, personally, but i most certainly could have – especially now. (I want to give this kindred soul credit for this writing, so if anyone knows who the author is, please – please, let me know.) [osmosisofaffliction@gmail(dot)com]

In this place, there is no room for kindness, weakness, empathy, or withholding. It is about the ripping and tearing into a soul – and having the skill to do that – it is about the rape and emptying of what lies there, in those hidden recesses, that elicits these needs. It runs deep, it is real and for some – this level of masochism is frightening, but it is still there, and it is a real need, no matter how disturbing.

That is a lot to ask of a man, any man – and there is only one type of man who understands these needs.

Sometimes we just simply need to have the layers peeled away, and our chest layed open until we are drained, purged and emptied.

Sometimes the pain is about just that – pain: ONLY.

Never make the mistake of thinking i don’t understand the difference.

Here, the pain could never be mistaken for pleasure – or want, desire or anything even remotely resembling it. It is a need, and darling, i understand the extremes of the poles. This isn’t about some game of orgasm denial, because quite frankly – that is the last thing that i want, or need when i am in this headspace – when my hunger is this black, and as dark as it is – no, this is about having parts of me stripped away, until i can breathe again.

The only thing more frightening than not having a Loving Sadist available to meet these needs, is how it will manifest as a self-fulfilling act of – well, let’s just say that we find ways. Whether it be smoking, sleep-deprivation, chemicals, alcohol, risky behavior – you name it … those like me – we find a way. I’m just painfully aware of how i get it done, and to me – that (awareness) is one of the first steps of progress – to healing.

I didn’t ask to be this way. It is simply a part of me.

That is my reason for writing here. My writing will not suit everyone, but it is much better than the unhealthy alternatives. Thank You for reading.

Sorry folks – comments are OFF.

+x+x+x+

There is something about
Being pushed up against a wall, face first
Cheek resting on rough wallboard
Breath caught in your throat
Listening to the growling in your ear
And trying to remember your own name

*

There’s something about being
Pushed up against a wall
Your back flat up against it
Staring straight into eyes that see through you
Swallowing hard
Waiting for your heart to start beating again

*

There’s something about
Being made to crawl across the floor
To a seated Man, staring into your eyes
Not letting you not look at Him
Not letting you stumble
Drawing you to Him without a word
Trembling, a whimper caught in your throat

*

There’s something about
Being pulled up by your hair
Feeling that hand slink up your neck
Into your tresses, close to the scalp
Grabbing, gripping it, guttural sounds emitting from His lips
The pain not nearly as strong as the urge
To cry or bite a hole through your bottom lip

*

There’s something about
Being bitten
Especially on the back of the neck or nipple
Feeling His teeth so close to piercing you
Wondering, as you cry out, if He will, this time
Wondering, if you’re going to bleed for your Submission

*

There’s something about
Being bent over the back of a chair, without warning
Without pretense, without question
Having your skirt flipped up, cool air hitting hot skin
Your cheeks blushing, with the same color of your ass
As He warms it with the striking of the palm of His hand
The tears you cry not cooling you
The tears you cry because He has found you

*

There’s something about
Being slapped across the face
Not backhanded in anger, but smacked to bring about
A change in behavior
A change in attitude
To make that lovely wail come from deep in your chest
You long to make it, as He longs to hear it

*

There’s something about
Those words He uses
Those names He calls you
Those phrases meant to elicit a response
And you do respond
All of you responds
And your body betrays you, always

*

There’s something about
Being thrown down and taken
Not against your will
For your will is to be there
To please, to submit, to offer, to relinquish
And you cry out for breath, for more, for Him
And you know you are home

*

There’s something about
Being drug in the shower
Forced to your knees
Hissed at for silence
Growled at to be still
And awaiting the flow
That you know
Marks You as HIS

*

There’s something about
Kneeling quietly beside Him
Your body bruised, reddened, coated, tired
Your mind silent, for once – for a time
Your head bowed, your eyes closed
Your lips quivering as His fingers touch you
Your submission, unquestioned
Your Peace at Hand

