Objects in mirror are far more unstable than they appear

I have a new admirer.
It's a total fluke, stumbling off a curb, landing in a pile of diamonds accident that I even met him at all.
I actually only agreed to meet him out of spite.

See, I also have a lover.
I'm a greedy, greedy girl.
And he is the bee's knees.
Gorgeous. Intoxicating. Intriguing.
He's my buddy and my orgasm inducer and I adore him immensely.
However.
He's about as committed to me as Hugh Hefner is to anyone with boobs.
My passionate rendezvous leaves much to be desired.

It's not even the label, I crave, though it certainly is good for the ego to feel someone has claimed you.
It's not the feminine pride of being spoken for or the inane Facebook relationship status I'm after.
But simply, Clear. Concise. Consistent. Clarity.
It is difficult to relate to someone or play by the vague naughty rules if actions and words are at odds with one another.
Find me a man who says what he does and I'll show you my soul mate.

So, being immersed in a state of delicious uncertainty I found myself reacting irrationally.
I thought I saw something with some tart of a sprite so I did the only thing that made sound, reasonable sense.
I made a date that night with someone else.

You're shaking your head right now, I know.
Now you know how my entire family feels.

But in my spiraling state of zero control it seemed the sanest way to handle things.
Play or be played.
I refuse to ever again be any man's weeping ex lover.
You don't like me?
Then fuck you.
I've a sea of men waiting to be pleasured.

So on my way to my date I called my lover to make sure he knew exactly what I was up to.
"That's fine. Have a good time."
'Oh. Really? I hope you know I'm going to walk in there and he's going to tell me how beautiful I look and how amazing I am.'
"Yeah and he'll probably be really rich too."
'Yeah. And HUGE.'
"Mmhmm. And I bet he wears bow ties all the time. Sounds like the perfect guy."
'You make me crazy!'
"What am I going to do with you?"
And I hung up the phone with the emotional maturity of a tutu clad six year old wiggling her butt, tongue sticking out, chanting naa naa na na naa naa.

Oh I was going on this date and it was going to be fucking fantastic.
Or I was at least going to drink my weight in champagne.

Miracle of miracles, the date was surprisingly wonderful.
I was so indifferent about the whole thing that I was my most outrageous self without trying to impress.
He was older and intelligent and instantly taken with me.
He walked me to my car and made a point to give me two hugs.
Someone didn't want me to go.
And that felt incredible.

He texted me after the date and the next day when he had youtubed my movie trailer.
He asked for a second date and I was reminded of when I first went out with DB and was about as excited over that date as I'd been with this.
DB too, was captivated by me from the first night, following my online ventures, flattering me with texts to know I was on his mind.

It all felt so familiar, so right.
Another guy. Another infatuation.
Someone who actually knew what he wanted and went for it.

And yet, juxtaposed, because Timing is a most fickle whore, I grew closer to my lover in the same week than I had since we first met.
Maybe something was growing.
Or maybe I was holding onto something that never was.

But for the first time, since Prince Charming once crashed upon my fairytale, I had a man in my life who provided me the comfort to feel free to be me.
And that seemed to mean something, to count for more than compliments or paid dinners or relationship parameters as clear as the diamonds on my fingers.

I'd found someone I sincerely connected with.
And I realized I didn't care what he called it.
I knew it.
And I am far too savvy for any man to ever truly label anyway.

sepia tones

I thought of you today
In a way that felt invasive
An unwanted wave of your smell
The picture of your face stamped in front of mine
I looked out the window and remembered how it felt sitting on your couch

And the corner within me that is always mistaken
The part that paints me a perfect fool year after year
Whispered to my numb ears that I missed you
Missed your desperate need for me
Missed the way your pleading eyes saw a goddess in me

And I shook my head hard
And knocked the mistaken Reese back to her den of delusions
And I looked out the window again
And realized the possibilities of the buildings staring back at me

His couch lacked the urgency that yours always had
But its warmth, blanketed genuine
And though his eyes would never see the same goddess
still
they saw

And that worth, so heavy in value,
surpassed anything your supposed infatuation deigned to offer me
That worth is my delightful new reflection
of the loss of all you were never fit to be

stirrings

there are these moments

when eager eyes align

and I feel the bliss

of everything I want

 blinking twice

our hands no longer touch

and I wonder

if all I want

is as wonderful as I believed

sometimes tears form behind such eyes

trapped behind panes of glass

never falling

dare not unveiling

the melting or hardening

of a heart of tin

is such ecstasy

in existence

merely coupled with such exquisite pain

and was this frightful tugging

in my chest

what I'd really craved all along

to be not one nor his

but to be of pain

 interwoven with moments greater

than the boundaries of infatuation

allure more comforting

and far less consuming

somewhere betwixt satin sheets

sleeping intermittent with the stars

Mr. Wonderful, Bartini and the ever elusive power of the French Kiss

I am a passionate woman.
When I enjoy things I enjoy them in that way that stirs a warmth swirling from the inside out.
It radiates through my skin and drips honey from my lips.
I don't partially dip my toe in the pool of possibility.
I dive head first, naked, giggling as the cool water enraptures me.

Which is why when I saw Mr. Wonderful at Bartini I nearly dripped like Niagra Falls on my chair.
The man oozes sex.
I coveted him for an obscene number of days.

He was the Starbucks regular I'd manage to stutter awkwardly in front of instead of pur gracefully no matter how many mornings I attempted to bat my lashes and pout my lips.
He was a venti americano with a sometimes yogurt parfait and I ached for him to lay on top of me.

