A slightly unusual Christmas Eve

It was sunny.

Always a good way to start a story.  I had driven to meet him. Was running when we exchanged text. He said that he was unable to get away. I had seen him recently and thought it would be fine to not see him again after the holidays.

Ever since not seeing him for six weeks, I had developed a new sense of appreciation for seeing him after less than six weeks of separation. In part I think we are trained to accept the maximum time of separation. We develop tolerance for things and we reset the threshold each time a new gauge is set. Now if I don't see him for two months, I would still be OK. I won't like it but I would not be devastated. 

But then he said to meet him in his office after all. We met in his office just after noon. No one was there so it made things a bit interesting. I had never been in his office before.

We embraced. I felt that he was growing hard. He said that it was because of me. He was excited to see me.

I sat on this chair, and unzipped his flier. I took his cock out of his pants and began to go down on him. I liked going down on him. I liked the way he tasted, and I liked giving head.

Then we fucked. First in the black stylish chair, then in his conference room, butt sticking out and that was how he fucked me, doggy-style and like you'd see in a porn shoot, and then me sitting on the table facing him while he entered me. I grabbed hold of him as I came violently and then he came. 

I laid my head on his thighs after, resting my hair and my head. We chitchatted.

We told each other of  our remaining plans for the week. We talked about the New Years Eve. I wanted to see him when I returned from my trip.

He looked slim, dark framed glasses. His hair was longer, curlier, and his sideburns were turning gray. I touched his hair and asked if he'd dye his hair. He said not for the moment.

He wore black sneakers and jeans and a dress shirt. He ran this tech consulting firm in south of Market. I had never met him in this new office before. I had never been fucked in his office before. 

No one had ever affectionately called me "baby' before.

I had never imagined that I could love someone, in a very instinctive way for this long.

Before we parted, I wanted to ask him - "Tell me how this story will end. Tell me how we'd end." But I didn't.

I imagined that when this story ended, there would not be any tears, there would not be any scars, but there would be a bleeding heart, internal bleed only, no surgery would heal the wound and no amount of recovery period could ease the pain, no amount of drugs would fix it, so unless one requested hemispherectomy or lobotomy, memories would stay intact, and pain would persist until the day stories were told millions of times and the protagonist had existed this realm of the world 

I had left a note with him. The note listed seven items, seven Christmas presents I planned to give to him.

1. Ten mind-bending blow jobs. No advance reservation necessary.
2. Ten golden showers. Same rule applies as # 1.
3. Ten unusual sexual fantasies.4. One stay at a clothes-optional spa in the wine country.
5. A renewal of my one year "contractual" commitment to you to stay sexually faithful, adventurous and available for 2013.
6. A promise that I will not fall into the trap of second year slump, and become negative, complaining, dissatisfied, clingy, unhappy, demanding, fat, suspicious, cynical, argumentative, disappointed, nasty, lackluster or generally unpleasant.
7. Finally, a promise that in 2013, I will always provide you with sunshine, support, happiness, genuine adoration, devotion, and love.

Items are not transferable, have no resale value, and expire on December 31, 2013.

Raining day

It was raining. All day. Dark clouds hovered San Francisco, Parking was abundant in the Mission. Walked over to the restaurant on 17th for lunch. Sipping warm coffee, ordering food and talking about people and new year resolutions. It's the typical story of the sort. The inevitability of pondering - why is it hard to find good people to settle down with? It's economics, really, the good ones were taken, the good ones were in short supply, competition was fierce. Holidays were the worst. The expectation of being together, the expectation of not being together, people got bended out of shape.

Never been a fan of holidays. Though am a big fan of new year resolutions. Like letting the past go, being calmer, less anxious, less in need of validation.

Later on in a bar, told a friend about my past and friend told me of his net worth. Perhaps that's how women and men differed. We each had something that we were so afraid of other people to find out about ourselves, and our demons were demons, regardless what colors and shape they came in.

Soon two would leave for back east and one would leave for central valley.

A year had nearly gone by. The rain had finally stopped.

Tomato Basil Mozzarella Cheese sandwich

Moments are created. Friendship is developed.


Shared the news of my upcoming surgery with a friend today. I just got the date solidified. He said, "Do you need anything?" I looked at him, and was taken aback. I was not used to receiving help from men, so I said, half jokingly, "Maybe chicken soup?" He said, "Maybe, if that's what you need."

It was raining, we sat outside on a bench, I began to eat a tomato basil mozzarella sandwich with toasted bread drizzled with overly abundant balsamic vinaigrette.

A woman across the street started a shouting match with a man who drove a truck right into her Audi's bumper. Man did not say sorry so the woman was getting angrier.

"Holidays always bring the worst in people." We watched this unfortunate episode unfolding right in front of our eyes.

"Dating is hard." He said. A good looking man in his 30s with a good education and a decent job should not be saying that.

"Haven't you learned anything?" I asked.

"You sounded like a professor." He quipped.

We sat quietly as I picked with my hand of the remaining basil, and then the mozzarella cheese, and finally the last piece of tomato. The bread was getting soggy and unappetizing. I dropped my folk, then my hat, finally the sad soiled napkin.

I told him that I've been out of breath lately, feeling pounding headaches, and often dizzy at times, and consequently have not been working out.

Suppose I do need that extra pair of hands. Suppose after surgery I could use a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Suppose I would welcome his visit in Alta Bates. So I told him about the date and time of the surgery. "Saul's on Shattack, matzo ball soup with chicken is my favorite." I added.

Perhaps at the end of the day we don't care about that blind adoration and empty promises, and we simply wanted friends who cared about us, and could sit quietly with us, watching the world go by, even though nothing seemed perfect in our own lives, we still know, there is a shoulder we could lean on, and when we hit that "send" button for that text, message, or email, we know we'd hear from them, because at the end of the day, it's friends that mattered the most, and you know that you mattered to them, and they you.

A pretend epic love story

You wore red pants today.
I was surprised to see you dressed this way.
"You look gay and European."
I jokingly said.

You grabbed me closer.
Kissed me tender.
"But here we are. Parents. We have children."
"But not with each other." You added.

"We'd have good looking babies."
I imagined the way things ought to be.
"And intelligent ones."
I continued with my daydream. 

"I love you intensely." I declared.
"I'm infatuated with you." You told me.
"How could it be?" I asked.
"What if you get tired of me?" I continued.

