A love story in three parts.

Falling
The falling was the easiest part. And, really, it was more like sinking. It was like walking into the ocean’s arms until all that existed was salt water and the ache of breathless lungs. But what an exquisite ache.

The beginning is always easiest. There are no quarrels, no silences stretching into the darkness, no empty words or broken promises. There are passionate kisses in the rain, frenetic love making. There are soft kisses too, evenings spent cuddled together. There are cups of hot cocoa or lemonade.

If you had asked her the moment she fell in love, it would be when he breathed her name against the paper of her skin. The way he said it like a promise.

If you had asked him the moment he fell in love, it would be when she walked out of the bathroom wearing his shirt from the night before. He knew he wanted to wake up next to her every morning for the rest of his life.

Swimming
The middling is richer than the beginning. It has more depth and is full of sweetness. It is a settling; a melding. It is a slow blending of two into one.

She loved making love during these times more than in the beginning. Those were hurried, sometimes awkward. These were slow and delicious, full of the mutual feelings and shared passion.

He loved talking during these times. They had passed the superfluous “getting to know you” chatter and could get to the meat of shared interests and philosophical topics. They sat, entwined, talking for hours about everything.

Swimming along, they resurface from the falling, riding waves as they come. They take their time, enjoying the feelings without the breathless ache and rushing need. Swimming, they sometimes dive deeper than they ever have, touching milestones to guide them back to surface.

Drowning
The end is defined in the moments they can’t take back. These moments are sometimes clearly etched into memory and sometimes forgettable.

The end came without fanfare. There was no straw to break the camel’s back; no warning bells. They simply let go of each other’s hands in the dark, took one last lungful of air and dove too deep to resurface.

She said it had started ending the day they ran out of things to say. The flow of conversation, their never-ending dialogue, became a trickle and then a drip, until it finally stopped altogether. 

He said it was the day they made love and the distance between their fingers seemed to grow shadows and their bodies took up space outside of each other. Separating like lips for a kiss, but never following through. They had blossomed and, just as quickly, they had wilted. No hard feelings, just the memory of oceans.

A Sexual Encounter from the Point of View of a Loveseat

-Twelve hundred dollars and a Pearl Necklace-
He kisses her into my arms; admires my gilt, cream and gold threaded, upholstery. He loves the contrast of her skin against mine. He says so as he slides his hand up her thigh and under her satin slip of a dress. He finds something just as satin and she lets out a gasp of pleasure.

-Venetian and Satin-
Her dress whispers to the floor, intimate as old lovers, and her hips kiss the cushions. Between deep kisses, he notes the plushness. He sighs, blissful, pushing into her and her into me. Her breath comes in short gasps, each one a love letter into my silks. She holds me, shaking.

-Love and Seating-
He cups the curve of her skull, bringing her face closer to his, sharing breaths. Her skin is a blushing umber rose, petals unfolded against cream and gold. She is ripe with need, skin caressing skin until they both begin to burn. When they release, they both cry out in animalistic joy, equally ravaged by waves after waves.

-In years to come, I am a lusty reminder-

The Things We Claim

Flowers in your beard,
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...

Those are the memories I own.

The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...

Those are the things I miss most.

Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...

Those are the things I remember.

Bathing Beauty

Quiet thoughts seem to whisper,

Your love letters never linger;

who am I to you?

Bathe me in kisses soft,

let my heart never break.

Seasons

Summer
Silver smells like Fish.
Slick, shiny, scales shimmering at the bottom of a plastic bucket.

Green smells like the Earth after it Rains.
Great, gray, giants encircling the sky like lovers entwined.

Autumn
Red tastes like Her skin.
Ripe, rich, every touch like satin through my fingers.

Orange sounds like crackling Fire.
Ocherous, over-arching, flames dancing with shadows.

Winter
Blue tastes like Snowflakes.
Basking, bundled, in the snowy sunlight.

Brown tastes like Hot Chocolate.
Brushing, burning, fingers across her face.

Spring
Pink sounds like Her giggles.
Prancing, pleasantly, from her plump lips and perfuming the air.

Yellow feels like Sunshine.
Yawning, young, daffodils stretching out their arms to the sun.

The Meaning of being the Fat Girl

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."

Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.

Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."

Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.

Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.

Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."

Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."

Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."

Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.

Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.

Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?

Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."

Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.

Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.

Kiss Me.

"Kiss me."
He says.

"Break me."
I reply.

Black Tips

Black tips.
French lips.
Luscious hips.
Caressing fingertips.

The Gasp

He held her down, kissing her passionately.
She rocked against him, hands frantic.
He pressed himself into her and delighted in her gasp of pleasure.

Basorexic

I want you to kiss me.

I want you to cradle me in your arms, your lips pressed to mine, just holding me close.
I want our breath to mingle, our soul's trading spaces in our lungs to give us a taste of where we really come from.
I want to taste your whiskey soaked tongue, I want to savour your words, rolling them about in my mouth to get the flavour.
I want to be breathless, all the air rushing out of my lungs in sweet anticipation.

Wrap your arms about my waist, pull me close to you. Your eyes seeing into my windows, flung wide open to embrace your visit. Your heart, is it beating as fast as mine? Is all this sweet disillusion? Shall I regret this in time, or will you return all the feelings that are threatening to bubble over? I am so stuck on your mouth, your hair in my fingers, your body pressed to mine.

This is burning at the back of my throat. I am so out of breath, drowning in my own thirst, out of my mind for just one touch. Please, tell me, do you love me? Would you dare to take me in your arms, or will you leave me standing here, empty-handed? I am gasping in anticipation, begging for some sign or answer to this ill-written prayer. How is it possible to be this dizzy, this dazzled, over you? How is it that I am so lovesick over what you might do?

Kiss me as though there were no other girl, but me. I am so thoroughly disgusted with myself for being so desperate over your mouth, but I cannot escape the thought. I have no desire to stop. Just kiss me, once. Once and I shall float, I shall fly, I shall dissipate into a million sparkling pieces. Must I plead? Must I beg? If so, I will fall on these two knees and give you everything just to hear you say you will.

I want you to kiss me, but I know you never will.

The Boundaries (Trigger Warning)

I have no sexual boundaries. No idea what a healthy sexual relationship entails.
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?

My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.

I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.

The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.

You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."

But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.

And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.

I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

I sit, behind the counter at work,  morosely involved in a tepid novel that I really don't feel like reading. The tea is probably cold, I certainly am. I feel absolutely no motivation to do anything, which is bad when you are at work. The phone rings and I fight the urge to ignore it.

"The Wilde: Rare and Used Books, this is Abra, how may I help you today?" I say, as cheerily as I can, into the old-fashioned rotary phone.

"Yes, I'm looking for a book on mythology. Particularly mythology surrounding humanity's creation." The voice sounds vaguely familiar to me. It tickles at the back of my mind for a moment, like a feather against the base of my skull.

"We have several of those." I remark, flipping back a page in my novel and book-marking it. "Were you looking for one in particular?"

"Do you have anything related to Aristophanes's mythology of three genders?"

"Are you referring to a work by Plato?" I ask, the feather tickle sensation increases.