There are just some men you're fortunate enough to stumble upon in your lifetime who don't have to exert any effort, there's just something in their pheromones that makes you want to do whatever they ask of you.

Thank god they are few and far between.

Mr. Wonderful was tall, dark and devastatingly handsome with piercing hazel eyes and a smile that would warm the saddest soul.
He was successful and charming and had a family of brothers who were all stupidly handsome.
I was so made to be his arm candy.

Alas, no dates were ever shared.
No kisses poured from our lips.
One day he simply stopped frequenting my store.
And I transferred and then moved on to another job.

The love affair that should have been with Mr. Wonderful was no more.

And then one day, some year plus later, I walked into one of my favorite bars I go to nearly every week.
I sat down waiting for my date and I glanced up at the table next to me.
And. There. Was. Mr. Wonderful.

It is really quite a shame the look on my face wasn't captured with a camera.
Because it was like seeing an iconic celebrity.
I wanted to run over, throwing my arms around his neck and give him a hug.
But I also wanted to respect his space and timidly tried to make eye contact.

HE SAW ME.

My heart began to palpitate.

I'll spare you the boring details and skip straight to the tragic ending of my fairytale by announcing my discovery that Mr. Wonderful has recently found himself married.
He was his charming, friendly self as we spoke but I knew our chances of romance had faded as quickly as they'd sparked their way back into my imagination.

Why had I run into him?
What was the point? What had it meant?

It felt some cruel, universal reminder that the prince I've yet to kiss is still so very far even when seated at the table beside me.
I sipped my French Kiss martini and shook my head in amazement.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.
Here's lookin' at you, kid.

The Maybe Sides

every night is different
      because you don't know how much of you will be there
         and how much of you will already be out the door

and every murmur stirring in you frightens
      because you don't know which voice to acknowledge
         and which voice to finally hear no more

and you want to be other versions of yourself
      ones that don't feel
            that can't feel


and you want to be strong enough to fight the you that overpowers
      that feeds off trepidation
         cowering in the shadow of anything real 

            but you don't know how to be

                the answers you want

                  you wish they saw differently

                      the eyes reflected in your heart



                           some things are easiest to feel alone
                                   or to never feel at all
                    so you blink away the rain
and allow another story to start

Old flames in time for Valentine's

"What are you wearing? Is that a new perfume?"
'No. It's Burberry London.'
Audible gasp. "It's the PC perfume! I knew it!"

It's kind of eerie how nothing gets past Betty Ann.
If there was ever some mysterious murder surounding my death or I went missing she would crack the case.
She may even know more about me than I do.
Spooky.

Things are good.
But I'm definitely in the midst of some monumental transition.
I'm not really starting it or anywhere near finishing it.
I'm delightfully stuck somewhere entangled in its path.
And I kind of feel like a confused little mouse in a maze desperately wanting the damn gruyere.

I guess my overwhelming uncertainty stirred a longing for something old and familiar.
Thus my reach for the bottle of fragrance I rarely wear anymore.
It was his, afterall.

Life is so comparable.
We hardly allow it to be merely for each moments own simplicity.
We imagine what tomorrow won't bring or what yesterday lacked.
And anticipate the people we've let in promptly making their exits, as planned all along.

I have one friend, bless her heart, who no matter what is going on in my life finds some way to criticize and critique it until I wonder why I answered my phone in the first place.
There is always something missing, something else out there that's better, in her mind.
I'm settling. I'm missing out.
I'm not taking life by the Cartier boxes I should be handed and am therefore failing to meet up to my full potential.

I discovered today that there are fewer and fewer people I genuinely want to share what's going on in my life with.
Because I don't want their biases, their hidden agendas, their paranoias and prejudices clouding my happy contentment with the life I love.

Few understand me.
Even fewer accept me.
And I'd rather wait to speak to those few than bombard my brain with the diatribe of the undesirables.

Solitude is less lonely than such company.
And gives ample opportunity to remember the few who reveled in my crimson smile.

Self Actualized or Deluded. A Toss Up.

Today I recognized a behavioral pattern of mine.

I don't really know how I suddenly became so aware of what I was doing because I know I've done exactly the same thing in probably nearly every relationship I've ever had and I don't think I've ever once stopped and reflected on my actions while I was doing them.

I've either a super heightened self awareness or I've consumed far too much vodka for my brain to process actions at their standard speed.

I go on auto pilot with the men I date.
I had no idea I checked out like that.
But I do.
It's as though my actions themselves move me.
Rather than my own will controlling anything.

There are one of two fears we all possess.
The fear of losing the intimacy we've gained or the fear of gaining it in the first place.
So when such affections take two by surprise, what happens next is always surprisingly predictable.
Someone pulls away while the other reaches out in desperation.
Suddenly the closeness that seemed to entwine is the driving force that repels the two apart.

Like the sprinkling of salt that fuels a fire of liquor, burning on the stove, when poured too quickly in indulgent quantities the salt actually smothers the fire.
Burying the flame in its entirety.

I am that salt.
And I have never learned to pour slowly.

The patience for such caution eludes me.
The discipline for such precision annoys me.

So I've always flavored all I want.
How I want.
When I want.

And never understood why my lovers wandered away, in search of barrels of water.

But today I must have tripped.
I must have stubbed my toe on the salt shaker lid with all the holes in it.
Because I suddenly felt the pour flowing too quickly.
I tasted it.
And I felt thirsty.

And I saw, for possibly the first time, how vibrant the flame was, as is.
And I told the fear stirring salt within me it was a foolish little fuck.

And I sipped on crisp water.
And remembered how sweet it tasted.
And I smiled, anticipating the delicious chocolates that lay in store.