"What if I'm the one you are tired of?" You asked.

"Tell me a story. An epic love story." I asked of you.
"Once upon a time, I went white water rafting."
You began to tell a story.
I interrupted you.
"This does not count."
You and I met, 15 years ago, on a white water rafting trip.

"I don't have one." You confessed.
"You have never gotten heart broken?" I asked.
"Not that I know of. I got hurt, but not gotten my heart broken."

"Perhaps I should break your heart." I teased.
"Don't break my heart." You held me.

What you did not know was,
how could I ever break your heart?
When you don't know how to be heart broken?

But mine had been.

And I was never the same again. 

"I like this relationship. It's interesting." You said.
"How come?" I asked.
"Because there is a level of intensity followed by long term absence."
"Then we build the intensity back up each time." You explained.

"I like this relationship. Our relationship. And I like you." You said.
I knew that already
I felt the exact same way.
I felt the same peaks and valleys.

I feared that I could lose you.
I feared that you'd disappear.
I feared that I could stop loving you.
And the sky would turn gray.
And stay gray for the remains of my day.
 
It's the longest relationship I had ever had.
Other than my marriage.
It appeared to be one of your longer ones too.

That's how we fell asleep.
You spooning me.

Middle of the night.
I buried myself in your chest.
Hair messy.
Heart resting.

I was the migrant bird.
You'd always been my home.
Even though I was always flying away.
I would always come back to my nest.

You and I lived.
A world pretended to be.

You and I held.
A feeling supposed to be.

You and I were meant to write.
An epic story.

This time, may our hearts.
Not hurt, not crushed, not broken.

The training of a sex slave

I have bizarre friends. Like a friend who is super well off and is extremely bizarre, and completely living in some sort of fantasy land. So this is a recording (well, recollection anyway) of our recent exchange.

"What do you like?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I know that you like receiving bj. You are a guy of course you do. But Besides that."

"I like women. I like sex. I like hanging out with friends. I like dining out. I like playing golf. I like drinking. Having fun."
"And I like a sex slave."

"How's that induction process coming along? With that girl?"
"OK."
"Up and down."
"She needs training."

"Seriously, who do you know has a sex slave besides you?"

"No one."

"Why do you think she's suitable?"

"It's an opportunity. She's an nymph. That's positive."

"What if she does not listen?"

"Then I will punish her, including not contacting her."

"What does she get out of it?"

"I don't care. It's not my concern.  She just needs to worry about what I like, it's not about her. She's here to serve me."

"Again, I ask you, how's that training coming along?"

"She just needs to listen. She will be trained. She will be obedient. It's not boring for me"

"How do you reward her?"

"By having her to serve me."

"She needs to know her place. She needs to call me sir. She needs to be available to me, including wee hours."

"Wow."

I knew some girl like that once. She was 22 and she wanted someone who would love her back, that someone turned out to be a total user, and that was OK for her, most powerful men are like that. They need a release valve, and they need to be able to go to a safe place and have a girl to serve them. But I don't think she ended up with him. In fact I know she didn't. She grew up.

I collect weird friends. I always find these discussions interesting. I wonder what this story leads to. I am curious because I think it's funny.  I am an observer in life, I like being alone and I like the process of being alone yet having the time to think and process things. I am going to check in with this friend in two weeks or so, and find out how he's doing that girl, who is apparently, has become his target of sex slave conversion.

The way I understood, the girl is otherwise a headstrong independent well to do woman and not some fresh off the boat type. I wonder what this is going to be like. I like stories.

A failed attempt for a Christmas present idea

Try to do something thoughtful, outrageous and unusual for boyfriend.

Then realized it is entirely not possible.

Mission Impossible involved gathering my writing about or inspired by him. Over the last 15 months and give it to him as a Christmas present.

Then realized nearly everything is about him, I've written so much for, about him, or inspired by him, and my love, as it turned out, is quite epic. 

There is nothing that I could do to consolidate and condense the whole journey of taking me from A to B. Literally and figuratively. 

Started with A, A is a mess. A drama queen. B is unexpected, yet I fell in love with him unexpectedly and am still deeply in love. I can't strip and select anything when I know that he is everything to me. He had provided me with nearly all of the inspiration to write creatively. 

However, If there is anything resembles remotely the depth and intensity of how I feel about him, it's this piece. So consider this my declaration of failure. I must turn my attention to getting something much more materialistic and functional. 

Life Through the Looking Glass

How could it be already a week? If I miss you so much, and being apart makes my heart hurt, then, where did the time go?

If I don’t know when we’d see each other again, if I don’t really know anything about you, then, how could I know I’d love you until the end of the time?

If this is what a grown up relationship feels like, if I see my life through this looking glass, then, may I tell you what I see?

I see you and me, in matching charcoal black wool coats, and thick, hand knit brown hats, holding hands. It’s the dead of winter, the sun has long set, yet the moon has not risen, northern lights or the arrival of a commercial flight? Blearly, reluctantly, penetrating lights finally ready to be swallowed whole by the same darkness. Who are those passengers? Are our children, our children’s children on board? The snowstorm has finally stopped, icicles hanging low, break they shall, dimmed snow-covered streetlights, a black cat stretching on the side of the slightly elevated road, green shining marble eyes staring down.

I’m finally gray, and you are finally frail, we are not saying anything; we need not say anything. Footprints are slowly forming on the snow-covered walk. You know I have always loved you. And this is the end of the road.

 

Perfect

I had a dream last night. This is the dream.

Incidentally, because I wrote it while I was still half sleep, did not proof read, and then fell back asleep, I had forgotten about it, and the fact I wrote it, until much later on, I found it. Typos and incomplete thoughts, all intact.

Perfect
I sometimes just want to sit in a
Perfect diner
Playing a perfect old song
With a perfect shining quarter
Feeding a perfectly worn juke box

Eating perfectly golden fries
In a perfectly shaped booth
Sitting perfectly still
Holding your perfectly shaped ringless hand

Tell you a perfect old tale
About a perfect Sunday morning
There I packed a perfect tiny bag
Left a perfect life

"But this is perfect," you’d say
"Perfect is an overused word"
I reply in a perfect monotone
In my perfect smile

You then take a sip
Of the perfectly over brewed coffee
Holding me perfectly tight

In your perfectly quiet voice
Whispering into my ears
"You and I are perfect
Just the way we are"

And that moment
Feels perfectly alright

I didn't know what happened, but perhaps, time, happened

My darling, if you were to be away, then be away for the holidays. I’d like to think that you are far away, in the tropics – wait, I knew you were going to be in the middle of the land but let me picture you in the tropics instead, with your loved ones and you were playing in the sand, by the white beach, building a sand castle, your hand in dirt, your hair curly, long and wavy and you’d be all smiles.