“HIS Hand”

VIDEO (640×480; 52 mb; 1′59”; Xvid; ac3)

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” ~Henry David Thoreau

For The Watchers …

+x+x+x+

It’s old news now, considering the film has been out on DVD for many, many months, but I just recently decided to watch – ‘The Watchmen.’ While it held a curious message, it also tried my patience – and so, I squirmed and fidgeted, due to exasperation, but mostly because the movie seemed to crawl at an unbearably slow pace in those last 30-45 minutes. I wanted to turn it off, go to sleep, deny and bury what was creeping under my skin and into my thoughts.

At the time, I wasn’t entirely certain as to why Rorschachs words – the ones below, in particular – became such an explosive trigger.

I do now.

But, this isn’t about that. This is about more than words. And it is all about words. Words that get to me. Got to me. Words that snaked their insipid way inside of me. Words that evoked in me – images, ripe with the need to express themselves in sketches that have the potential to send the less enlightened scurrying for cover.

Words which became triggers …

Words that prompted me to remember: things long-buried; disinterred.

And red.

Words: setting me off, of course, on a yo-yo-roller-coaster-tangent. It’s just that one memory leads to another, then another – and still another. I scarcely think I have the energy to keep up. And I feel drained. I want to go numb, or put the pain somewhere else.

I almost fear what will surface next.

Why now? is the question I ask, but I already know the answers.

It is all actually a bit disorienting; perplexing.

Crying, straight out-of-the-blue is not my idea of a good time.

Auto-react: Lack of control = scary. Not acceptable.

Intolerable, specifically.

And they have no sound: These silent outbursts that my fingers tell you of, hesitantly. My voice grows fixed and quiet in the real world. So, I write in journals, and maybe here … typing, typing, falling, crying, typing, sensing, raging, typing, telling, typing, revealing, typing of things long gone, and not – still, and so, here I am.

Please – it is enough.

It is a strange feeling to relive all the things you barely survived when they were happening to you.

A hot mess, I am, and I don’t like it. I am unsettled. I am frustrated … terribly frustrated, sometimes confused and ocassionally overwhelmed by it all. So many scattered pieces.

This ‘punishing isolation’ hasn’t helped. I thought I could do this alone, without anyone, without encouragement from outside my own head, without moral support from outside this dungeonous pit – I can’t. I talk to myself – and You. Look there, pain is spilled all over your monitor. Make it go away. You can.

When my throat closes, telling my fingers no – I bury myself in books, music and other people’s pain – so I can forget my own.

I believed that if I removed myself for awhile; isolated, removed triggers, guarded buttons and concentrated on the progress, however slight, instead of my dismal failures, that it would be sufficient to succeed, but it still wasn’t enough. Something was missing. A lot is missing.

Something is always missing.

I do everything in my power to distract myself, from confrontation with myself; with my feelings.

And then someone, or some-thing comes along and pushes a button, or pulls the trigger.

Anyhow, this is what set me off …

***

This piece is called – The Birth of Rorschach, as narrated by Alan Moore:

Stood in Firelight.
Sweltering bloodstain on chest, like map of
violent new continent.
Felt cleansed
felt dark planet turn under my feet
and knew what cats know that makes them
scream like babies in the night.
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat,
and God was not there.
The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever
and we are alone.
This rudderless world is not shaped by vague
metaphysical forces.
It is not God who kills the children, not fate
that butchers them, or destiny that feeds
them to the dogs.
It’s us
Only us …

Thrown to the wolves. Mother; many wear the name of ‘monster.’ A shell of a being with no conscience, no remorse, no guilt – no heart.

And – It is everywhere.

This is our world – a very ‘real’ world.

The world so many would prefer, or pretend doesn’t exist, or turn a ‘blind eye’ to.

But, it -is- real. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.

And I hate this place. And love it.

