Saturday, January 19, 2013

Hope, Worries and the Cumming of New Times

After Halloween, Michael was back in town. We hadn’t spoken while he was in Milwaukee for a family funeral, but the day he was back we already made a date. I felt eager to see him, and though the giggling, the anticipation, the sex eight times in one night didn’t exactly mean I was in love with him, it certainly felt like I was falling.

Michael had a sweet disposition. He never appeared upset or annoyed, making it almost too easy to be around him. His prerogative was to keep everything as easy and enjoyable as possible for everyone around him. He was a giver.

He wanted a relationship and I knew soon I would have to choose between Michael or my on-going sexual adventures. Two things about Michael sat on my shoulders:

-The first night we went out when I was back in Los Angeles he said, “We could never be together, you would use a guy like me as a doormat.” I nodded, almost sadly. I have grown accustomed to the idea that I require a cowboy to rein me in.

-After my parents kicked me out and I was looking at apartments in Los Angeles, we were talking on the phone one afternoon as friends and potential roommates. “I still owe them $1,000,” I said.

“I am sure you have given them at least $1,000 worth of happiness,” he responded. That meant a lot. It still does. When I feel anxious or outraged by my family, those words return and wrap around me like a blanket, muffling those final conversations.

dating-awkward

**

The presidential elections were the evening of November 6th. My driver’s license went missing in Cannes, France, and  I had applied for a replacement card twice and haven’t yet received one. In the same visit to the DMV, I registered as absentee and was waiting for my voting information via snail mail. I was about ready to plaster conspiracy theories up all over Facebook (like everyone else) when Alia commented on a thread: “I think your voter’s ballot is here.”

Later she texted me, “Let yourself in. The back door is open. Double T is staying there.” Double T was a rapper who needed a place to stay. Shortly after we moved out of Alia’s, Double T moved in.

Michael invited me over for the evening. "We could watch the election on ABC or Hulu," he proposed.

"If this doesn't go well tonight, I should warn you ... I will have to get drunk and cry," I said.

"You've done it before," he shrugged.

After my day of dogwalks, I drove through 90 minutes of traffic over the West Hills to Alia’s house. I let myself in through the backyard, then the patio door, sifted through her stack of mail cascading off the corner table by the front door, found my ballot, and pulled out the cheat sheet in my back pocket listing which propositions I wanted and didn’t want. I grabbed the ballot, rushed out the back door, drove a few blocks away to the nearest polling place and handed it to a friendly, large woman with an American Flag on her sweatshirt. “Thank you!” she said.

super-baby-statenisland-thumb-640xauto-7125

I still had a box of clothes and some books at Alia’s, so I headed back to her house, let myself in through the back and picked up a few books I left in the nook. I watched a topless, black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks walk from the back hall into the kitchen. He was built well, but short. He dropped a dish off in the sink. I stood there and watched him for a moment, knowing exactly who he was. He looked over- “OH SHIT!!!” he said, stumbling backward. “What the fuck!?”

“I am friends with Alia, sorry. I was just here to pick up a few things,” I said.

“You scared the shit out of me. You smoke pot?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Come on back to my little set-up back here,” he said, walking back to Alia’s spare bedroom. He wasn’t in the room where I slept with the dogs, though it was clear he was sleeping in there. Male clothes and shoes were strewn over a box of my things left on the floor. He simply moved in over me.

"Alia told me about you. I call you pi. Get it?" I asked.

"Uh ... yeah like the math sign. I get it," he said.

pi

 
He led me into the middle room, the one Alia had converted into a sound studio. It was a small room, but there was expensive equipment on a mixing station. Sitting on the floor cross legged there was a white girl with lots of eyeliner on. Chestnut hair. A tank top and shorts. She was cute … early twenties maybe. “Hi, I am Tiffany,” she said. I introduced myself and sat down across from them on a pillow.

“Ok,” I said, putting my hands out.

“What?” Double T said, “Don’t you have any weed?”

“No,” I said. “Don’t you?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, what am I doing here, then?” I stood up and resumed the collection of my things around the house. I heard Double T call Alia on his cell phone as I made a few sweeps and created a pile by the back door.

“Yeah, um … how do you start the Mac in the studio?” he asked her.

Alia’s voice was flat and cold over speakerphone. “Why are you on my Mac in the studio?”

As most of my things were finally in one large pile, Tiffany came out to the living room and sat on the couch, tying her hair up on top of her head. Double T followed her out and tackled her neck with kisses. She giggled. “Have you ever felt your heart stop when you kiss someone? Do you know what that’s like?” Double T asked me.

“Yeah, it’s called love,” I said.