I’d miss you but I’d be happy, because you were happy. And if I should love you until the day I die, let me be happy for you when you are happy.

I imagined my love for you would fade one day, my longing for you would dissipate as time went on, but I still loved you the way I first discovered that I loved you. It was just after spring break, I had somehow seen you playing a song and the song was titled “I know you are married but I still love you.” I had never felt that tuck as I did that day, I started crying and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know what came over me, but I knew my feelings for you were real, deep and unfathomable.

Since then I have thought that I could terminate the feelings I had for you, or move onto others, but I never could. I didn’t realize that I had it in me, I had it in me to stay faithful, loyal and loving for someone I had nothing more than just that instinct, the instinct of being attracted to and not ever had to wonder why.

So from then on my relationship with you evolved.  I didn't know what happened, but perhaps, time, happened. Time, and the endurance of natural progression of a relationship.There were ups and there were downs, but I knew that you had become part of me.

So a year later, I looked back, and I knew for certain, I loved you.

I couldn't tell how to go from here to there, but I knew, I wanted to be there at the end.

I was, I am, and I will always be, part of you, from now until the end.  

Love, revisited

“I figure that you liked my hair longer.”  Man looked himself in the mirror.

Woman did not realize there was ever a mirror there on the wall.

“Was that new?” She asked.

“No, it was there before.” Man answered, while looking himself in the mirror, tidying up his shirt.

Woman mentally disagreed. It couldn’t have been there, she was on that floor, getting fucked before, she didn’t recall there was a mirror there, she’d have seen herself in the reflection.

“What does that E stand for?” Woman asked while pointing at man’s shirt.

“Edwin.” Man answered.

“I had no idea that you had a middle name.”

Woman was still laying on bed, half covered by a white blanket, her other bare half dangling outside of the sheets. Naked.

“What is that painting? Was it new also?” Woman continued with her questioning.

“What are you looking at?” Man came towards her, and then turned to look at the direction she was pointing.

“It’s been there for a long time. Since the beginning.”

“Beginning as in what? Beginning as in when we started seeing each other? Or beginning when you moved here?” Woman had  thousands of questions.

“Since I moved here.” Man answered.

“I’d like to see you more. When it’s raining.” Woman requested.

“That can be arranged. We are getting into the raining season.” Man held her earlier, in bed.

It was a middle of afternoon, the streets were quiet, the house perched up high on a hill, you could see the sail boat out on the sea, the wind was warm, and the sun was beaming down, and man liked his place quiet, tidy and man liked his woman bare.

There was a point in one’s life when things had definitely calmed down. No drama, no uncertainties, and no unrealistic expectations. Woman had always been good at relationships. One after another, never had trouble keeping man around. She wondered why her friends often complained about not able to find a suitable mate. One time her girlfriend asked of her, “What do you think of him? Do you think you are in love with him? I know you love him.” She was not sure how to answer it. She did the best she could.  “I don’t know. I love him. I am in love with him. I’ve always known that I’d love him. I don’t know what the difference is.” The definition of “love” and “being in love” was a perplexing one for the woman. She only knew one way to love a man. She loved with all her heart, her body, her soul, and the love she knew meant that she wanted him to be free. Free to do whatever he desired, free to love another, if he so chose, and free to leave her, if he so chose.  She knew the only way to potentially keep anyone around for a long time, is to let that person go. It was counter-intuitive, but she didn’t know another way.

“You do know that he’s married. He has a child with her. He won’t leave her. He’s not available.” Her girlfriend would continue.

“But you know, it’s our age. We are at age now where many are married. I can’t control that.” She would reply so matter-of-factly.

“What if he were to leave his wife and ask you to be with him?” Her girlfriend was relentless.

“I’d be with him. I won’t get married. I would be just with him.” She would always answer.

It was a hypothetical question that she knew would yield false hope and unrealistic expectations. She did not want that at all. But she knew her answer, just in case.

A year ago, when she met him, at a wine bar after work, she thought she saw a ghost. A man who looked just like her ex-husband. She knew it was not her ex, her ex-husband had moved to England with his now wife. She was drawn to the man, so against her better instinct, she approached the man and introduced herself. Man did not wear a wedding ring. Man said that wedding ring gave him callus on her hand, she was left handed, and she understood. Man was also left handed like her ex-husband, like her. They drank wine, had dinner and then man invited her over to another bar, there in the dark they made out. Man worked in the city, had a pied-à-terre in the city, and a house in Marin. Man told her that he had been married for 10 years, his wife did not work, and stayed at home. He ran a small consulting firm, specializing in mergers and acquisition. The business had been rough, but he had his booking of business through referrals and reputation. Man had been in the same line of business for his entire life, ever since he got out of graduate school, the same school back east, as it turned out, as her ex-husband. Ex-husband and man were 8 months apart. Woman wondered if he'd recognize her ex. She had changed her name back to her maiden name. That topic never came up. Woman had hopped around a bit before landing this desk job at a small equity firm. She didn’t mind her long trading hours schedule, she was off at 3 and she was often seen in her gym on Montgomery Street, next to where the man worked and also where man worked out.

They never had a routine. They saw each other once a few weeks, man was busy and did not have a lot of time on his hand, he went home every night when he was in town and he saw her during lunch, lunch being the operative word. On special occasions such as holidays, they managed to spend a night together, though never on the actual holiday, but close enough.

A year later, man declared that he loved her.  By then woman had known for a while she loved him back so when that magic word was blurred out, she knew that the feeling was finally mutual.  

Another girlfriend, still married with two kids recently asked the woman, “So what does it mean? What do you want out of this? What is your future with him?” Woman looked at her concerned girlfriend, again, puzzled by the questions.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘future’. I have a future. I love him. Isn’t that enough?” She answered.

“But what do you want to get out of it? What is that you get out of it? He’s married, he can’t be with you.” Her girlfriend asked.

“He is with me. We share a lot in common. We get along fabulously. As for his state of marriage, I don’t expect him to leave his wife, his child, he’s a responsible person. He should stay with them.” She answered.

