Naked Winter, Tell Me Your Secrets

It's cold tonight but it doesn't stop me from sitting on my patio wrapped in a blanket while otherwise completely naked. I'm drawing on my pipe and letting the sticky drug sink into my bones as I watch the spirals of smoke slink into the sky. A song drifts out the open door as I watch the darkness creep along the alleyway. Kissing you has been on my mind a lot lately and I'm thinking about it again here in my little dark hiding spot.Your lips are becoming a preoccupation of mine. They look soft. Touchable. Like I want to run my tongue along the edge of them before exploring the deeper depths of your mouth. I close my eyes as your image materializes on the inside of my eyelids.

The cats are milling about my feet exploring the dark crevices with soft mews and quiet feet. I'm watching the first crystalline flakes of snow drift towards the ground in the dim light of the streetlamp. It looks like sugar dusting the air. The winter night is cold and still. Soft as my breath lingers on my lips. I think about you dancing before me so many nights ago. The club we were in was loud and hot as that summer night dripped humidity down our skin in stark contrast to the gentle winter's night I drowse in now. You gyrated, slinked, and shimmied left and right. Your skin glistening in the heat through your see-through shirt. Was my intention see-through that night? My want, could you see it? Did you know how badly I wanted to touch you? Explore those twisting muscles in time with the rhythm of the music. It's just... I was never sure you wanted me to. Never sure you saw that need in my fingers and mirrored it.

And the summer slipped into fall and the fall blew in the winter winds and the snow is starting to fall tonight. My bed is empty. My heart is following each drifting snowflake on it's long journey to the ground. My naked toes are cold. My eyes half-closed I think of kissing you when I should have. My life is full of 'should-haves'. I sigh against the chair and whiskers tickle my ankles as a tail twists against my shin. The cold wind drifts through my hair whispering to me little secrets only the winter can know. I rise, draw the blanket around my naked skin, step back through the door to the warmth inside my strange little world as the cats follow closely at my feet. I settle back down with cats now wrapped around my lap and I write this down. All my little secrets for you to find somewhere out there in this cold, dark night.

Dinner with a Bad Girl

I feel like the Antichrist, very unwelcomed and unwanted at the dinner table. I glance at the man I'm supposed to be in love with. Whose cheap engagement ring I'm wearing. I glance at his parents, whom both thoroughly dislike me. His mother's brow is furrowed as I poke at my peas which taste like little balls of overcooked cardboard. I imagine she's thinking about how to kill me and make it look like an accident. She doesn't want her son to marry a girl from a poor family (not that I think they are rich by any means but they are much more middle class than my family), with a penchant for black clothing, who is a little too smart for her own good with a decided ability to think for herself. She wants her son to have a good little wifey who will take care of him and spew out good little pink skinned grand-babies. I don't want children. I can't stand anything that cries at 2am that isn't seriously drunk.

'And what I need is a drink' I think to myself. I would sell my left nut for a Jack and Coke at this point while my fiance makes idle chat with his graying father about crap I could careless about. 'How's your car running? How's work? Your friend from high school, Mark, is getting married. You should meet his pretty little wife-to-be. She's a nice girl.' Blah. Blah. Blah.

And there. That's the point of contention. I'm not a nice girl. I'm a bad girl who doesn't want children and doesn't need a man to take care of her. I want an education, a passion and some sort of focus to my life. I don't need my validation from the person who is supposed to be my partner in life not my keeper. I want to dress in tight clothes and spend the night dancing and boozing in some dark bar. I want to smoke cigarettes and talk about philosophy to depressed intellectuals. I want to play poker with men chewing on thick cigars in the backrooms of seedy bars. I want to dance around in my underwear in the living room and fuck on the kitchen floor. I want to smoke hookah in smokey Persian tea shops while discussing the state of Middle Eastern affairs with dark skinned women. I want to taste sweet kisses on the edge of dimly lit beaches. I want to skinny dip in the middle of the night. I want to drunkenly fall into bed with a big smile on my face. I want to talk dirty. I want to drive fast. I want to get the fuck out of here.

As I hide in the bathroom during after dinner coffee and further discussions of 'guess who just had a baby?', I contemplate escaping out the window. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The understated make-up, the brown top, the sensible shoes... all to fit in with this family so I don't cause a ripple. So I don't spoil the nice little suburban lie. And they still don't like me. I want my slutty black dress back and my over-done black eyeliner. God, I just want to go get a fucking drink! I don't want to be someone I'm not anymore.

I take the cheap ring from my finger and drop it in the toilet. One flush and its gone. Tonight something is going to change.

I Had A Strange Dream About You

The dream was coming fast and heavy now. Your face bobbing before me, beckoning me to follow. The sweet contours of it, the handsome angles of your cheeks, your nervous eyes and parting lips. I would trace those lips with my fingers. I would touch them with my tongue. Deep and wanting blurred by the edges of the dream and jumps through narrative space. The taste is soft like delicate candy as I pry my tongue past your lips and rest my mouth against yours. Kisses this deep tumble us down to the place where touch rests chest to chest.

There the heartbeat thrums. Pressed against you, close, one breath passing between us. Fingers slipping below waistbands and up underneath shirts. Skin the final landscape navigated by blind touch carefully tracing the curve of your spine. The beautiful valley of your hips, the tautness of your stomach. I trace each muscle, each line like a road map fingers dancing from hills to dips, this map of you. Every place my fingers travel I want to retrace with my tongue. Taste the salty sweat dripping from you, feel your heartbeat quicken, feel the warmth spread over your body.

Your smile. Your half closed eyes. Each thick syrupy moan escaping the depths of your throat to find my ear tangles me in the dream as I tangle myself in your shimmering limbs. My hands find your hips, sharp and beautiful. I dig my fingertips in ever so and slide against you. My own skin glistening taking on that sheen of only the most fevered dreams. I feel your lips on my neck, butterflying against my ear.  I can't catch my breath and I don't want to. Now panting with the heat only desire can bring. You hands wrapped around the curve of my breasts. The length of our bodies left with no air between us. You hand sliding south. Searching for the center of my growing warmth. Your other hand laced in my hair. Your tongue searching more frantically the contours of my mouth as your clever fingers trace the contours of the inside of my thighs. I gasp...

And suddenly the phone rings and I am awake. I violently toss it across the room. I slip my hand between my legs and desperately try to fall asleep again.

A Recipe For WhoGivesAFuck

This is the make-up of who I am:

Combine and mix the following-- half-fucked up teenager, half-fucked up adult, one part vengeful demon, two cups diagnosis, a couple teaspoons of misplaced love, a quarter pint of violent father genetics, half a pack of cigarettes from 15 years ago, one bottle of Jack Daniels, 12 years of post-secondary education, a bag of sugar, two bags of candy, three pints of uncontrollable pain, four bottles of blue and white pills, eight tablespoons of intelligence combined with six tablespoons of self-defeating tendencies, a dash of agoraphobia, 3 helpings of anxiety, one dollop of neurotic behaviour, two cans of occasional vanity combined with three big cans of body hate, several tight dresses, a dram of sex, one eating disorder, a fifth of creativity, several fingers of confidence, half a pound of self-doubt, 2 litres of being too nice, one case of being a bitch, and a sprinkling of ennui.

Bake for 31 years and serve with slight indifference.