What Would You Like?

When I turned 11 my mother let me ride the 2 miles down our country road to the Village. We called it the Village and I don’t know why. Town was the bigger place many more miles away. The Village was close. One could run to the Village for milk or a Sunday paper, but all big business happened in Town. The Village was safe for an 11 year old. Town would have to wait until 16.

Sometimes I carted a dozen soda bottles on my back, taking full advantage of the Michigan 10 cent bottle return, cashing in those 12 dimes for 1 crisp dollar bill and 2 dimes, then that handful of cash and change for banana Now and Laters or cherry bombs. Later, with an allowance, I rented movies, VHS tapes, and spent summer afternoons crosslegged and starstruck.

Summer heat finds its way through the blinds, a box fan chases sweat off my face. Children pedal by. Mom calls, Burger King from Town on her way home from work and “what would you like?”

Something with a toy.

There was a boy and there was a father and there was a mother and a girl too. The boy was my friend. The mother was beautiful and exotic and the girl a pest. The father was my obsession. He built homes and drove a truck, with a mustache and jeans, sometimes coveralls, always a white tshirt. Once, I watched their pets while they were away, crossing the street from our house to theirs, turning the spare key, petting the dog, knowing the father had been there, finding the dirty laundry, smelling his sweaty tshirts, retrieving his most soiled briefs, licking them, taking them home, keeping them for years and years, cautiously eyeing the yellowed stretched pouch and brown trenched seat before slipping them over my face to breath him in.

The mother, the girl, the boy in Town for groceries, the father cracks the bathroom door and asks me to hand him a roll of toilet paper. I hand him the roll and watch as he wipes with the door open, staring me down, pulling up pants, tucking his cock into the pouch, washing his hands, patting my head, “what would you like?”

Something for a boy.

Mermaids Serve Martinis by the Sea

So missing you has become my dirty little secret. Tonight I found an old video I took in Boston at a bar. The camera pans and everyone is there, Gretchen, Molly, that girl, that guy and many more who's names I'm sure you would remember because that's what you do - remember names. I remember the sky was milky, I was cold watching the marathon and wondered why, even though you sat next to me, you didn't have much to say. We had been to NY two days before and so I suppose this was the last leg of the trip. I'm sure I didn't have much money and I'm sure you hated me for it. How sad it must have been for you to look at me. I see that now. I see it in the video. Your look looks like mine would, I'm sure, if it rested on another face - disappointed, worried, ready to eject.

Nothing changed for me. I never stopped loving you, never stopped wanting to see you, never stopped wondering why your distance grew to such great depths I thought I might drown in it.

I'm in my little carpeted bedroom now. The television is on. I'm about to sleep. I'm not one of those, I'm proud to say, that can only sleep on one side of the bed - waiting for you to take your place. I enjoy the roominess of it all, the extra pillows, the sloppy sheets no longer tugged away or tucked between us.

What a sham it all must have been for you that last year; glued on smiles, polite nods, the occasional crinkled face (foreshadowing?) when I kissed you goodbye, a sedated enthusiasm when I stopped at your office to see your face. With what ease you packed my things, moved them to the basement; carefully removing the T's from our collection of M's and T's, slipping them in with my underwear or books so on ambitious days when I change clothes or read, they fall out like unbuckled children through glass. A midmorning car crash.

I can hear your voice now. Very disapproving. I think you would prefer to write our history; no bad guys, no kryptonite, just a simple dissolve. I suppose that's what we get after all. We were fools. How quickly (well, not so quickly) we aped out domestic bliss. It didn't work for them, why would it for us? More specifically, why would it for me? Ah, the holy grail - it can be yours too I told them; all of them. Hold on, believe. What a fool. I might as well have promised the resurfacing of Atlantis - come one come all, bring your swim trunks, you won't believe the beaches and mermaids serve martinis by the sea.

Emotional Blowjobs

Don’t have much today. Like I said, I’m trying hard not to let this be a place where I throw up feelings or hand out emotional blowjobs but it’s becoming more and more difficult.

The other night I met Mark and Louise and a few others for a drink. It was the first time I was in a social setting that should have had Michael in it. I kept thinking he was going to appear and whenever I lulled away into a conversation, momentarily forgetting everything, I snapped back, looking up, waiting.