There is a silence on the other end of the phone and I hear a soft click. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it quizzically. I put it back to my ear a moment, hear the dial tone and then hang it up. The tickling sensation turns into more than aggravation. Laying my book down, I go in search of Plato. I find him, nestled between Socrates and Hypatia of Alexandria, and before I can pick him up I hear the bell for the door.

"Hello," I say, rounding a corner and almost smacking into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

I look up and into the lime colored eyes of Jae. He smiles, his cupid's bow lips seeming to shoot arrows into my heart and I immediately step back.

"Hello." He says, still smiling.

"It was you on the phone?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," he has the gall to look a little sheepish. "I wanted to make sure I had the right book store."

I feel awkward. I don't know what to do. I lace my fingers behind my back and look everywhere but at Jae. He lets me feel awkward, just smiling down at me. After a moment I pluck up my courage, finding it beneath my pancreas hiding, and just start talking.

"Would you like some Nana tea? I have some brewing." I gesture toward the counter and begin moving before he responds.

"I'd love some." he replies, falling in step beside me. I feel wracked with nerves. I step behind the counter and begin pouring the tea. Some of it splashes on my hand, burning it and I drop my cup. Quick as can be, he is behind the counter and pouring some ice water onto a paper towel, pressing it to my hand. He then cleans up the mess I made, leaving me in shock.

"Why are you always here when I need you?" I ask, watching him pick up bits of my broken cup. He doesn't answer at first, merely dumping the shards into the dust bin and wiping up more of the spilled tea. When he stands up, he looks me in the eye and just smiles.

"Why do you always run away from me?" he asks, re-wetting the paper towel for my hand.

"I don't know you that well. You could be a serial killer for all I know."

"Don't you think that I would've killed you by now if I were a serial killer?" he asks, laughing.

"I never said you were a good serial killer." I retort, following him as he goes back to the 'customer' side of the counter.

"You act as though I've never tried to let you get to know me. The complete opposite, m'lady. Every time I try to know you better you run. Why?" He turns toward me and I feel those beautiful eyes as though they were inside of my head.

"I'm afraid." I mumble, looking at my hand. It is only a little red now and barely stings.

"Why are you afraid?" he asks, taking my chin in his hand and lifting my face toward him. I don't resist and look at his ribbon of a mouth.

"Because... I don't know why. I'm just afraid. I'm afraid of your attraction to me. I'm afraid of myself. Afraid in general, I guess. What does it matter to you anyway?"

"You said it yourself, I'm attracted to you. I have some very strong feelings for you. Feelings that I don't fully understand, but are there nonetheless."

"I don't understand." I murmur, my chin still in his hand. My gaze drifts down so that I just stare at his throat. He lifts my chin a little more and my eyes sweep up toward his eyes.

"You don't have to understand it. I see something you don't see." He lets go of my chin and I hear the bell over the door again. I scurry off to greet the newest customer, pretending that I can just forget he's there, waiting. After I direct the customer toward the section they were looking for I return to the counter. I throw the soggy paper towel away and avoid his eyes.

I pick up the book I was reading and carry it back over to a randomly stocked shelf. I continue to avoid any direct eye contact and shuffle back toward the tea pot. He comes around the counter, again, and pours the tea for me. He then goes back to the proper side and looks at me, expectantly.

"What exactly is it that you want?" I ask, irritated that he can make me so flustered.

"Would you be willing to go out for dinner after you get off work?" He sips his tea so nonchalantly. How does he manage to seem so unruffled while I feel like a cat who has been rubbed the wrong direction?

"I don't know. I have plans." I lie. I look up and see something in his eyes before it is gone. He looks at his tea, drinks it down in one go and carefully sets the cup back on the counter. He begins to head toward the door and I come around the counter as if I am going to chase him down. He turns and looks at me, his head tilted slightly to one side.

"I'll come again, some other time." He says.

"When?"

"I always know when you need me, so I suppose the next time you are in need of a friend."

"Wouldn't giving me your number be much easier?" I ask, trying not to sound too eager. He turns and looks at me, his smile suddenly turned devilish.

"I don't have a phone." With that, he winks at me and walks out the door, leaving me with my mouth dropped open.

I go back to the counter and flop down onto my stool. I see what he did, lying in response to my lie. I silently kick myself and then get back to work. It won't do me any good to mope about. He'll either come back or he won't. And I suppose that is an answer in, and of, itself.

Fortunately for my sanity I don't have to wait too long for Jae to come back. He comes in on a Friday morning, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. I look up from my book and give him a questioning look.

"I thought you might like some coffee." he says, scooting a cup toward me. I must look surprised, because his smile widens. "Believe it or not, despite your efforts, I'm trying to court you and that includes bringing coffee to you."

"Why are you trying to court me?" I ask, picking up the cup of coffee and bringing it toward my nose. The smell of vanilla hazelnut makes me drool a little and I take a sip.

"Why do you question it?"

"I question everything." I reply, somewhat haughtily, placing my book on the counter.

"Have you ever seen yourself?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Of course I have!"

"I mean in person. Not in a mirror, not in a photograph."

"No, of course not. How would I be able to do that?"

"Exactly." he says, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Exactly what?" I ask, puzzled beyond all belief.

"You will never understand what it is I see in you because you have never seen yourself from the outside. If you did, you might recognize what it is in you that draws me to you."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just step over to a random book shelf and begin straightening it. I hear him set his coffee down and move toward me. He steps up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My nerves begin to jump, my heart twirling inside my chest so fast that I fear it will burst. He is like a jolt of electricity, cycling through my blood stream, snapping my synapses.

He gently turns me toward him, his face mere inches from mine. I look up into his vibrantly green eyes and my throat tightens. I want to kiss him. I want to let him love me. I'm so tired of fighting a losing battle. I am wildly attracted to him. I have been since we met that first time at the bar. I want to see what it is he sees in me. I want to know him better than I do. I am shocked to discover that I don't just want to sleep with him, even though there is a very strong desire there as well.

"Tell me you want me to kiss you." he whispers, against my lips.

"What if I don't want you to?" I murmur, my eyes never leaving his.

He pulls back a bit, not in anger or hurt or even disappointment. In fact, he smiles at me again.

"Then I won't and I'll wait until you say 'yes.'"

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused and slightly surprised by this reaction. I had expected him to just kiss me anyway, with or without my permission.

"It means I'm willing to wait for you. It means I want you to say 'yes.' I want to know for certain, not just guess. I want you to be comfortable and actually interested in me."

"What if I was to just kiss you? Would you pull away?" I ask, closing a small amount of the distance between us.

"Would you like to find out?" he brings his lips closer to mine, but he continues to hold back. He is so infuriatingly close and, yet, so far.

I don't hesitate in that moment and I kiss his mouth. Something I've wanted to do since we met. He kisses me back, his arms wrapping around me so that I am securely pressed against him. As far as kisses go, this is by far the most amazing I've ever had. When he pulls away, I almost whimper.

"Kiss me," I say, my eyes locked on his. He smiles and obliges me.

After a moment, I pull away, remembering that I am, in fact, at work and my boss might frown on me making out with customers. He smiles at me, he is always smiling, it seems. I take another step back and begin organizing the shelf again. He goes back to the counter and sips at his coffee.