Sometimes woman looked at other women with children, and spouses and wondered if she had been missing a lot all along, and if her state of not wanting to get married again had a lot to do with her parents’ divorce, her own divorce, or if she just had not met the right guy to settle down with.  But in a strange way, she’s already settled down, she’s settled down with the man, a man whom she loved with all her heart, and she belonged with him, and he knew it all along. It’s just a matter of how you look at things.

Most women would find this perspective confusing. A woman who was in love with a man but without the expectation of actually being with the man on a full time basis, a woman who did not expect a future with a man she loved, how could it be? How could any of this make sense?

Woman liked to travel. She traveled a lot, mostly to western Europe, but lately she’s been going to South America. She had started to take Spanish class on weekends. She liked the remote rural cities as much as she liked the busy streets of Paris and Rome. Wherever she went she brought back something small, sometimes candies, sometimes a shirt, but always a toy, a boy toy. She liked boy toys, she used to buy them for her nephews, but her nephews had grown into teenagers, she still bought toys for 6 to 8 year old. Her man had a young boy, a 4 year old boy. She brought this boy, whom she never met, a toy each time she went to a new place. Man always thanked her. She did it out of habit; she did it because she felt the man’s boy was important to the man, and therefore important to her.

She had once asked the man what his wife looked like, man described his spouse to the woman. She wondered how could she look so different from the woman man’s married to, and yet she did not ask.

Through singles meet up groups, woman met other women like herself. Women who were also divorced and dating married men. She knew that she was not alone in this situation, but many wanted to eventually remarry. She didn’t. She didn’t know how to convince her concerned girlfriends. They thought she only said it to not keep her hopes up. But she never wanted to be remarried. She didn't want anything to change.

This is her life. 

This is the way things ought to be. 

I will, consider it

I like stories that require no ending, or an ending that does not result in happily ever after. My own personality is such that I don't require a lot of care, I don't demand and I don't have much expectations. So when I write about a story, about a woman and a man, typically the woman is on the submissive, non-drama side. I have spoken to many women and I now know that's not typically the case. But imagine a world where few things need to be said, imagine a world that two people could love each other but don't coexist in the same environment, imagine a love story that required no closure. This is a story about such two people...
 ------------------


6 A.M., the skyscraper next to the hotel has started construction. Man wakes up. Meeting is at 7:30 in his San Francisco office.

“What’s your day like?” Man asks the woman.

“What?” Woman is still sleepy. She’s nocturnal, the opposite of him, who’s diurnal. Permanently diurnal, as in East Coast diurnal. She’s sleepy and wants to not talk.

“Tell me what you will be doing today.” Man insists.

“Well, I have a couple of deliverables to create, stuff for the Board, and a few presentations to edit. Not so stressful. I don’t have a stressful job any more.” Woman answers while her eyes are closed.

“Why do you ask?” She asks the man.

“Because I want to know.” Man does not give any reason and she’s too tired to drill on this topic.

“Do you want me to take these things with me?” He asks as he folds up handcuffs and blindfolds. Their toys, washed, cleaned and dried.

“Yes. I can’t take them home. Don’t forget the spanking device.” Woman does not know what it is called but she likes it. It hurts her. And she likes being hurt.

Man pounded her last night. Spanked her hard and then pounded her from behind, her face on the pillow, man told her to be quiet, so she was both ecstatic and in pain. It was like a simulated rape. Man rode her hard and deep, she was gasping for air as man pushed her face into the pillow.

They have been in this mode for quite some time now. She wonders how much of it is like the popular mommy porn series played out. She wonders whether man has read it. She has not. She wonders if man likes it because she likes it or if she likes it because man likes it

Five years and counting. Every few months, man comes into town and woman meets man in a hotel. They act as if they have never been apart. They catch up, briefly, and they spend the evening having sex, S&M style. Before the mommy porn book series was written. Woman thinks she and man are ahead of their time.

Man takes photos of her. Naked photos. And videos them having sex. To take home with. Man lives in the East Coast with his wife and daughter. Man has been married for the last fifteen years.

Woman lives in the West Coast with her son and her mother. She is divorced and has been seeing man since she filed for divorce.

“Happy birthday, baby.” Man kisses woman as he’s getting ready to leave.

“Thank you. It was lovely.” Woman is 45 and with dark blond highlights. Shoulder length wavy hair. Woman is curvy and well preserved. Woman’s ex-husband is 8 years younger. She’s always looked young. Ex-husband became ex when woman walked in on ex-husband having sex with her best friend.

“Will you bring them next time when we see each other?” Woman asks. She likes the toys he brings with him.

“Yes. I will. I have a meeting soon with the East Coast. I need to go, baby.”

“I know.” Woman does not ask questions about man’s marriage, his comings and goings, or whether and when they will see each other again.

Five years of the same pattern. Except woman loves the man now. With all her capable heart.

“One day, say 20 years from now, I’ll be 65 and you will be 70. If by then you want a true companion, I want you to consider me.” Woman requests of the man as man walks around the hotel room, making sure that he’s packed everything.

“OK.” Man says.

“OK what?” Woman wants to be clear.

“OK I’ll consider it.” Man leaps back into the bed and gently lies down next to her and puts his arm around her bare back, while extends his hands to cup woman’s bare breasts.

“I like the lights. The lights shines on Keira’s face. The end of everything. The unlikely relationship formed at the end of the world. Literately.” Woman tells man about the movie she saw on the plane. Man saw the same movie on a different flight and liked it too.

“What are you doing this week?” Woman casually asks.

Man knows by now woman does not ask man out on dates anymore or expect to see man after they just meet. Man must initiate it. Man is more relaxed around woman and decides to give her a run down of his schedule.

“Work, and my usual responsibilities.” Man says.

Man has gotten older lately. Woman remembers how they first met, some twenty years ago, when she was barely 25 and man was 30 at the time. They reconnected five years ago. Five years of blissful happiness, and lots of desperate longing and doubts in between man’s absence.

Man surveys the room and starts to sort their toys in his suitcase. Leaving only the present he bought for the woman. A strand of necklace. Man buys woman necklaces on special occasions. Short choker style always. He takes out a card, it’s a simple card he has picked up at an airport just before coming to see her, he writes in the card. “I love you and I look forward to another year of splendor.” He hesitates. Then he decides to take the card out of the envelope and puts the card in his briefcase. Leaving the envelope out, envelope has her name on it.