I had the thought today that a person’s life is like a book, or movie. You think you know how it’s going to end, who the protagonist is, the bad guy, the guest star, the walk on, the one night stand that becomes a punch line later in the story. But a person’s life is much more like a series of books or a trilogy of movies. Low and behold you will find out in movie three that Vader is Luke’s father, making that oddly romantic kiss in Empire Strikes Back between Leia and Luke seem like a fetish plug for incest lovers.

So I’m having to rewrite the next book of my life. I thought, based on previous books and chapters and kisses that Michael was the one and our life unfolded in front of me, a delivered gift from the gods for the hardships lived through and the optimism still clung to. But you really can’t dance around “I’m not in love with you any more.” As hard as I try to see him coming back around, a love story reunited, a battle won, another raid on the death star – well, I just can’t. He put the kibosh on guest starring later on.

All of this is making me look back on previous chapters in my life with a suspicious eye. So maybe he wasn’t the one. Maybe there is no “one”. Who knows. I could drive myself crazy trying to figure out what it all means barely half way through the story. Sadly, we end when the story ends so any grand conclusions will have to come from others.

I suppose if it is a movie, we are the camera of our own lives. We see what we want to see. Someone said that when someone is editing a documentary, every cut is a lie. A cut is a decision, just like camera angle is a decision, just like casting is a decision. Michael and I lived the same life but he will no doubt have a different take on the moral of the story. It’s going to take me a long time to stop seeing him as the leading man. I don’t think I would want it any other way. I just hope it gets easier. Stay tuned for the next guest star. Bad dates are always a punch line in movies so maybe this is where my movie goes from romance to comedy. I just hope its not a Fargo type comedy because I don’t think I could stand a woodchipper.

I'll Have the Blonde Sans Crazy

i need to be raped - 24 (your place)

Date: 2009-06-06, 2:47PM CDT

hot sub bottom boy here, 6-4 170lbs, tight bubble butt, deep throat, dd free, smooth body. i love to be skull fucked beyond remorse, have my ass ripped apart, piss play, being tied up and choked, and abused, if you can do these things to me and are dd free hiv- have me cum over now!!!!

In case were wondering. That's what's out there. During the years Michael and were together, I counseled single friends on the best way to meet someone with the cocky, steadfast optimism of someone in love. I'm trying to remember what I told them so I can tell myself the same thing now. Not that I want to meet someone. Meeting Michael, I told people, was fate. All they had to do was surrender to fate too and their Michael would come along too. Whomever I was advising must have wanted to rip my face off. Because when you are actually single, you feel like you are floating in outer-space. Anyone could tell you this way is up or the shuttle is over there but up looks just like down in space. It's very disorienting.

I spent some time today reviewing a few online options. Craigslist seems to be the place to go if you just want sex. Gay.com seems to be the place to go if you just want sex but want to act like you might want more. Match.com says they will match you based on interests, hopes, dreams etc but something tells me it's just sex there too.

The whole idea of meeting someone online is weird to me. I filled out the Match.com questionaire and felt like I was ordering a fancy deli sandwich. First you describe yourself (which I guess doesn't happen at a deli), then you describe him. I checked dark hair, brown eyes, 27-40 years old, professional etc and cast my ballot expecting to have a clerk assemble my desired mate under a sneeze guard, delivering him over the counter wrapped in wax paper with a pickle stuck to his crust. It felt wrong.

It felt wrong because the survey/order-form didn't include all those little things you can't anticipate liking in someone; things you swear will annoy you but when found in the right person become charming, desired. That's the funny thing about love, you can have an idea what you're hungry for but once you see the specials, you might change your mind. And aren't we allowed to change our minds? Brown hair sounds good now but what if brown hair only comes with detachment or a hairy back. Well then, I think I'll have Blonde. But what if Blonde only comes without buns and an extra dose of crazy? Well then, I don't want that either. I guess finding love is about finding yourself and remaining open to what comes along, special or not.

A Vagina Saved My Life

I work at Playboy in Chicago. I work in the photo department and look at vaginas all day long. I retouch vaginas. I shrink vaginas. I tuck vaginas but I don't #@$% vaginas... so their charm is lost on me. Mostly.