"Would you like to grab a bite to eat after you get off work?" he asks, taking another sip of his coffee.

I don't look at him, but my face is flushed at the thought of spending more time with him and my heart is beating like a high-powered drum. Still not able to look at him, I nod my head. The soles of his shoes scuff the floor as he comes back up behind me. He doesn't try to turn me around, simply holding me from behind. He wraps his arms around me and I feel so completely safe for a moment. He rests his chin on my shoulder for a moment and I turn my head slightly to look at him. He isn't smiling, though he doesn't look unhappy. He seems thoughtful.

Distantly, I hear the music we have playing over the store speakers. I smile at the very last line, the girl asking if his name rhymes with her own, and, for some reason, it makes me giddy. I look at him and wish. Wish for what, I don't know. I just wish. Looking at him, I think of having two faces. I search his to see if I recognize anything of our former incarnation. I don't know if it is my imagination that makes me believe that there is something that I recognize. Not in his face, but in him. Something I recognize and am drawn to.

"Why am I so drawn to you?" I murmur, glancing at his lips and then looking into his eyes. He looks at me, just looks, not speaking. He then looks at the book shelf and I follow his gaze. There are at least five different books he could be looking at and I don't know if he is even looking at the books or if he is just staring off into space.

"I can't speak for your attraction to me," he says, softly, still staring at the books on the shelf. "I can only speak for myself. And I am drawn to you because there is something in you that I recognize. You are someone that I want to be a part of, even if all you want from me is friendship. I want to be close to you, because there is something within you that pulls me in."

He looks back at me, his face mostly somber, though there is a tiny lift to the corner of his mouth. He seems so serious right then, as though he just gave me a promise. I search his face, again, my eyebrows furrowed and I must look just as serious as he does.

"Do you truly believe that I could be your other face? Or is that something you have said to many girls before?" I ask, even though I know that my phrasing is cruel. I bite my lip after I say it, as if I could take it back now. I see the sharp words embed themselves, like so many invisible knives, into his face. I see the moment that it registers in his heart because there is a subtle shift in his eyes and I regret opening my mouth. I start to apologize, but am interrupted by him speaking.

"I have never said that to anyone else. And, if we were to say goodbye today and never say hello again, I would not say it to anyone else, true or not."

He lifts his chin off of my shoulder and there is almost a tangible ache at the sudden weightlessness. As if some piece of myself just separated from me. He goes to grab his coffee and I watch him walk out the door, the chime sounding hollow in my ears. I feel like a bitch and an idiot.

I go over to the counter and find my cell in my purse. I punch in Noah's number, head to the door and flip the "Back in Ten" sign. I pat my pockets, as if I expect to find cigarettes, but quickly stop doing that because I gave up smoking. On the fourth ring I'm about to go and find a gas station, I'm that desperate for a smoke. So much for quitting my self-destructive habits. On the sixth ring I'm about to pitch the phone. On the eigth ring, he answers, sounding very tired.

"Hello?"

"Noah, I'm an idiot." I say, pacing a bit, probably looking like a complete crazy person. Which, I am, but that's beside the point.

"Tell me something I didn't already know." he says. I hear him yawn and I can picture him stretching. I look at my watch, 10:15. I'm supposed to be here until three, this is going to be a long day.

"Were you still asleep?"

"Yes."

"I would say I'm sorry, but you called me an idiot." I can't help but smile, considering how many times he has done the same thing to me.

"To be fair, you set me up for it. What did you do now?"

"I insulted Jae." I can practically hear him perk up through the phone at the name.

"Jae? Who is Jae? Please tell me you aren't starting up another self-destructive sexual binge again."

"I'm not! Well, I'm not trying to anyway. Jae is the really cute Korean that kissed me in the cafe. You remember, I asked him about a pizza and a fuck."

"And you insulted him? How and why and was it deserved?" Noah sounds more and more awake by the moment, I can hear the sounds of coffee percolating and fuzzy slippers shuffling.

"It wasn't deserved. It was by accident and I opened my mouth. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from."

"You've become jaded." He says that so matter-of-factly that I am speechless for a moment.

I glance at my watch again and wish I'd just closed for lunch. That would've been better. But who eats lunch at 10:something in the morning?

"Well, I think I'm going to be alone after work, do you want to go grab a bite to eat? I need to talk about this more, but I need to get back."

"Yeah, what time?"

"Meet me around 2:45? I am trading off with another girl at three, but she's always early."

We confirm our plans and I hang up, heading back into the store. Nothing to do now, but wait until three. There's nothing I can do about Jae right now.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

"That's the last of it." says Clark, carrying a box marked "kitchen" into the living room of my new apartment. I glance up from a box marked "bathroom" and smile.

"You're a peach, Clark." I say, standing up and stretching. "Its a little smaller than I anticipated, but its a nice place, don't you think?"

"Are you sure this was a good idea? I feel like you're so far away. What if something happens?"

"I appreciate the concern, but I'll be fine. I'm fifteen minutes from you and twenty minutes from Noah. The police station is down the street and I can walk to the hospital. I'll be fine!" I give him a hug and, when I got to kiss his cheeck, he gives me a kiss on the mouth. He holds me there for a moment and I wish, not for the first time, that I could fall in love with him. Our mouths disengage and I rest my head on his chest.

"I still love you, you know. I wish you felt the same." A sigh rumbles up from his chest and I can't help but sigh too.

"I wish that wishing made it so," I say, gently pulling myself from his embrace so that I can look into his eyes. "I care for you, Clark, and I value our friendship, but I am just not in love with you. I keep telling myself to, but I can't force feelings that aren't there. And its unfair to you if I pretend."

He is quiet for a moment. Perhaps internalizing what I said. Once the moment passes, he gives me a, slightly wilted, smile and then begins to open random boxes. I follow suit and pick up a box that says "bedroom" before going down the hallway of my new apartment.

Once in the bedroom, I set the box down and flop onto my queen sized mattress. Snuggles is still at Clark's until everything is set up and I miss him dreadfully at the moment. Am I an idiot for not falling in love with Clark? He has a good job, he is a sweetheart, he knows me better than any other guy I've dated, including David. Since we broke up I've introduced him to everyone as my friend and my family approves of him. Hell, Noah loves him. If he were able to be persuaded to that team, I wouldn't have the option to be in love with him or not, Noah would eat him up.

"Hey, Abe, where do you want this box of 'miscellaneous'?" Clark calls down the hall.

"Give me a moment, I'll be right there." I call back. I sit up and push up off the bed. Looking around, I feel like I am beyond all the self-destruction. Or so I tell myself.

I return to the living room and plop down on the floor in front of an unmarked box. I begin sorting out the miscellaneous bits my existence, trying to sort out myself in the process. Clark is quiet and just puts dishes in the dishwasher.

"The king of unpacking has arrived!" says Noah, as he glides into the apartment. Clark and I look up and smile. Clark less so than me.

"Don't you two look like a pair of gloomy gussies." says Noah, plopping down next to a big box marked "books."

