(which makes me a sissy...)
I know my blogging aversion is bad when I actually sit down and--
In the middle of the day, even!
Don't worry, it only lasted about ten minutes,
and then the twin tornados whirled through and deposited me solidly back in the head trauma unit.
So my husband has this one particular joke that has become a compulsion for him,
and is rather a revulsion for me.
Whenever he or someone else says they are pulling out of anywhere--
the driveway, a parking lot, etc--
he adds, "Even though it's not a very manly thing to do."
(cuz you should stay in there and keep fucking her...)
It's no wonder that I have such a filthy foul dirty sticky sense of humor.
Tonight he said it, and I groaned as usual,
then added, "Unless she wanted a facial."
Got him GOOD.
He laughed hard, but didn't share it with the colleague he was with.
Speaking of which, he has us going to some super nerdy mormon's house for the evening on Saturday.
make that, "UGG".
I'm sure it'll be swell.
You know what else would be swell?
Is if my brain
or my soul
or my muse
or my fingers
would deliver something to this page...
I've had so many fires lit under my ass in the past month or so that my pubes are singed
(or would be, if I had any)
Here I sit,
pen in hand
in bathroom stalls
across the land.
Raise your hand if you are sick of my whining!
Do it, come on.
I'm a fucking whiner who hasn't even been an interesting whiner lately.
I have turned vanilla.
I have morphed into a sheet of white paper.
I am trickling down a wall; cracked and stained wall paper, curling down to a cement floor...
I am thinking of his lips.
The most incredible lips I've ever seen.
I think I might be fixated.
I blink and wonder how they would feel,
working their way up my thighs
then picture his body without the punk rocker mantle.
I blush and pretend to write something down.
A bus ride, a shuttle.
Crowded with merry and tired and glad-not-to-be-cold ones.
I find a spot, grab a hand hold and brace myself for the first of too many lurches.
(which is not as bad as too many churches...)
I glance down, at those seated in front of me.
My lips part, my eyes dart away.
Is he as beautiful as my first glance whispered?
Another look, this time he's looking, too.
Eyes on the fogged up window behind his warm hat.
his hands rest, uncovered, on well-fitting jeans.
I feel like a leering construction worker, but I can't stop.
They are wonderful hands--
long, slender fingers, a few thick veins, dry skin from the cold.
I want to fall to my knees and place his hands to the side of my face.
My eyes search the fog, the night beyond it, for some other focus.
I almost panic--
there is nothing to see, nowhere for my eyes to rest except on this heavenly being.
You think I exaggerate.
His smile is warm and flirtatious the next time our eyes meet--
he knows exactly what the flexing of his facial muscles have done to my pulse.
I continue to nearly lose my balance every time the shuttle stops or starts.
Finally a drop-off point, and people crush past me.
I lean into him and apologize for it.
(secretly wishing I could slide my hands inside his coat and bury my face in his neck).
Finally there are seats.
Finally I sit...across from him.
I almost ask my friend to trade places with me--
I cannot bear to look, but I don't know how not to.
He seems relieved that there is more room, but continues to glance at me--
each time startling my eyes into a furious attempt at finding another perch.
He exits the bus first,
and I bid farewell to some lovely little slice of my heart.
I won't miss it,
but I bet his rib cage is getting full...
such a collection he must have!
and with that, my juices are flowing properly and--