4/1/2009
Changes
(Warning: The story Changes accidentally got turned into a Methologue)
This has been a revolution. Yes, its been fun and yes I did write. And I should feel grateful to have been given an unexpected gift from an old flame. He showed me that with the right type of person that I’m still able to respond romantically as a woman. I don’t know what in the world made him think of me out of the blue at that precise time that he did, but I guess I’m glad that he did. It was a lovely affair, the vacation, the last real lovemaking I had back in 2001. I’d been with 3 others after that, but you could barely even call them sex. Even Aimee agreed with me on that one because there was Scott, the funny, and sweet natured dealer I fell in love with, but he was surprisingly ignorant in bed, as if he really had practically no sexual experience. “He wouldn’t even kiss or play with my breasts or anything, without me having to take the initiative and put his hand there,” I said to Aimee. “I know. Scott was not very good in bed,” said Aimee. “And for a drug dealer to be so sexually ignorant, I don’t know, that was bizarre,” I said.
I’m glad it wasn’t just me. Other chicks he sold shit to, including the one he fell in love with, Vanessa all said the same thing pretty much. Then there was the terrific crystal dick each and every time without fail. He’d get horny and ask whoever he was with for sex, but every single time he’d start with a semi, then not be able to maintain even that. Actually, Scott hardly then qualifies as getting laid. Don’t get me wrong, he was awesome in other ways. He was good looking, very charming, a mechanic, a construction worker, and unselfishly volunteered his services to me and others free of charge. And, he was a good dope man. Late half the time like all of them, but always gave honest and decent deals. I really, really liked Scott, in fact fell for him hard, big time. I wanted to be his main chick, but although he was always sweet to me, he gave his heart to Vanessa. I look back in my old BL journals and can read the tears and heartache wondering how and why he loved her and not me. I was sexy thin, sexy clothes, like Vanessa, very pretty, worshipped the ground he walked on for him, not his dope, although of course I liked that a hell of a lot too.
He was the only dealer I ever had that gave hugs with his drugs. Even before I knew him well, I’d think “Aw darn,” if a 3rd party was going to deliver my goods because that met I didn’t get a bear hug. He gave bear hugs. I said to him more than once as I reached my arms out for my other fix---him---“Thank you, Scott. Hugs are drugs,”I’d say. “Aye, hoags aire drogs,” in his thick Scottish accent. Another trip down memory lane. I guess if I ever become the victim of Alzheimer’s disease like my Grandmother, I can have all these stories I spent hours writing that are meaningless to others, but would at least put back missing pieces of my memory. There are a lot of journals/stories over the years I’ve written, so I should write as much as I can down to have for later. I’m trying to imagine the thoughts that would go through my mind sitting there remembering nothing, but randomly picking up different time periods I’d written about. Would I think, “Now who in the world is that?” or might recognition register in my face at 78 or 80 years old of some in detailed described long lost love for a classy Dublin man I’d met on the internet,
Going on a whim across the Atlantic in the arms of a stranger whose bed I shared for a week?
What will my disease ridden mind recall or how will it react to all these tales of hard drugs and the fun and crazy, and sometimes, stupid stunts “our gang” was always pulling and/or up to? Brendan having long since been wheelchair bound, his playboy days and Romeo ways long past him. Bald, toothless, ancient blue eyes covered over with cataracts who perhaps gets a visit and listens as this old lady he’s never seen before reads some of the stories of how a handsome, seductive Romeo charms and flies this woman from halfway around the world for a one week affair, making love in the woods, barely escaping frost bite, holding hands walking down by the beautiful Twin Lakes, making love in the car, getting into the hotel room, asking if we can do it again? Perhaps a glimmer of recognition, good looks of his younger days gone, but a toothless, devilish grin perhaps at some point realizing the playboy Romeo that made love under the stars in the woods was him. “Yes you, naughty old man, I know it was you because I was there.” HAHUHAHUHAHU, giving an old man’s laugh after the realization sets in. We’ll probably never see each other as broken, old people, but an audio book with his hearing aide of the things he got up to when he was romantic, seductive, Playboy chasin tail. I’ve worked in plenty old folks homes and never assume just because someone is 80-100 yrs old, automatically means they have led nothing but pure and boring lives. These people, have stories. I loved teasing the harmless old farts sayin shit like, “Now Leo, I heard you partied down with grifters and dance hall girls in your day, so don’t even try to deny it.” Usually, a guilty, happy, toothless grin emerges or delayed laughter when I told a joke that only people their age would understand.