"Well, we'll be rays of sunshine now that you're here." I say, feigning happiness.

"Obviously not all is well in Brokenheartsville. What's the matter?"

"This isn't 'Brokenheartsville.'" I say. "Its 'Get-your-heart-backsville.''

Before Noah can say anything else I jump up and decide to make some lunch. I smile warmly at my friends and then decide to make something extra special.

"How about I make lunch while you guys open some of the boxes?" I ask, dusting myself off.

"Sounds great!" says Noah. "What are you making?"

"Don't know yet, but it'll be delicious." I reply, smiling.

"Picasso of the kitchen." says Clark, beaming. I feel myself blush a bit at the obvious pride in his voice. I knew he always admired my cooking, I just didn't realize he was that proud of my abilities.

"Let's just hope its as good as a Picasso." I say, winking at him.

For lunch I make, what I call, a pomme and pomegranate fruit salad, spicy beef lo mein and mini passionfruit tarts. Before handing them out, I generously top the tarts with whipped cream and even spray a little on Clark. He roars with laughter and tries to reach the bit stuck on his nose with his tongue. It doesn't work and we all collapse in a fit of giggles before finally straightening up enough to eat. We all gather around my coffee table, seated on pillows and eat.

Once all the furniture is arranged and the TV mostly set up, Noah and Clark decide to head to their respective homes. Clark promises to bring Snuggles over later on this evening and gives me a peck on the cheek before leaving. I stare at the door for five minutes, as if I expect it to do something. As if I expect Annabelle to walk through the door, smoking her fancy cigarettes, the words of her story written in the scars on her body. I suddenly crave a cigarette. My skin crawls with the thought, my stomach threatening to purge all the delicious food and I run to the bathroom.

Annabelle comes up my throat and the little notes she left me beat against my skull. I close my eyes and I can see her pale face rising up behind my eyelids. I'm not okay.

I feel incredibly alone. More alone than I have felt in a long time. I block it out by emptying all of my boxes into the middle of the floor. My life, scattered, all over the floor seems almost symbolic. If I wrote poetry I might pause to take this moment in and pack it up in a notebook on a dusty shelf. Instead I sit in the midst of my created chaos and wonder why I do these things to myself.

When Clark stops by with Snuggles, he discovers me still sitting in the midst of my mess. He sets the cat carrier down, mindful to free Snuggles first, and comes over to me, concern written into every pore of his face. I've become maudlin in my insanity.

"Are you alright?" he asks, dropping to one knee, just outside the circle of wreckage.

"I'm fine." I sigh, letting my voice tremble a bit more than I intend to.

"You are not." he says, pushing stuff out of the way. He makes a path to me, as though he were Moses parting the red sea. I let him scoop me into his embrace. I let him worry over me like a mother hen. I don't protest when he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. He doesn't try anything sexual, though I know he would like to. I know he misses me. I miss him too, in my own pitiable way. Instead he curls up with me and I say a lot of the things I've been trying so hard to keep inside.

"What am I going to do, Clark?" I ask, avoiding his eyes and staring at his lips.

"Maybe you should get into therapy. It would do you good to talk about these things in a professional setting."

I prop myself up on one elbow and finally look into his lavender colored eyes. I know he is right. I still haven't spoken to anyone about what happened with Liam or Annabelle. Adam didn't even know all that happened with Liam, only what he stumbled upon at the club. I don't say anything. I just stare off into the space between his eyes. He doesn't try to reclaim my attention, though I can feel him studying my face. He runs his fingers through my hair, before he hugs me tightly.

After a couple of days, once I have my apartment completely situated, I decide to go out. I find myself standing in front of "Alice's Wonderland," like I have so many times before. My breath hitches somewhere in my ribcage, a feeling I've become far too used to. However, very unlike my previous self, I do not trip on the way into the bar. Instead I almost strut, letting a false sense of pride fill my chest. I order a cocktail and sip at it for a moment before I decide to dance. I don't see anyone I recognize here. I almost wish I did. I search for Jae, but don't see him anywhere. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

After my third or fourth drink I am approached by a cute guy. He gives me some name that begins with "J" and asks me to dance. I take his profered hand and we dance for a little while before I invite him back to my place. I'm not sure how we make it there, but we do and we collapse into my bed for a less than stellar romp.

I wake up feeling disgusting and overwhelmed by my actions.

Crisp sheets, clean and white, that's what I want. The sterile feel of hospital or hotel sheets. Sheets that don't smell like cologne. Sheets that aren't rumpled from sex. Sheets that are devoid of memories. Sitting on my own bed, I hug my pillow and wish I could be wrapped in those imagined sheets.

Looking around, I realize my room is a disaster, I am a disaster, even Snuggles seems to be a bit disheveled. Well, as disheveled as a cat can get. My floor is littered with condom wrappers and a couple bottles of vodka. The guy next to me snores, loudly. I run my fingers through my "sex hair" (or is it more "bed-head?") and take a second look around.

My bra and panties have been thrown onto the vanity and they are hanging, like haphazard Christmas tree ornaments, on the mirror. Last night's dress is in a crumpled heap of pink and white, topped with a muddy shoe like some neopolitan dessert. His clothes are just as scattered; his belt is hanging on a chair, jeans in a pile by the bed, shoes God only knows where.

I drop my head into my hand, not for the first time, questioning my judgement. Hell, questioning my sanity at this point. I don't remember if we had sex or if we are just naked for no reason. Do I even remember this poor fool's name? Straining, I try to think of it. Was it Jake? Josh? Jay?

At that last, I think of Jae. I think of him kissing me in the cafe. How long ago was that? I think of the time he rescued me at the bar and I think of him at the graveyard after Annabelle's funeral. When was the last time I saw him?

I remember then, with painful clarity, the cafe he took me too. I remember him saying I could be his other face. I remember walking out and getting wasted. That's how I've spent the past year or so of my life. Getting wasted. Getting fucked. Getting more and more obsessed with the belief that I am somehow worthless because the man I loved for ten years never really loved me.

I flop back onto my pillow, startling the man next to me into a bleary-eyed state of awareness.

"Hi." I say, looking at him casually.

"Hey." he murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm Abra, in case you had forgotten. I hate to admit this, since you are in my bed, but what is your name again?"

"Jared." he replies, nonchalantly. He rubs his eyes again and stretches.

"Nice to meet you. I knew it began with a 'J.'" I stand up and begin pulling on clothing. I try to do so in a nonchalant manner, but I am really wishing that we weren't in my house and that we had gone to his place instead. I could make a fast get-away and not worry about him knowing where I live. I wonder why I've never worried about this before, shaking my head.

He sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair. He has a nice smile, but that doesn't make me any happier with myself.

"I don't mean to be rude," I start. He holds up a hand and smiles again.

"Its cool. I don't mind leaving." He gets dressed and I walk him to the door. He kisses my cheek, winks at me and then heads down the stairs toward the main entrance. I close the door slowly and try to imagine breakfast into being. I give up after a moment and settle for a cup of strong tea.

In Defense of Short Hair

To the frat boy who seems to think that short hair automatically makes a woman ugly,

In case you haven't looked in the mirror recently, you aren't such a peach yourself.