“Do you want to hang here with us? We are going to get a little weed and have us a little party. Why don’t you join us?” he asked. I looked at Tiffany to see how she felt about the proposition. She smiled and looked up at me from the couch. If she was uncomfortable, I couldn’t tell. Her eyes were gorgeous, they were a coral blue with cleopatra black eyeliner smoking around the edges. I always like the smudge of make-up around a woman’s eyes when she has forgotten to touch up her face. There is a worn innocence about the smear of life, whether it be from the arm she leaned into, or the face she kissed, the tear or tire from her eyes.

“No, thank you,” I said, “I have a date with a very, very young man.”

“How young?” Double T asked.

“23,” I said.

“Ohhhhh!” they both boomed with smiles on their faces. I got a high five from Double T while reviewing my text messages with my other hand.

“But is he black?” Double T asked.

“No, he is a white boy,” I said.

“Well, it don’t matter if he isn’t black. If he isn’t black, you are missing the best part. Have fun though!” he said.

“I will, thanks. You too,” I said.

“Yeah, I was gonna play some of my music for you,” he said.

“That’s right, I heard you are a rapper,” I said.

“Usually, I don’t tell that many people because I want people around me for like … uh … genuine purposes, you know. Girls all wanna just get with me because I’m a rapper.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem like a real concern here because everyone in Los Angeles is a performer. It would be difficult to be somewhere in this city and avoid performers,”  I said.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s LA,” Tiffany dismissed.

“Well, girls are all up on my shit after a show. And I let them blow me, you know, but that's it. I don’t get real with a girl unless she hasn’t seen my show,” he said.

“Get real means … intercourse? I am not up with the kids’ slang, so pardon me for asking,” I said.

“Yeah,” Tiffany giggled.

“Women will blow you after a rap show?” I asked. Double T crumpled his eyes low and gasped as if it was obvious.

“Yeah ….” he exhaled.

Donald's Morning Boner

“Well, I don’t blow a man unless I have real feelings for him, but its worth the wait. I have spent years interviewing fat women and gay men to get it just right,” I said.

“Do you mind explaining it to me? I would be curious,” Tiffany asked.

“Well, it is very intuitive. But you work your tongue in opposition with your lips as you go up and down the shaft. Then you let the drool slide down around the base, where you keep your fingers wrapped tight. So it feels like you are deep throating him. You work the sides, almost pinching them. He is sensitive on either side of the penis, just beneath the circumcision and just below the V-cut on the tip. You want to put emphasis on those areas. And occasionally drag your tongue from the tip all the way down to the base of the balls. Then you tease it until he is about to pop. Voila! The [StarFire] specialty,” I said.

“Thank you,” Tiffany said, “That was very informative.”

“Knowledge is power,” I said, picking up my things.

“Here, let me help,” Double T said, carrying a box out the front door for me.

I unlocked my car doors and tossed the box and bags of clothes in the backseat.

“Hey, uh, I like what you had to say in there. You talk like a lady,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Why don’t I get your number and we can work out some of those theories you were talking about,” he said.

“And what would I get out of it? I mean, besides a mouthful of semen?” I said.

“I would make sure you got a few orgasms in there, and if I can’t do it, I will call in a woman who can,” he said.

“Well, at least you are aware of your limitations,” I said.

“Come on, give me your number,” he said, holding out his phone. I dictated it to him. Why do I give out my number to everyone that asks? I guess you could say I was never very good with rejection, on either side.

When he reached to hug me goodbye, his hands lingered along my back as he buried his face in my hair and I grew uncomfortable. So I climbed him like a tree, wrapping my legs around his hips and hoisting myself up in the air.

“Alright then!” Double T said, putting me down. “Spunk. I like it! You, uh, have a  shaved pussy?” he asked.

shaved pussy

“I wax most of it off but leave a little hair to remind myself I am a grown woman.”

He threw his hands down in disgust and walked away. Double T, ladies and gentlemen!!

*

Driving back through traffic, it was a little easier. I had no idea where the election was between Romney and Obama. The Sound 100.3 was playing the whole album of Abbey Road off of vinyl and I felt myself relax a little. There was a lot of anxiety that day. One of my clients lost their daughter’s dog while she was on vacation; a pit-bull mix who broke out of their back yard. There were two car accidents on the highway. Someone pounded their horn when I didn’t take the exit fast enough. Anxiety was running high. The media convinced the American people that Romney might be a possibility, and everyone was speeding home to get drunk in front of their television sets or monitors. 

surfer voter

Chicken Voter

I was worried. If Obama lost, I was fairly certain the whole thing would fall apart. This isn’t a political blog and I am not qualified to be a political writer, but I can tell you everyone was frantic that day. Whether you are Democrat or Republican, there was a feeling of helplessness with how the country was being managed. There still is. We are told to educate ourselves, read and watch the news, ingest all the information about propositions and arguments, look at the money spent here but neglected there … and we come up with our own theories, philosophies and answers. We think we have it figured out from what the TV spoon feeds us but then find it maddening trying to discuss it with someone who watches a different channel. At the end of the day, we aren’t in control. I don’t know who is, but it isn’t you, it isn’t me and it sure as hell isn’t the president of the United States. That said, we need someone to believe in. We need someone to follow. Right then, all we had was the man we were following and a businessman no one thought could make it that far.

dryer polling place
 
How the United States will recover from the hole we dug for ourselves, I don’t really know. I believe it will be a revolution. It may not be in my lifetime, but there will be a moment when we decide to be a country instead of a business. I am afraid that will be a bloody battle.