I joined the Playboy softball team a few months ago in anticipation of the summer ahead, not knowing I would be single and homeless once the season started. Maybe fate had something up her sleeve. I almost didn't go to our first game last night. I missed all of the practices and haven't touched a ball or sports prop since high school. I was certain it would be disaster. I pictured myself skipping around bases or fumbling the ball and imagined the ridicule from the other team as well as my own.

We arrived at the field. I knew half the team and the other half quickly introduced themselves. They are all fantastic and friendly. Everyone was their for fun, not competition. The other team creamed us but we didn't mind and proved it by crossing the street to Bowman's for beers outside. I looked around at my teammates and smiled. Guys patted backs. Girls curled up in deck chairs, tucking knees under chins or under sweatshirts to stay warm, wrapped arms around themselves. More than one person pointed out the chilly weather and the hope and anticipation for warmer summer days. The sky grew dim and a nearly full moon looked down on us.

By the time I began walking to Jason's apartment, the night sky had fully spread itself above me. I lit a cigarette. I imagined Michael walking beside me, then imagined him next to me when I fell asleep on Jason's couch. I remembered those cold girls in the evening air with their arms cradling their knees for heat and wrapped my arms around myself. At least I knew I wouldn't let go.

I got a promotion today. It's been a long time coming. I can see a wonderful time ahead of me and vaginas too.

Elephant Graveyard

Lately I've been feeling like an old elephant. Yes, since the break-up, I've gained a couple pounds, but that's not what I mean. I'm also not suggesting that my "trunk" is enormous and sometimes drags on the ground. I'm referring to the common held myth that when an elephant knows it's going to die, he/she meanders into the forest away from prying eyes, to curl up among the skeletons of former friends, lovers, family members and well... die. Maybe when the elephant first feels sick the other elephants were there for it, patting his/her back with an extended trunk, listening to the sick elephant talk about the aches and pains of getting older. I'm sure the pack dipped their heads. Began to grieve.

But somewhere along the way, sick Dumbo gets a bit embarrassed. He/she doesn't want the others to witness his incontinence, blubbering and goes into the woods to die. I've been bopping between the house I bought with Michael and friends' apartments. It's been quite a show but I'm ready to hide and let this thing die. I'm emotionally incontinent and the blubbering has just begun so it's a good time to curl up with a few that have been here before me and ride it out.

I've never been dumped before. Go big or go home I guess. Turns out the first time I get dumped is by the guy I basically married. There is something so stinging in the phrase: I will always love you. I'm just not in love with you. I would rather have heard him say, "I'm actually a woman" or "my penis just fell off and I can't love you without it." I also would have preferred his death. I don't prefer he were dead. I just mean that the hardest part about being dumped isn't being without the person, it's that they are choosing to be without you.

However, there are so many times throughout the day when I just want to tell him something. I have a hang nail. I got a new job. I just pooped a lot. Lunch didn't set well with me. I have gas. I love you.

I tried telling myself these things but for some reason my inner voice won't congratulate my bowel movements. I am getting a slight echo when I tell myself "I love you", but I'm sure that's just the emptiness. I tried to get frisky with myself the other night but was shot down, so I guess that's pretty much the same. Some consistency is helpful.

So the first stop on my new road is kind of quiet. Friends are funny and supportive but they won't brush their teeth and discuss their day with me while I'm on the toilet. I'm grieving the closeness I guess, the familiarity, the comfort. When someone seems so much an extension of yourself that you know what their gas is going to smell like and you don't mind it, even half enjoy it like you might your own on a cold winter night when the burrito finally starts to break down and you stick your head under the covers, thinking, that's what I smell like on the inside. I knew him inside and out I guess you could say and even the stinky stuff didn't bother me.

One Road Led to This

I'm not going to use this space to summarize. I will not use this space to cry. I will use this space to describe the new road I am on.

After 5 years, Michael and I are breaking up. This is day 6. The first 5 were spent chewing Xanax and drinking wine from a box. This blog started as a journal while I traveled the country photographing real estate. It will now be a journal about traveling into a new single life which is a totally different type of road.

I will be using my own pictures again on a daily or semi-daily basis to illustrate my entries. However, I can't take credit for the one attached to this entry. I'm putting it here to remind myself that love exists and is real and whenever I have doubts I will look at this photo.