I promised myself that I wouldn't stoop to your level, because that would be insulting to ME. And my mother used to say "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all." However, my mother also taught me to stand up for what I believe is right. So, instead of letting you continue, I'm going to stop you right there and I won't let you finish.

Boys (I wouldn't call you a man, because real MEN don't act the sexist pig) like to claim that sexism doesn't exist. And, if it does, it is most definitely MISANDRY, because Feminists are all man-hating bull dykes who make it impossible for a perfectly nice man to live with his simple pleasures. Feminists come in and ruin a perfectly good party or a perfectly good lay or a perfectly good "dumb blonde" joke because they're ugly and can't get a man.

The funny thing is that the term "feminist" is not limited to women of a homosexual nature. In fact, there are a lot of MEN (there's that word again and, no, it doesn't mean what YOU think it means) and women of varying sexual orientation, skin color and beauty make up the word. You think you can set limits, but in reality, it has to do with a collective conscience. All of us, who are living in the 21st century, realize that NONE of us are EQUAL until ALL of us are EQUAL. Meaning, that women should be able to *gasp* cut their hair, shave or not shave, dress how they want, etc. All things that men have been able to do.

And yes, Misandry does exist! It exists because BOYS believe that MEN can't express any feminine traits without being "gay," "pussy-whipped" or "weak." Misandry exists because BOYS don't know how to be MEN and they live like petulant assholes for the rest of their lives.

So, welcome to the 21st Century. Believe it or not Women can do any of the following:

* Vote
* Have Sex with WHOMEVER THEY PLEASE
* Dress how they want
* CUT THEIR HAIR
* Drive
* Have as many children as they want
* Go where they want
* Read
* Write
* Not shave their legs, privates or under-arms
* Own their own property
* Get a divorce from an asshole who thinks cutting their hair makes them ugly

Sincerely,
The Girl whose Husband helped her cut her hair short, because she wanted it that way, and who is still beautiful despite your stupidity.

Useless Lump of Flesh

She opens the door to find you, naked, in bed with another man. As soon as you see her, you begin to shrivel. The red hot lust, that roller-coaster pumping through your veins, you felt a mere moment ago also wilts and is replaced with disgust and shame. You cover yourself in a half-hearted, and vain, attempt to change what she sees.

Her eyes, tear bright with betrayal, seem to take in every detail. She lingers on your, unconvincing, modesty before drifting to the blatant arousal of your chosen partner. Those eyes, so full of pain and a flicker of hope, move back to you. They are filled with the hope that you'll find some way to undo the damage being done.

Pissed off, at her, at yourself, at the world; you stand up and grab her arm. Steering her away from the door frame, you drag her into the kitchen. You throw her arm towards her, as if it were diseased, and you wipe your hands against your skin. Absently, you note you are still nude and you hear the distinct click of the bedroom door closing.

"You weren't supposed to be home until next week." you hiss. You sound angry, accusing, as if this is somehow her fault. You act as if the situation were reversed and you just walked in on her. Its her fault you feel ashamed and sick with self-loathing. Its her fault for being too pretty, too perfect. Its her fault that you can't maintain in bed, your manhood like a lifeless lump of flesh in her hands. Its her fault you were in bed with another man. It is her fault.

"I... I missed you..." she stutters, tears falling down her, stupidly, pretty face. You want to slap the tears off her face and give her a true reason to cry. You want to be the man who kisses away her tears at the same moment. You just stand there, angry and out of sorts. She wipes a tear away with her sleeve, unable to look at you. You can almost feel those tears stabbing into you like accusing darts.

You don't say anything, though a self-destructive, and false, righteousness rises out of the ashes of your withered libido. You push her up against the counter and you kiss her, crushing her lips with yours. She gasps between those hard kisses, struggling against you only a moment before she begins to return the kiss. You feel her hand begin to stray between your legs and you flip her around, bending her over the counter.

You stop then, anger rising anew, and you grasp a fistful of her hair and drag her toward the door. You fling it open and throw her out onto the grass, where she lands, unceremoniously. Retreating to the bedroom you retrieve her forgotten luggage and proceed to chuck it out on the lawn with her. You slam the door, lock it and collapse in a heap on the, spotless, linoleum floor.

When you stand up, you glance out of the window and see that she is gone. A soft clearing of the throat brings your attention back to the man you were in bed with. He is dressed and holding himself in an aloof way. He almost seems to be looking down on you, even though you are about the same height. You know he won't stay, not now, not after that. You hold up a hand, as if to stop his excuses from becoming words that can't be taken back. Holding yourself as straight as possible, you unlock and open the door for him. He doesn't even look at you as he exits and you don't bother to say anything.

You go to your room, sit on the bed, and bury your face in your hands.

Seventeen

You stifle a giggle. Not because you are happy, but because you are nervous. You hate this about yourself, almost as much as your jiggly thighs and extra belly flab. There a lot of things you hate about yourself, besides your nervous giggles and fat. There are things you are too ashamed to admit because you've always been told they are wrong or because you so desperately want to fit in. Some of this has led to cutting yourself, some of it to the drinking, some of it to the thoughts you are afraid to even admit to yourself.

You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.

Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.

You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.

He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.

You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.

You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.

But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.

Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.

You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.

The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.

He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.

The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.

Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.

You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.

You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.

She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.

In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.

This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.

One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.

You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.

You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.

You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.

It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.

It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.

Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.

You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.

You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.

Maybe there are words

Maybe there are words, somewhere,
that can explain this bubbling,
overflowing, always rolling ball of
emotions.

Kiss me; like we're stuck in traffic.
Like the stars are watching,
jealous and anticipating.

Take your time with me.
Stop and go,
drive me to the edge of this, insanity,
we call LOVE.

Let me dangle from your heart strings,
long enough to realize yours
are the only arms I want to catch me.

Let me go.
Let me fall into your abyss,
looking long, like Nietzsche,
And yours are the only wishes I could fulfill.

I want to be sacrificed on the altar of your bed,
laid open by this intensity we call sexuality,
reality,
love and inside out clarity.

I want to be inside out,
exposed like bleeding hearts and
cardiac attacks against broken ribs.

Kiss me like mine are the last lips,
speaking bad poetry.
Beatrice and Benedict,
arguing and mouths stopped with kisses.

I want you to WANT me.

Go slow so that I am begging for more,
ravenous and anxious,
going out of my mind,
but finding myself in your mirrors.

And maybe I want you to stop me,
stop my verbal flailing,
my constant navigating through rhymes and reasons,
with a kiss that will stand my hair on end
and melt me down to my basic components.

Kiss me slowly,
as if God were looking the other way
and we don't need him anyway.

Ravage me,
let my desires drip from your tongue,
like honey is the only cum
and we aren't two people having sex,
but we're the last two cellists
baring our skin to play music with our souls
and the notes are tattooed on our fingers
and our lips.

And yours is the only bow to caress my strings,
the only flute to my voice.
The only breath in my lungs,
building up to an explosion.

You're the explosion about to collapse my lungs
with pleading for mercy and begging for more.
You're the scissors about to cut my life short
with verbs and forbidden nouns,
kisses that wrack my body
and leave me a whisper in your heart.