I despise and embrace it. Will not be sad to see it go.

Am revulsed by these feelings, while searching my soul for the lessons.

But, when the deluge comes – I hope I’m under it.

+++

Then we have the Ivory Towers … condemning the damaged from their high-rises, in the sky.

They plug their ears and cover their eyes.

+++

Ignore it and it will go away, right … for who?

Not for the ones who are forced to live through it, or die because of it.

And, just so you know, and we don’t misunderstand one another: I am a pro-choice kinda girl, as I realize there are exceptions, and plausible reasons to terminate a pregnancy – it is sometimes a necessary act of mercy and logic. If not for the mother, for the child.

I never, ever wish to be in those shoes, ever again, facing that decision, under any circumstances.

I still couldn’t make the choice to terminate, even after a panel of Drs. recommended a ‘Therapeutic Abortion.’ It was selfish – so very selfish, on my part.

Damned whether I do, or don’t.

In the long run, my failure to make the logical and informed choice, caused both myself and my baby son, a lot of suffering and pain, but I would do it again. It pains me to think of his pain and what he endured for my inability to let him go; my selfishness. What I put him through because I wanted him so. Because I believed he would live. I knew in my heart he would. I believed in him. I fought for him. I had faith. I had to know. He deserved every opportunity.

And, he did live … for only a short time, but it was the only choice I could live with.

Did I really do it for him, or was it because I desperately needed someone to put my heart and soul into? Someone to put my love into – give him the opportunities I was robbed of? Start all over; fresh, with a new soul, created in my womb, to nurture and be a reflection of who I might have become, if only.

To be faced with, or forced to make that choice is one of the most haunting, conflicting, life-altering, guilt-inducing, heart-rending and traumatic decisions any woman ever has to make, as far as I’m concerned.

But, to utilize abortion as a means of birth control? Or send your child into the world to die at the hands of true evil?

THAT, people, has to be the most selfish kind of greed and cowardice – a mothers sacrifice to save herself.

Forgiveness is for … what it’s worth.

I reserve mine.

***

Then I got derailed with this …

FADE IN:

I watched my mother be viciously, mercilessly beaten by my step-father, when she was eight months pregnant with their first child. The fetus – a baby boy – was so bruised (as she would later explain), that he was the deepest shade of purple; blackened: Born Dead.

Everywhere; Like an abstract painting – random strokes created in splashes, streaks, splatters, splotches, and smears of my mother’s blood. My dead mother’s blood. She was robbed too.

Abstract Reality …

… Sacrifices.

And at what cost?

And yet, she stayed – controlled by fear.

The cost of anything is only what we are willing to pay.

That was her world; my world. Until I ‘RAN’ away from it. I run still, but I’m slowing.

They say that childhood is over the moment you realize you are going to die …

I too, was only 5.

Yes, I know evil. Its name was Daddy.

:FADE OUT.

***

There -most assuredly- is a storm brewing.

Coworker 8: (watching me do something, shocked) “Whoa, whoa, whoa, you mean you actually do that the way you’re supposed to?!“

That’s what I’ve noticed. In the academy, no; but in real life, yes.

Anyway, until today I’d believed without examination that most opposition to game comes from women, but really it is only a minority of women; those who are loud and institutionalised. (Ha-ha.) The rest are quite accepting of their tragic nature. More accepting, it seems, than the sycophantic swarms of beta males.

November is National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo.) During this time of chilly autumn evenings and giving thanks, thousands of people furiously scramble to hit the 50,000 word mark before December 1st. It is also during this time that I am compelled to offer some sage, if battle-weary, advice.

Don’t do NaNoWriMo. Your life may depend on it.

Over the years, I have written four 100,000+ word novels, two 50,000 word novels and one 80,000 word novel that was supposed to be 50,000 words but I too got excited. Suffice it to say, I have written a lot. I have written so much, I’ve often found myself without the time to pursue other luxuries of modern life, such as a decent job, a clean house, viably sustainable relationships, education, personal hygiene…. And for my sacrifice, I have several large stacks of loose-leaf manuscripts that are much better at holding up the broken leg of my desk than they are at actually getting published.