“OK SO THE COP ASKS THE GUY AT THE TRAIN STATION THAT HAD HIS SHOES STOLEN WHILE POINTING TO A CAPTURED LION, “PARDON ME ROY? IS THIS THE CAT WHO CHEWED YOUR NEW SHOES?” My coworkers give me a look like, “Huh? That’s not funny,” but after 15 or 20 seconds of silence, 1, then 2, then 3, then all these old people start making this “uh HUH HUH HA HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH!!! The ones that can are laughing, while the younger Filipino nurses are saying, they don’t get it. “Long before your time!,” I say walking away kind of grinning. I like hanging out with older farts sometimes because I know a lot of the 30’s, 40’s jokes, only those born in the year 1943 and before understand. It’s funny having our own private joke no one else knows what the fuck I’m talking about, but the old farts do.
You know what? This is totally NOT what I planned to write at all. In fact, I’ve bitched and complained about not being able to sit and pump out the scripts non stop w/o sister Crystal, but now that I think of it, the flip side to this Crystal is that sometimes I’ll start off intending to write about one thing, then wonder how the fuck did I get multi distracted on THIS? Well here’s the deal. Now I think the whole point of this story was supposed to be oh yeah, about how I’ve fucking changed and that I feel disappointed. My poetry didn’t/hasn’t come back yet, only weird meth stories. Yet, come to think of it, I guess there were times in the good old days that what started out as an interesting piece, turned into a very bizarre ass Methologue. So ok, no poetry this time, but have a Methalogue on me. For free.
Changes
(Warning: The story Changes accidentally got turned into a Methologue)
This has been a revolution. Yes, its been fun and yes I did write. And I should feel grateful to have been given an unexpected gift from an old flame. He showed me that with the right type of person that I’m still able to respond romantically as a woman. I don’t know what in the world made him think of me out of the blue at that precise time that he did, but I guess I’m glad that he did. It was a lovely affair, the vacation, the last real lovemaking I had back in 2001. I’d been with 3 others after that, but you could barely even call them sex. Even Aimee agreed with me on that one because there was Scott, the funny, and sweet natured dealer I fell in love with, but he was surprisingly ignorant in bed, as if he really had practically no sexual experience. “He wouldn’t even kiss or play with my breasts or anything, without me having to take the initiative and put his hand there,” I said to Aimee. “I know. Scott was not very good in bed,” said Aimee. “And for a drug dealer to be so sexually ignorant, I don’t know, that was bizarre,” I said.
I’m glad it wasn’t just me. Other chicks he sold shit to, including the one he fell in love with, Vanessa all said the same thing pretty much. Then there was the terrific crystal dick each and every time without fail. He’d get horny and ask whoever he was with for sex, but every single time he’d start with a semi, then not be able to maintain even that. Actually, Scott hardly then qualifies as getting laid. Don’t get me wrong, he was awesome in other ways. He was good looking, very charming, a mechanic, a construction worker, and unselfishly volunteered his services to me and others free of charge. And, he was a good dope man. Late half the time like all of them, but always gave honest and decent deals. I really, really liked Scott, in fact fell for him hard, big time. I wanted to be his main chick, but although he was always sweet to me, he gave his heart to Vanessa. I look back in my old BL journals and can read the tears and heartache wondering how and why he loved her and not me. I was sexy thin, sexy clothes, like Vanessa, very pretty, worshipped the ground he walked on for him, not his dope, although of course I liked that a hell of a lot too.