Man rarely shows emotions. Man wrote this note while thinking about his emotions and feelings. Now man is hesitating about the words written out. It seems to be a little too personal. What if woman now expects a final closure? A proper relationship and not just a proper date from time to time? Man has not prepared for any possibilities beyond the fun and adventures they have been having.

Best sex ever. Best fucking. Best blowjobs received. Best of everything they have ever done. Woman is giving. Woman does anything and everything man tells her to do. Man is soft-spoken, very agreeable, and does what his wife tells him to do. Man is powerful at work but has never been the person who wears pants at home. His stay at home wife does.

Man is a MAN in all senses of words with woman. Woman is submissive and likes to be in pain, and be told what to do and how to do it. Woman has always been compliant. Man likes that. Doesn’t every man?

“I will always love you.” Man is up again as he carefully examines the content of his suitcase. Including the card he writes for the woman. He declares his love but does not want to leave any physical evidence.

“Baby, I love you, body and soul.” Woman mumbles and is drifting back to sleep.

Man walks over to the edge of the bed, and kisses woman.

He kisses her lips, gentle, like feather, like he’s leaving his most precious thing behind. Like a piece of him is being left behind. Man wants to bottle woman up sometimes and takes her to places he travels to. Man has realized that he’s been in love with the woman, for sometime now.

“Bye bye.” Woman kisses him back. He tastes like spearmint or fresh mountain air, perhaps.

Man leaves the room. The same room they always book, top floor, overlooks the roof top garden at the adjacent building.

Woman starts to drift back to sleep. One more hour of sleep before she has to get up to go to work also.

She has told her mother, who’s living with her to take care of her son that she had an overnight business trip. No one needs to know that she’s involved with a married man.

Woman will wake up finding the only evidence of love is gone. The only card man has ever written for her in the last five years. The only love declared on paper.

Woman will find her necklace intact. A sign man does exist.

It will be another few months before she hears from him and before they see each other again.

It will be another year before man writes again. And take away what he writes at the end of their date.

It will be just that, a love story. A lonely, unsatisfying, no-ending love story, similar to the ending of Seeking a Friend for the End of the World. The movie both of them have watched, separately, and liked it, together.

It does not end, with them being together, certainly not when man is married and living in the East Coast, certain not now. But woman is hopeful. Her hope is hinged on man's acknowledgment of her 20 year plan, by him replying by saying “I’ll consider it”. Maybe when woman is 65 and man is 70, when their children have grown, when they are gray and frail, they’d finally be together, permanently. Maybe.

Man did say, he’ll consider it.

They don't make men like this any more

The best part of the evening was meeting Princess Donna in person. She's pretty. She's powerful. She showed N8 and me how to make the girls squirt. She was getting a drink at the bar and N8 went to ask her, and she showed us. I think I now know how.  took a photo with her. In my world, she's as big of a celerity as any Hollywood stars. I saw her recently at another shoot. She's the mistress of Public Disgrace site. I actually find her to be quite pleasant and smart. This is her job. She does it well. Two women, film makers, met up at the club and we hang out for a while and chatted. One woman was a writer and asked a lot of questions about me. I gave her straight answers and she was puzzled. She was 32 and not married. One woman pulled down her shirt and showed one of my guy friends her tits. A very attractive lady sitting on a bar stool. Many men were eying her. One of my guy friends went up and got her number. It pays to be tall, cute, the all American blue blood Clark Kent look alike. Another girl took a liking of another guy friend of mine. But then another guy liked her more. So the digits were exchanged but passed from one guy to another.

I make a good wing-man. Women asked me - "What's your story?" Why is everyone asking me "What's your story" these days? Can't I just maintain a slight air of mystery? Next time when someone asks me, I'd reply - "Which story would you like to hear?" Women continued to ask - "So which one of them is your boyfriend?" "How long have you guys been dating?" I always just answer, "none, not dating and I'm married." Why is it inconceivable for a married woman with children to hang out at a swanky bar on Friday night with single guy friends? Why can't married women be out with men other than her spouse? Why can't I be platonic friends with men? I can and I am. I have more women friends than guy friends. One woman asked, "Did you just summon them?" I did just text them. I texted several of my girlfriends too, but guys like bars, women don't. I didn't force them to be there, men came to bars, especially nice looking ones like the Armory club. Good scenery. So it does not take much for them to show up. Women don't like bars in general. So they don't respond to text.

To make a girl become more interested in one guy, who was actually really more into her than he let on, I walked up to the guy and he pulled me closer. Woman eyed him and then me suspiciously. I looked away and whispered to the guy friend, "Yep, she'll be calling you. You are not just a desperate loser who only was chasing her." Sure enough woman hugged him and asked him to call as she was leaving. Women like competitions. Most of them anyway. I am an exception. I suppose. I don't like men who flirt with other women. I actually don't care for players. I'm old fashioned that way.

Women, please don't hate me, I'm just here helping my friends score. Because, it's really hard to meet people these days. And men need all the help they can get.

Except me. I meet people, seems to be every other day. I meet them everywhere. I meet them each and every turn I take. I have never asked to be met. They just came into my life. They are women, men and they are people. I don't necessarily care one way or another, but when an unlikely friendship sprout it always excites me. I have not been in the business of making friends for over a decade.

I like old friends.

This is not a story about heart matters. This is a story about connecting with people and be open and tolerant and without expectations. This is a story about friendship and not love matters.

Guy friends always tell me about their love stories. I also learn from them. I learned that we all are searching for that someone to love us back, and we all search for that special someone whom we can't live without.

I learned that we truly behave differently with the person we care and love the most.

N8 said that he had a girl who sat at the passenger door and waited for him to get out, and open the door for her. He pushed the door open from inside and said there you go. He said that she's not that worth it. But for the woman he loved the most, he'd open doors, put jacket on her, and do anything and everything for her. I suppose that's love or at least gesture of love. N8 would put women in two categories, the "potential relationship" kind and the other. For the potential relationship kind, he takes it easy and pursues them but knows that he may fall in love with them. They often don't want him as much he wants them. Go figure.  For the other kind, they tend to be easy lays and they are always there, his fuck buddies. He has both. I imagine most single men have both kinds if they are of certain age.  They are always pursuing those who don't want to be caught.  They are always being pursued by the others. Well, isn't that universal truth?