Because here’s the rub; to write a novel, one must be a deranged, antisocial masochist.

To write a Good Novel™ one must be an insightful observer of humanity, a wise collector of thoughts and images, and command a legion of vocabulary capable of sacking small cities. And be a deranged, antisocial masochist.

NaNoWriMo starts off meaning well enough. It offers support and encouragement for those eager to follow their dreams, to chase down the elusive title of Novelist, or to finally give life to the story that’s been burning a hole in their brain for years. But then—usually around November 19^th—it turns on you. It’s shiny, helpful façade melts away to expose the Gorgon-faced, blood-crazed monster that lurks beneath.

Oh God, it starts. I’m only at ten thousand words.

I have to write more.

Soon, you’re getting up early, skipping meals and showers, getting behind on your housekeeping, sneaking off at work to scribble notes on stray post-its and napkins throughout the day. Then it’s three pots of coffee at four-o-clock in the morning and you haven’t spoken to anyone in days except your own characters and your Mom to tell her you can’t go to Dad’s funeral because you’ve got a chapter to finish.

Oh, it’s a horror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. You don’t want to be a novel writer. Really. You want to watch your kids grow up and live a happy, fulfilled life. (If you think I’m kidding, here, I’m not.)

I’ve been writing novels and short stories seriously since 2001, starting at the fresh-faced age of 22. During that time, I’ve achieved I have a humble list of publication credits and made about $72.86 in monetary compensation, so I really consider myself mildly successful.

Of course, during that time, I’ve also gone through 65,700 cigarettes, 1,642 bottles of wine, 6,570 pots of coffee, three computers, 17 friends, ten jobs, two husbands and three cats, not to mention the countless hours lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering just how I’m going to resolve the conflict on page 22 when Prince Federico of the Omsbud Clan is two states away from his suped-up Mercedes and Sheryl the Stripper Queen has a skirtful of avocados. And I can’t even begin to count how many printer cartridges.

So, trust me when I say: it can only end in tears. Once infected with that terrible disease known as “Writer,” one month will not slake your lust. One month will become two, then ten, then a million years later you’ll come to your senses and find you’ve been sheltered in a fort built of loose-leaf manuscripts wondering where your life went. It’s too late for me; save yourself while you still can.

But you better get on it quick, cuz I gotta go. I’ve got to finish Prince Federico’s Revenge by December 1st.

Woo

Hoo.

de…mai du-te-n gatu matii!

Sunt nervoasa! Sunt exciatata cand sunt nervoasa!

Offf nu puteam eu sa vreau sa fi fost altundeva acum decat unde sunt! Masochismul meu de cacat!

Vreau sa fac sex! Mult prost si fara rost!

Earlier I caught myself laughing at a joke in The Simpsons, not because it was funny, but to make sure everybody knew I understood the reference. I really hate jokes like that.

You know there are about a million positions between and outside capitalism and socialism, right? Like denying one does not automatically imply the other. You’re aware of this, yes? And that these two terms are very vague and come in many forms?

Yet another constant of human psychology which spells doom.

~Memories often fade, like tears in the rain, washed away with the pain.

I Feel You
*

You lie there: face-down
and wanting – alone.
Your erection pressed
against your stomach;
pushing into imagined bodies.
Your urge becomes a thrust,
into the empty bed;
into the darkness,
and I Feel You.

*

You lie in silence,
keeping the sob at bay,
that wants to tear from your throat.
Pushing yourself up …
you fall back into abysms.
I want to slap you
into mindfulness,
and remind you,
I can Feel You.

*

Roll your hunger over,
into a devouring night.
Feel this merciless torture.
You asked for this, Love.
A few savage pulls,
becomes a ferocious growl.
Buried in your release,
is her name.
I Feel You.