He was the only dealer I ever had that gave hugs with his drugs. Even before I knew him well, I’d think “Aw darn,” if a 3rd party was going to deliver my goods because that met I didn’t get a bear hug. He gave bear hugs. I said to him more than once as I reached my arms out for my other fix---him---“Thank you, Scott. Hugs are drugs,”I’d say. “Aye, hoags aire drogs,” in his thick Scottish accent. Another trip down memory lane. I guess if I ever become the victim of Alzheimer’s disease like my Grandmother, I can have all these stories I spent hours writing that are meaningless to others, but would at least put back missing pieces of my memory. There are a lot of journals/stories over the years I’ve written, so I should write as much as I can down to have for later. I’m trying to imagine the thoughts that would go through my mind sitting there remembering nothing, but randomly picking up different time periods I’d written about. Would I think, “Now who in the world is that?” or might recognition register in my face at 78 or 80 years old of some in detailed described long lost love for a classy Dublin man I’d met on the internet,
Going on a whim across the Atlantic in the arms of a stranger whose bed I shared for a week?
What will my disease ridden mind recall or how will it react to all these tales of hard drugs and the fun and crazy, and sometimes, stupid stunts “our gang” was always pulling and/or up to? Brendan having long since been wheelchair bound, his playboy days and Romeo ways long past him. Bald, toothless, ancient blue eyes covered over with cataracts who perhaps gets a visit and listens as this old lady he’s never seen before reads some of the stories of how a handsome, seductive Romeo charms and flies this woman from halfway around the world for a one week affair, making love in the woods, barely escaping frost bite, holding hands walking down by the beautiful Twin Lakes, making love in the car, getting into the hotel room, asking if we can do it again? Perhaps a glimmer of recognition, good looks of his younger days gone, but a toothless, devilish grin perhaps at some point realizing the playboy Romeo that made love under the stars in the woods was him. “Yes you, naughty old man, I know it was you because I was there.” HAHUHAHUHAHU, giving an old man’s laugh after the realization sets in. We’ll probably never see each other as broken, old people, but an audio book with his hearing aide of the things he got up to when he was romantic, seductive, Playboy chasin tail. I’ve worked in plenty old folks homes and never assume just because someone is 80-100 yrs old, automatically means they have led nothing but pure and boring lives. These people, have stories. I loved teasing the harmless old farts sayin shit like, “Now Leo, I heard you partied down with grifters and dance hall girls in your day, so don’t even try to deny it.” Usually, a guilty, happy, toothless grin emerges or delayed laughter when I told a joke that only people their age would understand.
“OK SO THE COP ASKS THE GUY AT THE TRAIN STATION THAT HAD HIS SHOES STOLEN WHILE POINTING TO A CAPTURED LION, “PARDON ME ROY? IS THIS THE CAT WHO CHEWED YOUR NEW SHOES?” My coworkers give me a look like, “Huh? That’s not funny,” but after 15 or 20 seconds of silence, 1, then 2, then 3, then all these old people start making this “uh HUH HUH HA HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH!!! The ones that can are laughing, while the younger Filipino nurses are saying, they don’t get it. “Long before your time!,” I say walking away kind of grinning. I like hanging out with older farts sometimes because I know a lot of the 30’s, 40’s jokes, only those born in the year 1943 and before understand. It’s funny having our own private joke no one else knows what the fuck I’m talking about, but the old farts do.
You know what? This is totally NOT what I planned to write at all. In fact, I’ve bitched and complained about not being able to sit and pump out the scripts non stop w/o sister Crystal, but now that I think of it, the flip side to this Crystal is that sometimes I’ll start off intending to write about one thing, then wonder how the fuck did I get multi distracted on THIS? Well here’s the deal. Now I think the whole point of this story was supposed to be oh yeah, about how I’ve fucking changed and that I feel disappointed. My poetry didn’t/hasn’t come back yet, only weird meth stories. Yet, come to think of it, I guess there were times in the good old days that what started out as an interesting piece, turned into a very bizarre ass Methologue. So ok, no poetry this time, but have a Methalogue on me. For free.