Kiss me to life.
Simply and with nothing to hide.
And I will blossom in the garden of your arms.

Come Find Me.

You are effervescent, filled to the brim with bubbles and champagne. The man across the room has noticed your peach colored tea dress and mint julep eyes. You blush and take another sip of your drink. When you chance another look, he winks. You fake a saucy smile, though you suspect it is more of a frightened wince, and smoothly slip onto the balcony.

The night is light and crisp, a million candles burning in the windows of the sky. You rest your elbows against the railing and let your eyes wander across a different type of sky. The lights from the city are doing their best to dim the candles in the sky with their fancy electric glow. The stars, ancient in their wisdom, simply are; with no need of fuss or proof of their worth. You, however, do not contemplate the struggle of new against ancient. Nor do you really notice the bright faux starlight of the city. You are imagining a kiss from the man inside.

As if he heard your thoughts, he slips out of the crowded apartment and comes to stand beside you. You play calm, though your nerves are jangling like sleigh bells. To bolster your, quickly failing, nerves, you take a sip of your champagne. You dare a glance at him, your eyes sweeping over his starlit face. He takes a sip of his martini and sighs.

"Its a lovely night," you venture, as nonchalantly as possible.

"Yes." he replies, though you can barely hear him over your pounding heart.

You take another sip of your champagne, desperately trying to find a topic to fill the silence. Thinking of nothing, you sigh and glance longingly at the door.

"If you are uncomfortable," he says. "I would be willing to go back inside. I did not mean to intrude."

He turns to go and you reach out to him. In the space of a moment, you find yourself engulfed in his strong arms with his lips pressed to yours. He smells of hyacinths and he tastes like spiced rum. Your fingers slowly twine themselves in his black and silvered hair. You hold him as close as possible, your hips pressed to his without being sexual. But, oh, how you wish it would be that way.

When he tries to pull, you pull him back to you. He smiles, the bow of his lips delicately enunciating his sharp canines. You recognize the hunger in his eyes and are suddenly wary. His hands stop, just above your hips, and the pressure of his fingers is almost maddening. You abandon your misgivings and kiss him, thoroughly. He lets a small moan escape his lips, pushing you to near frenzy.

He nibbles on your right ear, trailing kisses down your neck to your shoulder. He nips the spot where your neck meets shoulder, then tenderly sucks on it.

"Your place or mine?" he asks, breathily. You note, with keen arousal, that he will have to wait before you return to the party.

"Mine." you say, your hand drifting toward the prize, but stopping just before it is reached. He lets out a frustrated whimper and you kiss him once more before darting into the apartment.

You flash your friends a knowing smile before slipping off your heels and leaving through the front door. If you time it just right, you'll reach the elevator as he exits the party. It will take a moment, but he'll head toward the elevator and it will close just as he gets to it.

You fly towards the elevator, your bare feet a whisper of sound against the carpet. You giggle when you enter the elevator and see him coming toward you.

"Let's play Cinderella," you say, tossing a heel to him as the doors close. You press a button and whisper to yourself. "Come find me."

As the elevator descends to the first floor you imagine the look on his face. He had barely had time to register confusion before the doors had closed.He is the first to catch your shoe as it flew through the doors. Usually they are too stunned to catch it before it hits the floor, shattering into a million beautiful pieces. The game is over at that point, much to your disappointment. This one, however, has started the game with promise.

You glance at your bracelet watch as the hour hand touches midnight. This New Year should be interesting if he follows further than the front desk. You permit yourself a smile before exiting the elevator and heading toward the lobby.

One glass slipper in hand, you push through the revolving door and hail a taxi. The doorman wishes you a good night as you slip him a tip and a note for the young gentleman to follow. You wink, conspiratorially, at the doorman and climb into your taxi.

You twist in your seat just in time to see him rush out of the revolving doors, your slipper still in hand. He tries to flag your driver down, but for an extra tip he speeds on. You see the note exchange hands before you settle in your seat and enjoy the ride.

Bisexual Bias

Dear Sir,
In regards to your article "Bisexual bias" in the IDS, I would like to say a few things.

"I’ve had a saying for a few years now. Bisexuals are like unicorns. You really want them to exist. But they just don’t."
1. Comparing a bisexual person to unicorns is mostly, if not entirely, ridiculous.
There are many cases in which unicorns can have existed, thus leading one to believe that you are saying bisexual homo sapiens do, in fact, exist.

Examples: If we were to go completely old school Biblical on the matter, if you are one who believes in the Bible, you would find there are several verses involving the unicorn. This might lead one to believe that you were saying that bisexuals at one time existed, but don't any longer. For your in-depth research (which I am sure you did for your article) verses involving unicorns can be found in the KJV Bible, said verses being: Numbers 23:22, Job 39:9, Psalms 29:6, Job 39:10, Numbers 24:8 and Psalms 92:10.

Or, if you don't believe in the Bible, we can look at the Narwhal, oft considered the Unicorn of the Sea or any other animal with one horn.
   *The word "unicorn" stems from early 13th century Old French "unicorne" and from Late Latin "unicornus" meaning, quite literally, "having one horn." Uni- meaning "one" plus cornus meaning "horn." If we go with this, that means that anything having one horn is considered a unicorn, making them quite real in the etymological sense of the word.

I'm sure, however, that you meant them in the purely fairy tale sense of the word, being a horse with a lion's tail, a single horn protruding from its head and a billy goat's beard (or, if you prefer, Pliny's version: a creature with a horse's body, deer's head, elephant's feet, lion's tail, and one black horn two cubits long projecting from its forehead). Or maybe you meant it in the allegorical sense, which was used as a tool by the Christians to teach morals. Such morals being that a Unicorn can only be tamed by a virgin (virgin in almost any sense of that word), the Unicorn being Christ in certain tales. And dire consequences for those who pretended to be virgin as they were skewered on the horn of the beast. That doesn't seem to fit quite as neatly as your original simile, but if we're talking of backwards philosophies it seems to fit quite nicely.

"It’s very difficult in our society to believe in something as free-spirited as bisexuality."
2. It also seems very difficult, in our society, to believe in Love and Marriage being uninhibited by things such as age, sexual preferences, gender, race, religion, etc. Love is apparently tethered to concrete ideas and laws. "Free-spirited" makes it sound as though it is a childish thing. Sexuality isn't an idea that we follow, like the Flower Power movement. Sexuality is not Hippies in the summer of '69. It is a deep and personal thing, grounded in one's sense of self. It is something we all find inside of ourselves. It is longing to be with another person in the most intimate way, sharing bodies and things that no one wants to talk about because they are "shameful."  And that longing is not restrained by your narrow view of the world.

"it’s threatening. For heterosexuals and homosexuals, we have to contend with only being attracted to half of the population. Those odds aren’t terrific. For someone who’s bisexual, the world is their genital oyster. It’s actually a very picturesque image. Men, women, who cares? I’m attracted to everyone."
3. I don't understand this part at all. You say it is threatening, bisexuality that is, but don't explain how it is threatening. How does bisexuality threaten your sexuality in any way? Truly, I'm curious. Explain to me, without Biblical or personal biases, how Bisexuality is threatening in any way, shape or form. You then say that the world is a "genital oyster." That is, not only, a vile pictorial image, but also shows just how little you understand about sexuality in general.