My memory is not great. But in my recollection, there was only one guy who consistently opened the passenger side of door for me, helped me to put on my coat, held his arm out so that I could hold him and walk on uneven pavement, and always, always insisted on paying for every meal. We never talked much. We never discussed anything substantial. I never asked him many questions. Neither had he. I knew I'd do anything and everything for him. I believe he knew that of me. I knew everything I needed to know, and what he didn't tell me, or did tell me, never really mattered. My feelings for him taught me what love was. Love was just that. To do all those things that you'd ordinary never do with and for others.  To believe in the person blindly and love foolishly. I told a girlfriend of mine once that we all need to break away from that one person, whom we have given ultimate control to. We must. But we are idiots and we don't. We can't. We don't want to.

I may be older, but I knew what we'd do for those we adore. So next time when someone opens the passenger side of door for you, willingly, someone insists on paying for the meal, someone holds your jacket out as you put your arms through them, even though you don't need him to do any of it, know that it does not happen often, and perhaps you are the one who is worth his effort. Be thankful.

They don't make men like that any more.

Multiple Personalities

Most of the time, I stand on the side line, looking in and I feel that I’m watching four strangers all going about their businesses, heading into four different directions in life, each a different person, each holding a different future. Once my therapist said that I don’t have split personality, I have multiple personalities, I thought everyone is the same as I. Because this is the only person I know, I have always been this way from the very beginning. I have simply, returned to my roots.

Being your call girl

Sometimes I fantasize being (and think that I am) your call girl. A wind up doll. The less you communicate with me the more I feel like an appointment in your diary. With no name just last name initial E. Every 4 to 6 weeks, a booking, an entry. 2-8 hours. Like your client meeting or sales proposal presentation. Except you are the client, my client, my only client.

Before you see me I ask if you have special demand:

What kind of clothes you want me to wear...
what kind of look I should sport...
Are you in a talkative mood or are you simply looking for some peace and quiet?
If it's former, Is there a particular subject you'd be interested in discussing?
If it's the later, should I be as usual, be quiet until you give me the permission to speak? I will be you body pillow, soft, sensual but a pillow nonetheless.

You usually tell me if you have special requirements. How to dress and whether I should wear underwear. But lately you have not requested anything and I'm a little puzzled. I prefer lunch appointments. In and out, quick but satisfying. But lately you've taken me out to dinner, to feed me. We have proper dates. I also sensed that you have developed feelings for me. Feelings clients should not develop for their call girls. I feel too and that scares me. Thankfully, I see you less now. intensity wears off in a couple of weeks. I learned. 

I suspect that you may have another call girl that you see now, someone to provide a different type of needs, or you may be too busy, or maybe I have become stale - it's time for an image overhaul I think. I don't care about your other hobbies. I am not jealous - I wish that I could but that requires real emotions and I prefer to think that I have none. I am never possessive, I never had a grown up relationship you see. Our relationship is the closest one I have ever shared with anyone. I want to ask you about rules. I have sensed that there are some, but I want to know that all so that I could obey. I know that I can't call outside of the day when we are meeting. Everything must be prearranged. I want to keep you as my client. Like you, I have a diary and I mark you simply as B.  You are my semi-regular.

When I see you I become whatever and whomever you want me to be, and I please you the way you want to be pleased. I aim to serve and satisfy you. It's my job. But lately I begin to enjoy more than I should.

When you leave me I go into dormant stage - even though I think about you lots. I move onto other things that do not involve you. I imagine one day we'd cross path outside of our arrangement. I wonder if you'd recognize me. I wonder if I should walk up to say hi. I wonder if you’d call me by my real name.

Sometimes I think being your call girl is not bad. I need to add a quality control process. I want to get an evaluation from you. I want to have an improvement plan in place. Because I take my job seriously and this is a job I enjoy.

I think it’ll be grand if I could be on my knees, for 1 to 2 hours, naked, serving you. That’s what I like to do, because I’m a masochist. I like being submissive, I like serving man, I like being fed of your cock, I like swallowing. That’s the reason I exist, in this world of a call girl, I put emotions away, tucked all the way in the back shelf, and I do my job. And that’s all there is. I can’t deal with emotions. It hurts like hell. It does not belong to someone like me.

Rockridge, Revisited

Last minute decision, rode the BART to meet up with a friend at A Cote, a French restaurant in Rockridge. I had not been back since last August. BART dropped me off at the station, and it was the first time since that evening over a year ago. Feeling disoriented, I had a sudden panic for no apparent reason. The autumn was upon us and the night had fallen - I was once again, running 30 minutes behind schedule. My companion was already at the restaurant, waiting, with his back towards the door, but I recognized his gray hair and his glasses. He was tall, had a white sweater vest on and a polo shirt underneath. He had piercing blue eyes and looked distinguished. He was an old school Republican from the east coast, dressed very Brooks Brothers today, and he very rarely smiled. So I went up to him and scooped up my chair to sit next to him. He chose to sit by the counter. He did not want to get a table because he did not like sitting across from me and preferred to sit next to me so that we could talk. But I was talked out from work today, and I just want to grab a drink and have a few pieces of dried fruit and nuts.

"Have you been here before?" He asked.

"Yes, once, very long time ago." I answered. Define Very long. From last August to now it sure felt like a very different life all together. I remembered exactly what I was wearing the last time I was here. But that’s because I had been trying to remember everything in my life, actively recalling history so that I won’t lose my memories again.

"They have small plates. What do you want to drink?" Friend handed me wine list.  I ordered glass of Gamay 2011, which I liked from the Armory Club. Friend was having a glass of California Pinot Noir, I told him that I didn’t like California red. But he's from Boston like many of my friends were, moved to SF because of the weather, I’m sure. So he liked California red. But I think he only liked expensive red wine. Whatever. I had decided that I would not be intimidated by him, I would not feel inadequate because he was blue blood and exuded authority and confidence. I should be whoever I was, even if that meant that I liked vintage clothing and hanging out in the Mission eating dollar lengua tacos at midnight, which I suspected that he hated. I had once asked if he liked NPR, and he looked at me as if I was a eight legged monster. He had never tuned into NPR. I would ordinarily be considered sophisticated with fine taste in life, but next to him I just felt utterly bohemian. To justify, I said, “I like my yellow vintage dress. Just so you know.” He said, “Yes, I liked it too.” I had no idea he paid attention. I looked surprised. He gave me a crooked smile.

