REST IN PEACE. WORDS CAN NOT EXPRESS WHAT HE WAS TO MUSIC, TO GENERATIONS OR TO ME. HIS LEGACY LIVES ON THROUGH EVERYONE.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
MONOGAMY IS THE MOST COMMON FORM OF TORTURE.
Torture by definition is: The infliction of physical and or emotional punishment.
Okay so for starters, I know that it’s pretty fucked up to say that monogamy is torturous because it is after all the very foundation that a “good” relationship is supposed to be built on; right after blind trust and honesty and all of that other idealistic shit, right?
Well I was riding around the city the other night with my girls, just eating red Gummi Bears, laughing at our pitiful attempts to re-tell the jokes we’d just heard at a comedy show at Caroline’s Comedy Club and you know, just enjoying the fuckery of a Saturday night…when eventually the topic of men came up, followed by sex and then relationships… All of my girls, like most people (women in general) seem to agree that monogamy is the greatest thing on the planet!
I feel differently. And I’ll tell you why… It’s because I’m a realist. I know and accept that fact that being in a relationship/ having a steady boyfriend or girlfriend does not negate your attraction to others. Sure, when you’re smitten with a certain someone your carnal desires for all others may be numb for a bit, but never paralyzed. We’re all human. A curious species who are both visually and emotionally enticed, by nature. No “one thing” completely satisfies us in any aspect, so why should the person we commit to be the exception? I think that the institution of monogamy is a rather unnatural ritual that we’ve been socially and traditionally coerced into. I mean think about it, you go all your life being attracted to, dating and fucking who you want…You meet someone who makes you happy. They’re a great friend and lover. You fall in love and yada yada yada… Then you’re hit with the “M” word. Monogamy. “We’re together, so you can only spend your time with me, spend your money on me, your smiles are for me, I’m your soul mate, so your soul is mine, you love me so your heart is mine, you can only flirt with me, spend long hours on the phone with me, sacrifice for me and most importantly…you can only have sex with me.”
All of those new stipulations represent both emotional and physical restriction; AKA punishment. Monogamy is pretty much a self imposed sentence that is served for the duration of your time with a significant other. It’s a sugarcoated deprivation, propagated by love.
Taking things, people or activities that you enjoy away from yourself takes much getting used to and even after you’re ‘used to it’ , seeing what you’ve weaned yourself off of will sometimes inflict a longing so profuse that it's painful. Some break under the pressure and they cheat or part ways from their significant other. What can I say? It happens; I don’t judge... But I will say that as much shit as I talk, I know that a little bit of “pain” is good for you. I’m paradoxically a glutton for punishment; four years and counting. Currently, yet not always utterly, happily doing my bid.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Dirty Little Secret (the mistress who wants more)
I am his dirty little secret. As for every sex session, I keep it hidden back in the black corners of my mind.
Every time we talk it's well past late; whispering the rendezvous point for our next dirty date.
I wait for his lady to leave, let the phone ring once, then hang up; we hook up, go down, come up for air, I fix my hair and pretend not to care that he's not mine and in his world I do not exist.
I pretend that each secret kiss inches me closer to the granting of the wistful wish that I was more to him than just a piece of ass; more than the meek student in the back of his class with her hand raised toward outer space, silently pleading to replace the woman seen with him in public.
I long to be his lady; to spend more than sweaty hours between sheets with him.
To begin a conversation that has nothing to do with my thighs parting or me starting to cum.
When it's over I say to myself that I'm done.
I'll no longer be the one to give pieces of myself, to be an invisible notch on his belt; because I deserve more.
I am too wonderful to be muffled behind a closed door. Too great to pour myself until empty and leave no trace of me for true love to find.
But I remain blind to reason. Thoughts are merely unwritten treason, because I ignore my advice; scratch it away like hair lice.
I keep giving him coochie coupons that are valid in the wee hours of the night, because of the naive hope that one of them might get him to catch feelings, and we might become one instead of two; and I'd no longer do dirty deeds to appease dirty needs; you see the skeleton we've constructed is in my closet and I don't want to keep it.