Yes, sexuality does, often involve, genitalia. However, there is so much more to sexuality than just sex. Sexuality is a strong basic instinct, a need, a desire, an attraction. It involves emotions and physical sensations. It can be impacted by the atmosphere one grows up in. It will never leave you. It is a key part of one's identity.

You make it sound almost as if sex meant nothing except, simply, getting one's rocks off. As if a bisexual is a selfish or greedy being for being attracted to more than one sex. Bisexuality is an attraction to either gender, that is true. But often the attraction is deeper than sexual. One can be attracted to anyone; beyond their gender, religion, sexual preferences, age, race, cultural background, etc. And what one finds sexually attractive doesn't even have to be human. There are those who are sexually attracted a person's mind or even inanimate objects. Wherever humans are involved there is no strict definition for sexuality. No strict definition for anything. We are more than the limits placed on us by other, simpler, creatures.

You say that "Those odds aren't terrific" when speaking of being "only" attracted to half of the population. Being attracted to only a man or only a woman isn't terrible. The odds are fine. In fact, when did odds even enter the picture? You make it sound like a race. As if we are all in a race with one another to see who is more attracted to who. It isn't a race. It isn't a game. There are no "odds." There are only people. People who love and hate, create and destroy, write good articles and shitty ones.

"Now, I am not bisexual."
4. Clearly.

"I also can’t assert assurance on things like Bigfoot, John F. Kennedy’s assassination or the contention of Jesus’ divinity."
5. I cannot say, with certainty that Bigfoot does or does not exist. JFK was, in fact, assassinated, though by whom is still up for debate. And whilst Jesus did exist, I cannot say with certainty that he was divine. However, I also can't say with certainty when we will die. I can't say that Coca Cola is the superior of all carbonated beverages. Nothing in this life is particularly certain. Truth is defined by who is looking at it, not by what it actually is.

"The real issue has to do with the male psyche and sexuality."
6. Yes, yes it does. At last, something we agree on! It DOES have to do with the Male psyche and sexuality. Men are generally insecure about their sexuality, no matter their preferences. Everything about sex makes one insecure. The length and width of his organ, whether he is doing well, how quickly he can reach orgasm, etc. Men are generally quite insecure with anything having to do with their own emotions and their being as well. I have yet to meet a man who is completely secure with being emotionally honest. Does that mean that he doesn't exist somewhere? Does that mean I am going to have to start writing wildly inaccurate articles on male emotions?

"The same notion just doesn’t extend to heterosexual women. You’d be hard pressed to find a straight woman finding the same sexual stimulation from watching two men go at it."
7. You, sir, clearly have never met a woman willing to talk about being aroused by two men "going at it" as you so delicately put it. I myself enjoy watching two men fornicate, kiss, etc. I find it arousing when a man kisses another man. The funny thing is that you would be "hard pressed" to find a straight woman who is NOT aroused by two men having sexual intercourse. There are numerous articles you can find about straight female arousal whilst watching male on male pornography, but I'm assuming you didn't actually try to find any. Your whole article suggests a lack of study on the topic at hand.

To quote a poster on one of the response brought up by my searches: "What I find hilarious, is that so many straight men assume that women don't find it erotic, just because THEY [men] don't."

"But after years of men grind stoning women’s sexuality to the fine powder it is today, why should anyone be the wiser? Two women going at it? Crack a beer and enjoy. Two men going at it? Ultimate party foul. It’s typically pretty hard to party once the gay bomb drops."
8. I don't understand that first sentence at all. "But after years of men grind stoning women's sexuality to the fine powder it is today," what does that even mean? Did you even edit this before posting it to such a public forum? And what do you mean by "grind stoning women's sexuality"?

Two women are having sex with one another and this is suddenly a party? Do men do that? They all get together and watch lesbian porn whilst drinking beer? Someone puts in a gay porno and then all bets are off? "Gay bomb?" Truly, your word choice is ridiculously childish.

"I can’t begin to believe in bisexuality in a society where men’s sexuality isn’t nearly as fluid as women’s."
9. The problem with men's sexuality being fluid has nothing to do with whether or not bisexuality exists, but lies (once again) with the male psyche. Men seem to have this preconceived notion that it is unacceptable for them to be bisexual. Out of all the homosexual and heterosexual men I have met it comes down to this idea that they have to choose. That there is no "this" and "that." It is all "this" OR "that." It astounds me, actually, the number of men who find some other men attractive, but won't do anything with that attraction because they also find women attractive. That is definitely a problem with today's society, you are correct on that part. Society says it is totally wrong to think or exist outside of the sexuality box it has created for us.

"Recently in Hollywood, loads of successful women have come out as bisexual."
10. Hollywood is DEFINITELY a good place to look for reality and facts. Plenty of people will say whatever it takes to become famous or to have the spotlight shine a bit brighter on them. That doesn't make it fact.

"But the future may be bright. Frank Ocean is one example of a successful man who’s admitted to having a relationship with a man."
11. I find it sad that the final breath of your article is a sarcastic, and pithy, "Men in the limelight aren't bisexual so no one can be bisexual."

I am a bisexual woman. I am proud of my sexuality and who I am as a person. I have a loving husband and a wonderful girlfriend. I can't imagine going through my life without either of them. There is more to my being attracted to them than their gender. More to my love for them than their genitalia. Its people like yourself, that raise the banners of prejudice and bias against what you don't understand and don't bother to understand.

sincerely,
Sarai.

Omphalos: Chapter One: Carly

Dominic Adams and I met at a party. A New Year's party, to be specific, hosted by my best friend, Aurora.

"Carly, you have to meet this guy!" she said. Her green eyes were sparkling from more than just the champagne.

"No, Rory. Not another set-up. I want to start this new year right. Single." I sipped my drink and avoided her eyes.

"Oh come on, Carly! He's a peach! A real gentleman. And he is so handsome! Plus, he is Irish." She nudged me with her elbow and winked. "At least let me introduce you!"

"You sound so old fashioned, Rory. A 'peach'?"

"It's the perfect description of him though. He is sweet and absolutely delicious looking." She winked at me, again.

"Fine, fine. But only so you  stop pestering me about it." I sighed.

I let her drag me, by my elbow, across the room to meet this guy. This would be the fourth guy she had "introduced" me to in the past year. Ever since Andrew, my Scottish knave, deserted me, she had been bringing me any cute European guy she could find. I was beginning to get tired of it, thinking maybe Europe and I were not meant to be. All the other gents (Roderick, Ambrose, Donovan and Keegan, respectively) had been boring and incredibly self-centered. I was in no mood to meet another "gentleman."  However, though I acted differently, I was not disappointed with what I saw.

Dominic had black hair and vivid blue eyes; a Pierce Brosnan look-alike in a leather jacket. Besides his jacket he was wearing ripped blue jeans and a t-shirt that hugged the curves of his sculpted muscles. I couldn't help but gawk. He was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. Unlike his predecessors.