I always knew that there was a Carrie Bradshaw in every woman; confidence was used to mask awkwardness. Every person she grew fond of, they each, eventually, betray her.

I didn’t put stock in much of anything these days. Friendship had its up and downs, and I very rarely made plans beyond a day unless it's something that I wanted to do. I responded to last minute requests the best, on texts, often, and I chose to either show up or not, depending on what I got going on that evening.

Friend had gotten bored and started to check football score. Tomorrow he would leave town.

I needed to go home to see my family. So we began to say goodbye to each other.

"You should smile more. It makes you less Republican." I told him.

I once hated gray-hair white male Republicans.

He grabbed my hair and pulled it up, examining my face as if he was about to give me a makeover.

 "You have a nice smile, kiddo."

I jerked my hair away from his hand. Pulling a little too hard soI went like “ouch”. He acted a little too presumptuous, a little too familiar. But I suspected very few people ever told him no. I had not listened to what he had to say once. I was spacing out as I often did. So he pulled my head towards him, with his hand on my chin, he commended, “Look at me. Are you listening?” I tried to escape from his hold but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up my struggle and sat on the chair and listened to what he had to say. It was a simple question, but he made sure that I was paying full attention before the question was asked.

This friend of mine was a classic control freak. But I always remembered the good parts of the people. He was also the person who told me to hold him when I was crying, years and years ago. Before he was Mr. Big and before I stopped feeling.

We began to part our ways.

"Safe travels." I hugged him to say goodbye, as I was heading to the BART. But then I stopped to ask, "When will you be back?" He gave me a list of cities he'd be visiting, and his travel schedule. He said that he had to check up on the work his people had been doing.  He had people to do work for him. He just needed to show up on occasion in his Neiman Marcus suit and fancy bespoke shirt with nice stitching, presumably to catch up with the clients, talk to his senior staff, play a round of golf, and then take off.  He made work sound so easy.

He did not know I already nicknamed him Mr. Big behind his back. That was what I had told my girlfriends. I poked fun at his uptight dress code, his monotone, and his overall lack of appreciation for anything artsy. He wouldn’t go to museums, he wouldn’t go to indie music venues, and he wouldn’t listen to anything on NPR. He gave money to Republican candidates. He liked Red Sox and San Francisco Giants, Raiders and New York Giants. He worked a lot and apparently, never used to people saying no.   

"Text or call, anytime. I mean it." He said, I could tell that he was trying to make an effort to stay in touch. But I knew myself, I wouldn’t be doing that. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I had grown cynical, trained by experience and disappointments in life; I didn’t like to raise any hopes of a friendship beyond the occasional dinners. I was not, and never would be, emotionally evolved.

We were supposed to see a City Arts and Lectures show when he's back.

I somehow doubt that he'd make it to the event.

But you never knew, even Mr. Big managed to surprise Carrie Bradshaw.

Is for the second time in my life, positively, completely, undoubtedly, out of my depth here. Therefore, I’m frightened and in need to find center quickly before I fall not off a cliff or into abyss but am swallowed whole by the black hole and then spitted out of the other end of the universe like a rag doll. I must, hold on, and ground myself before my world collapse in front of my eyes. This is not a child’s play. This is real. And I am, indeed, not in Kansas anymore.

 

Do I have to watch sports, support local sports teams and play golf? Can I just be the hipster me, wear vintage dresses, eat weird food, listen to indie band, go to poetry reading, and hang out in the Mission until wee hours?

When I was twenty, every single weekend it was baseball, basketball, football games, and then golf outing, always golf, never anything else. I voted Republican and spoke only when spoken to. Got dressed up in the evenings, and looked the part. I was the submissive young thing. Therapy is good as it takes us back to the memory lane, and I’m told that we always go back to our roots.  But if we all go back to our roots, where is the progress? And if I have transformed myself over the last many years, why do I, sometimes crave going back to the beginning?

Could we all in fact be two people? The person we try to leave behind is never too far behind, it’s in the shadows, lurking, ready for its return. All it takes is pushing that escape button, then Pandora box opens, the old self gets released, and I was transported back to the beginning. A different type of role awaits  along with the shoes, old attire, old attitude, even the eerily familiar sports lingos being uttered without much thought.

Just like that, readily, comfortably, I was that person again, as if never a day had passed.

Diary of a Lost Soul

Every five months you go into a deep valley. Early December, Early May and Early October. For December, you were in the valley for 1 month, For May, you were in the valley for two weeks. For October, you were in the valley for exactly 1 week. What is the secret to speedy recovery? Very simple. Through psychoanalysis, you begin to recognize patterns, you reverse your steering wheel, you head into a new direction. When you see a vacant spot in your heart, a dark hole that bleeds, a heart screams for help, a void that you cannot fulfill, sadness engulfs your spirit, you need to tough it out, you just have to hang tight, and when you drop to the bottom of the cliff, you know you will come back, you know that you are the phoenix born into the fire and you will resurface with iron wings charging into the sky.

You know that your mood is affected by the other, rationality does not apply, logic does not work, only you can amend your own wound, the other cannot help you, the other cannot hear your scream, you are soundless, helpless, oblivious of the world passing you by, you may be bipolar, you may be manic depressive, you may be simply lost, you may be depending on the other to save you, but the other won’t come, the other has disappeared into thin air, the other has no concerns over your malnutrition, the other comes and goes as he pleases, the other does not exist but in your head.

All you can do is to watch yourself drop to the bottom of the cliff, waiting for your life to die and the other life to be reborn. You cry to sleep, you cry to wake, you cry as you write to the other who will not reply, the other who has never seen this side of you, , the other who has never seen these letters, the other who does not exist but in your head. You declare love. Love for the other that will never die. Except that you are dead. How could you hold love for the other when you no longer exist?

The crackling bones, the lovely cracking shining white bones at the bottom of the cliff are the only remains of you. The new you stare at these bones, stunned, confused and definitively outraged. You want to scream to the other - why? Why? But the other won’t reply, the other has left you, soundlessly, exit left stage, and obliviously how broken you were once.

But even if he does come back, you know you won’t recognize him. All its left are those crackling bones, pearl white, laying at the sandy beach, bleached and dried, soon it just looked like driftwoods, blending into the nature, as if the old you never existed. You know the universe hears you, it sends what you needs.  You ascend and you no longer feels the pain.