I don't want to be his dirty little secret.
Every time we talk it's well past late; whispering the rendezvous point for our next dirty date.
I wait for his lady to leave, let the phone ring once, then hang up; we hook up, go down, come up for air, I fix my hair and pretend not to care that he's not mine and in his world I do not exist.
I pretend that each secret kiss inches me closer to the granting of the wistful wish that I was more to him than just a piece of ass; more than the meek student in the back of his class with her hand raised toward outer space, silently pleading to replace the woman seen with him in public.
I long to be his lady; to spend more than sweaty hours between sheets with him.
To begin a conversation that has nothing to do with my thighs parting or me starting to cum.
When it's over I say to myself that I'm done.
I'll no longer be the one to give pieces of myself, to be an invisible notch on his belt; because I deserve more.
I am too wonderful to be muffled behind a closed door. Too great to pour myself until empty and leave no trace of me for true love to find.
But I remain blind to reason. Thoughts are merely unwritten treason, because I ignore my advice; scratch it away like hair lice.
I keep giving him coochie coupons that are valid in the wee hours of the night, because of the naive hope that one of them might get him to catch feelings, and we might become one instead of two; and I'd no longer do dirty deeds to appease dirty needs; you see the skeleton we've constructed is in my closet and I don't want to keep it.
I don't want to be his dirty little secret.
The Other Woman's thoughts (the mistress who doesn't give a damn)
If she be comin then I be leavin, cause I don't be needin no problems.
See I'm the other woman and I know my place.
I don't call him if I know she home. Don't get mad after we have sex and he leave me alone.
I have one objective; to give him pleasure. To make him sweat, to make his toes curl. To let him do all of the things to me that his girl is too conservative to do.
If she be near, then I be damn near invisible and he be miserable in that missionary position that seems to be a given whenever she give it up.
It's just his luck that he found a freak like me. A fine ass bi-sexual, who's impractical when it comes to sex.
I know the Kama Sutra like the back of my hand or like a poem I wrote.
I'm a deep throat, so I can take all of him in at once; far enough so that his balls are touchin my chin, so that if you looked you wouldn't know where he end and I begin.
If she mean everything to him then nothing matters to me; with the exception of how many times I can make him cum during one of our secret sex sessions.
As far as confessions go, none will ever pour from me; cause personally I feel like they're overrated. And if I let one loose then I won't be compensated with his sex any longer. It seems as if the stronger he says his love is for her, the harder he fucks me, so either way it goes, it benefits me.
I know my lack of discretion is enough enough to make you sick, but I fuck enough to make me orgasmicly rich.
None of those stereotypical standards will ever stick; cause yeah I'm givin up good pussy, but not without gettin good dick.
No feelings.
No love.
Emotions and a trick don't mix.
He be just another faceless dick.
See I'm the other woman and I know my place.
I don't call him if I know she home. Don't get mad after we have sex and he leave me alone.
I have one objective; to give him pleasure. To make him sweat, to make his toes curl. To let him do all of the things to me that his girl is too conservative to do.
If she be near, then I be damn near invisible and he be miserable in that missionary position that seems to be a given whenever she give it up.
It's just his luck that he found a freak like me. A fine ass bi-sexual, who's impractical when it comes to sex.
I know the Kama Sutra like the back of my hand or like a poem I wrote.
I'm a deep throat, so I can take all of him in at once; far enough so that his balls are touchin my chin, so that if you looked you wouldn't know where he end and I begin.
If she mean everything to him then nothing matters to me; with the exception of how many times I can make him cum during one of our secret sex sessions.
As far as confessions go, none will ever pour from me; cause personally I feel like they're overrated. And if I let one loose then I won't be compensated with his sex any longer. It seems as if the stronger he says his love is for her, the harder he fucks me, so either way it goes, it benefits me.
I know my lack of discretion is enough enough to make you sick, but I fuck enough to make me orgasmicly rich.
None of those stereotypical standards will ever stick; cause yeah I'm givin up good pussy, but not without gettin good dick.
No feelings.
No love.
Emotions and a trick don't mix.
He be just another faceless dick.
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