*

Imagine us there,
kneeling between your legs,
and keep your silences.
Relish the agony,
as I do yours.
Until I break your heart,
and give you mine.
Shredding us …
because I can Feel You.

*

When I cover you,
with my hands, my mouth,
and my tired heart …
Touch me enough,
that we may worship;
Never fearing the pain.
For I carry your soul within,
and lay down my heart, beside you.
and I long to Feel You.

*

And Love, when you grow tired,
Break me gently:
Pretend that you are sad,
to see me go.
As we collect the pieces
for another to mend.
When you lie inside of her,
Say my name …
and I will Feel You.

*

Arcade Fire – My Body is a Cage

By: Le Fetiche Produções

Remember spinning in a circle until you were dizzy as a kid? Believe it or not, that was your first experience with trying to alter your mental state. We as humans seem to have this need to alter our mental state, but at the same time we also have this need to demonize any chemical to alter one’s mental state unless it runs the risk of killing you.

I will say I am a huge fan of 2 mind altering drugs, one that could kill me and one that has no corroborating to suggest that it will, alcohol and marijuana. The ironic part is alcohol, the legal one, is also the one that will kill me. While marijuana, the illegal one, has at least 30 years of research with no evidence to support death as a side effect.

So why are alcohol and tobacco legal and deadly where other mind altering drugs that are less or just as addictive and deadly illegal? It’s because people don’t want themselves to feel good without some sort of punishment.

According to one study alcohol and tobacco are in the same league as heroine and cocaine which are all more dangerous then marijuana, LSD and ecstasy, which are all illegal.

The only explanation that makes sense to me is masochism. People think it’s ok to kill themselves slowly, but as soon as you say there is a safer alternative then death, it needs to be destroyed.

A perfect example of this came over the summer when the FDA announced the potential dangers of e-cigarettes.

The first problem I have with the press release is it breaks a major rule of science. Don’t release your findings in a press release. To me it says, “We don’t have enough evidence to back up what we’re saying to get this in a peer-reviewed journal.”

In actuality these are possibly safer then conventional cigarettes and are only as harmful as other nicotine delivery systems such as patches, gum and lozenges. However, they are cheaper and could be potentially easier to acquire then cigarettes and other nicotine delivery systems. In my eyes all I see is a continuation of the same theme, e-cigarettes may not kill you so they can’t be allowed. I will admit more research needs to be done before a final verdict can be made either way.

So at this point you may be wondering where the masochism actually comes in. It’s like the porn star begging to be spanked, in our society we are taught to feel good about depriving ourselves of any mind altering substance that doesn’t hurt us. Alcohol may pickle your liver, which as Dr. House put it so well, “You kind of need a liver, that’s why it’s called a live-er.” Tobacco may give you lung cancer and spinning in a circle may make you fall and crack your head open. All of these are legal.

However, marijuana will do little more then make you euphoric, hungry and lazy, and LSD, when produced properly, will give you mind blowing trip. But since there is little to no evidence that these will directly off you, they must be illegal.

On a side note have you ever wondered why no one where’s a ribbon for lung cancer awareness? I think it might come from the fact that people figure, “if you have lung cancer you probably smoked tobacco and deserve it.”

]]> http://huxxx.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/story/ Mon, 16 Nov 2009 02:14:44 +0000 Hunter http://huxxx.wordpress.com/2009/11/16/story/

A while ago I started writing a story. So far it’s mostly just a soliloquy. I’d like to finish it some day.

Too high to read or really take anything in, too drunk to stop worrying about the yuppie socialite who cockily advised me to get a haircut (he was starting to bald, and he was shorter than me), and too loaded to get a fucking hardon. Being loaded also entails insomnia. I tried forcing myself to sleep, but it turns out that suppressing all bodily activity only results in teeth-grinding. Now my jaw kind of hurts.

Today I plucked my solitary penis hair. There is one random hair on my shaft, and I have to pluck it when I remember, which is about once a month. It makes me feel subhuman.