"Dominic, this is my friend, Carly. Carly, this is Dom." said Rory. He took my hand in a firm, but gentle, handshake.

"Nice to meet you." he said. He had a slight Irish brogue and, though I tried to hide it, I melted a little bit. We shook hands for at least a minute, eyes locked and electricity sparking like lightning between us.

I had never believed in love at first sight. I thought it was a pretty fairy tale told to naive school girls. I was resisting the urge to call it love. Inwardly calling myself ridiculous and silly. However, as corny as it sounds, I fell for him immediately. His voice, his whole stance, everything was drawing me in. I told myself it could be a trap, but I completely ignored that voice and continued to revel in the feel of his hand on mine.

Aurora cleared her throat and gave me an "I told you so" look. We let go, leaving me feeling sheepish. He grinned, rather foolishly, and we stood awkwardly, not speaking, for a few minutes.

"Would you like to go out onto the balcony?" he asked, gesturing toward the French double doors of Aurora's apartment. I could only nod meekly, too shy to speak. He took my hand and began to lead me toward the outside. I turned, slightly, to look at Rory. She gave me a thumbs up and smiled. I turned back toward Dom and allowed him to open the door and usher me out onto the balcony.

It was chilly, snow lying like powdered sugar all over everything, and we were the only ones on the porch. It was clear outside, in spite of the snow, the moon hanging low on the horizon and a million glittering stars scattered across the darkness like fallen diamonds. A shooting star raced across the sky, just above the New York skyline. It was like a sign. This was fate, right?

"Make a wish." he whispered, coming up behind me. I didn't realize I was shivering until he wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He was so forward, so touchy-feely, so sexy. I had to remind myself to breathe. I couldn't wish for a more perfect moment.

"Did you make a wish?" I asked, looking back and up into his beautiful blue eyes.

"No need." he said, winking. I blushed, flattered and feeling a little like swooning.

"How long have you been in New York?" I asked. I was trying to start a real conversation, get to know him better before I jumped into bed with him. My brain said "This is easy" and my heart said "Skip the chit-chat." He made it very difficult to think.

"A year and a half now." he replied. "I've been in the states six years, but I've always wanted to see New York. So I hitch-hiked my way here, doing small jobs to get by. I lived in Seattle, Denver, Indianapolis, DC and finally made it here."

"Sounds interesting." I said, more than a little awestruck by his wandering. I had always wanted to back-pack across Europe and he had back-packed across America. "What are you doing for work now?"

"I've been working for Macy's six months now. Before that I worked for an art magazine in Soho. I'm also attending school, trying to get a degree of some sort."

"What did you do for the magazine?" I asked, my curiosity peaking.

"I was an arts editor. I decided what was and was not art. Apparently my opinions were no longer desired and I quit."

"What kind of degree are you wanting to get?"

"I'd love to be an art critic, or an actual artist. In the meantime however, I'm studying business."

"What made you decide to move to America?" I asked, a little timidly.

"I actually moved for my girlfriend. She got a job here and we decided to make a go of it." He looked at me, very intently, gauging my response.

I pulled away from him, slightly disgusted with myself for allowing his behaviour, knowing he had a girlfriend. I knew it had to be some sort of trap, he was too perfect to be available. At least that is what I thought at the time.

"You have a girlfriend and you act like this with strange women?" I asked, indignantly.

"We broke up. Shortly after I moved here, in fact. She had found someone better and she was never that interested in hiking."

"How old were you when you decided to move here?" I asked, trying to recover from my rudeness.

"Eighteen. She was twenty, then."

Slightly ashamed of my knee-jerk reaction without any explanation, I allowed him to pull me back to him. We were quiet for a few moments; pondering the beauty of the night sky, our feelings, our conversation. He held me closer than he had before, as if my reaction had confirmed his first impression of me. I wouldn't know until later why that was.

I forget how long we stood there, in the snow and chill. For most of it we stood quietly, staying warm by being pressed against each other. We chatted a little more, though I can't honestly remember what half of it was about. We stood there long enough that I heard the countdown to midnight begin inside Rory's apartment. He turned me towards him, pressed against his chest, and, as they said one, he kissed me.

In my head there were explosions of pleasure. In my memory of that night I will always see Cary Grant and Grace Kelley kissing with the fireworks exploding behind them. He made me weak and, if it was possible, even more attracted to him. I wanted to take him home and curl up with him like a good book. Of course, I wouldn't be reading when we curled up.

Rory opened one of the doors, interrupting our moment. I pulled away quickly, blushing furiously. He smiled, his grin quirky and slightly flustered. His hands moved in front of himself, hiding any growing evidence of attraction. I grabbed Rory's arm and steered her back inside.

"It's a little too cold out on the porch, don't you think?" She whispered, smiling wickedly.

"Hush!" I exclaimed, flustered with arousal and embarrassment. "This is your fault anyway, you are the one that introduced us!"

"I wasn't quite expecting you to move so fast. Especially not on my balcony." she replied, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She nodded toward the door and I looked over to see Dom coming back inside. He smiled at me, even as he began a conversation with another girl. I felt a surge of jealousy that he would be talking to someone else, especially after that show stopping kiss. Leaving Rory smirking, I sauntered over to Dom and put an arm around his waist, pulling him as close to me as possible.

I smiled, a feral smile, at the girl he was talking to and she quickly excused herself to the restroom. Once she was gone, I smiled again, this time sweetly.

"Would you like to escort me back to my apartment? I live in Greenwich Village and I'd rather not go alone."

He apparently liked this idea and I winked at Rory as we left, arm in arm. When we arrived at my apartment, instead of jumping into bed, we ended up staying up until eight in the morning talking about our interests. I discovered his love for art and the National Gallery in DC. He talked about how he worked for an art gallery in Belfast, when he lived in Ireland. He talked about painting and drawing. He talked about how beautiful I was and how he wanted to draw me someday.

We talked about our favorite foods. He loved peanut butter and fried banana sandwiches. I loved white chocolate and apple fudge. We sipped at rose wine and nibbled on cold crepes I had fixed for breakfast. We talked about our favorite books. Mine being 'Exquisite Corpse' and his being 'Flowers for Algernon.' We talked about our favorite movies, plays, music, pieces of art. Anything we could think of, we talked about. We even discussed politics. Whenever I disagreed with one of his points he would kiss me so that I forgot what I was saying.

We fell asleep, curled on my futon, watching "Much Ado About Nothing."

When we woke up, I fixed us some hazelnut crepes with white chocolate drizzle. We talked some more about things we enjoyed. We spent an hour playfully arguing over a game of chess we ended up forgetting about. We watched "Henry V" and discussed Shakespeare's use of insults, his creation of words and some of his sonnets. He read to me from one of my many books of sonnets. We acted as though we had been together for years, perfectly at ease and secure in this new romance.

When he finally left, he gave me his number and kissed me goodbye. We agreed to meet up again as soon as possible. I waved goodbye as his taxi drove off, clutching his number to my heart. I couldn't have imagined any meeting going better. I silently thanked Rory for her insistence.

And I started off the new year right. With a new boyfriend.