My neck ached. I was stressed out when I arrived to Michael’s Pasadena house. He greeted me with a smile, a bottle of champagne and a cigarette. He was still playing it cool, but leaned in to hug me. Once I described to Frank one of the greatest attributes in dating someone so much younger: (Michael is 23 yrs old, I am 34 yrs old) “When he comes in to say hello, instead of a quick kiss on the mouth, he leans in for a long hug. It reminds me of who I was in high school … in a nice way,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, almost under his breath, before leaning in for a long hug hello. Being so much taller than him, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I have gotten in the habit of letting my face fall into his thick, head of black hair and kissing him.  He doesn’t use shampoo, so his hair smells like the column of a vanilla flower … the same way he tastes. When he pulled away, his voice changes like he is snapping out of hypnosis, “How’s it going?”

“Ok, I am worried about the election,” I said.

“Oh, we have it in the bag,” he said, sucking on his cigarette and squinting.

“Really?” I asked, and then I exhaled.

“Do you want to see? Come on in,” he said. I followed him into his bedroom and sat down in front of his computer. Romney was waiting to give his concession speech.

“Wow, I really did miss it,” I said. “My vote doesn’t even matter … God damn it. That was two hours in traffic to drop off my ballot.”

“I believe in America. I believe in the people of America,” Romney said before pausing for applause. 

Mitt Romney Concession

“Blah blah blah,” I said, popping the bottle of champagne at his desk. “I really don’t feel like I earned this bottle of champagne.”

“You earned it,” Michael said as he poured me a glass. Then, as President Obama walked to the podium for his acceptance speech, Michael grabbed a pillow and dropped it at my feet, pulled off my pants and buried his tongue inside of me.

Obama waited for the cheers to tumble into silence and stretched his neck out, “Tonight, more than 200 years after a former colony won the right to determine its own destiny, the task of perfecting our union moves forward. It moves forward because of you. It moves forward because you reaffirmed the spirit that has triumphed over war and depression, the spirit that has lifted this country from the depths of despair to the great heights of hope, the belief that while each of us will pursue our own individual dreams, we are an American family and we rise or fall together as one nation and as one people."

Obama acceptance
 
“You don’t have to go down on me,” I said, feeling pressure to cum while listening to Obama’s voice. Michael lifted his head and wiped his mouth. “I want to. You are perfect. Perfect body, perfect mind … and a tight little vagina as a cherry on top.”

“I have a tight vagina?” I asked.

“Yeah, wet and tight,” he said, before gently lapping at my clitoris.

“Oh …,” my head turned towards the monitor, “He is looking older,” I said, staring at Obama. His hair is almost grey now. What a toll leading our country takes on one’s appearance.

Obama thanked everyone and I felt my head float up to the sky with bubbles of champagne. "Democracy in a nation of 300 million can be noisy and messy and complicated … “ he said, pausing after each sentence, pacing himself. I came … and came and came again. The sweat tickled my hairline. My jaw ached in tension then dropped open. The knot in my neck and back slowly unwound.

My phone buzzed. Sascha, a mutual friend of both Michael and myself, was pinging me.

“I am at a bar alone, drinking. Come join me,” she wrote.

“I am with Michael. We are together now,” I responded.

“But he is gay and moving to Milwaukee,” she wrote.

“I know, he is perfect for me!”

Obama stood strong, despite my cumming and despite Sascha’s drinking. The world was going on as it always has. “I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting …” his voice steady, deep, sexy. I still liked him, but he wasn’t the Kennedy we had hoped for.

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“Going down on me.”

“Why are you texting me then?” she wrote.

“Because he keeps handing me the phone when it buzzes,” I typed.

“Wow … he is perfect for you.”


“I believe we can seize this future together because we are not as divided as our politics suggests. We're not as cynical as the pundits believe. We are greater than the sum of our individual ambitions, and we remain more than a collection of red states and blue states. We are and forever will be the United States of America,” Obama said as the web spit and sputtered the stream.

Hope for our country. Hope for a new relationship.

Hope and worries.

2012-and-new-year-2013-coming

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