Just like that, the vacancies have been filled. You are made whole again. Today is a new beginning. Tomorrow the sun shines brighter. Welcome back, you lost soul!

Happiness is a fickle

In the pursuit of happiness there is really no path that leads to happily ever after. There is a midpoint, sure, where you could convince yourself that you are happy and fulfilled; and if someone came into your life at that midpoint, you'd be dismissive.  You think you are better off without them. Then when you snap out of it, you realize that you've been missing that something. Someone, some part of yourself all along.

You go back, go way back and find those who meant something along the way. You try to figure out if that person could have worked out, if you had lost the opportunity because that one word that you did not say, you did say, the one opportunity that could have changed your fate, your path forever.

You test it out, by saying - "what happened?"

You hear the other person says - "timing, circumstance."

A memory lane appeared out of nowhere, and there ten dancing fireflies guide you through the walkway, until you could see the other end. A different future, a different family, a different life, a different ocean, a different set of reality.

You've always been passive, submissive to a fault. You don't like to take charge, be demanding, you'd rather follow than lead. You don't like to pursue, yet you can hold your own. You just don't want to, you are perfect at being alone and you are perfect at being in a relationship. You are perfectly content one way or another.

Under the right circumstance, you'd even be a perfect wife, a perfect mother, and a loyal, passionate, devoted person who would do anything and everything for the other.

That's what you've been told.

The two of you would have continued to date, until he wanted children, you'd given children to him. You'd not wanted to get married, until the other wanted a marriage. A proper family. You'd agree because that's what being a supportive, submissive person would do. You'd do all that you can to please the person you are with. You'd become domesticated, be known as the wonderful wife, mother, an excellent cook, a jack of all trades.

You'd be praised, admired and you'd be the perfect little wife that the other always wanted. The hot wife.  He'd be happy, content, and he’d thank his lucky stars. For having said what he said, to keep you and fought for you when he did. He'd be proud of his accomplishment.  Until one day he’d take you for granted, he'd think you are who you are because what he brought to your life. You had grown a lovely garden, full of fragrant plants, exotic, rare plants that every neighbor envied. You'd have a career, a group of good core girlfriends, some guy friends, but you'd find the guys tiring. You'd find them boring. You'd call them Peter Pans because they never wanted to grow up. You'd self congratulate. You'd kiss the other as he went to work every day. You knew that it was worth it to uplift your roots, move all the way for him, for this world that you had finally become part of. You'd tell friends, how you first met. In your early 20s, and how the unlikely story of getting back together after all those time, when you finally gave up, then he asked you to be with him. The rest was history. You'd say.

Your girlfriends would be so envious of you, the big house, the fancy car, the husband who had it all, and the beautiful children who you knew would keep him around, for as long as you care him to be around. You gave him a beautiful, healthy son and a daughter.

One day, one day as you looked yourself in the mirror, you did not see you anymore, you looked middle aged, tired, spent, and passionless. You take on a new hobby, change your job, dye your hair, get Botox, a tummy tuck, and you stopped all that made you the motherly you - cooking, gardening, ironing, taking children to the park. You became fashionable, you take up a new passion, triathlon or running perhaps, increased your core training, and before you know men are saying to you, "You don't look like the type who ever cooked. You must be used to men doing things for you. You don't look like someone who took public transportation." You had become the woman you used to both despise and envy.

You looked at the other. You stopped appreciating the way he fought for you, you started to resent having uplifted and moved 3000 miles away for him, you start to ponder if the boy before him could have been the one, he was too tall,  now a little too gray, too predictable. The boy had the perfect body for you, and fair colored hair reminded you of the summer beach, and he was unpredictable. You should have given that boy another chance, yet you had given your life to the other.

Boy travelled into town, you two met up for dinner, then dessert, then back at the boy's hotel, boy had become man, but never married, never would, still unpredictable, intoxicating, and a player, just like you already knew but this time you didn't have anything to lose. So an affaird. You quickly forgot about the other person, the man who fought for you, who said that he'd love you until the end of the day. He never would know, he still saw you as the 22 year old girl he knew when he first met you, the innocent, caring, loving girl who adored every inch of him, But that's not you any more. You are down to the rabbit hole, playing a dangerous game with boy, knowing that you won’t lose because you are clever.

You stop.  Fireflies disappear.  The lane disappears.

You ask the other. "Is this the future you'd envision with me? Don't you remember how I dated a boy while I was with you? Don't you remember that you told me that I'm not the marriage material?"

The other is still full of faith, "Under the right circumstances, you'd be an absolutely perfect wife."

You stop and take a deep breath. Then you find tears. You had called him, and no one else, “my sweetheart” once. You know when the boy came crashing into your life, you had him to fall back on, until you told him about the boy and broke his heart, yet, all those women he bed, he chose to believe in you. Even when you have lost faith in yourself.

He’s the only person who ever called you by your first name’s initial. Simple, direct and you. “My little X.” That’s how he called you.

"So here we are, what now?" You ask.

It's benign and innocent, it's just talk because you are three thousand miles apart. You never uplifted your life for anyone, he never asked you to take that leap of faith.

"Now, we wait and see." He says.

“Wait for what?” You ask.

As usual, he says, as he said many years before.

“Wait for the stars to align.”

You are reminded that one night, the summer wind blowed curtain. You had just said goodbye to the boy, beach blond boy who laughed and played, an expert who played the field nearly as good as you once did.

“I will see you in a couple of days.” Boy casually said, leaning down to kiss you as you laid in bed, but he was never to be seen again. But boy was not the only one. You never heard from your sweetheart that summer either.  You waited, and waited.

You went to see movies, in the rose city, alone. You arrived at a hotel, the blinker was on and when you listened to the answering machine, thinking it was your sweetheart, it was not, it was a man calling his wife, saying how much he loved her. It was a wrong room, wrong number. You cried, you cried like a baby in your large king size bed. You just wanted to be loved. You had so much love to give and no one wanted you.

You waited for the call that never came. You waited for that email that never arrived. Because you were passive, and full of faith, for the one you loved, you simply waited. You never made a fuss. You never demanded anything. You cried but you never cried in front of anyone. Until one day you wiped away tears, stopped waiting and started living.

You never saw the stars aligning the last time. You know you will not see the stars align this time.

This is real life. And in real life, happiness is a fickle. It does not belong to someone like you.  Not really, not for long.