“I’m right on the edge…I don’t know what comes next.”
~ Steve, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
So, since the whole global financial market collapsed and we have a black President-Elect and OJ got sent upstate and Bush had a pair of Iraqi Buster Browns thrown at him, Supa decided to take a pause from this free-fall outta civilization and reflect on some of her personal shit. Yes!
Okay. So, according to her latest attempt at some form of fleeting dysfunctional female-to-male human bonding (a summer romance), Supa has now been dubiously labeled as a (wait for it) Disaster on Heels. Knowing full well that she falls neatly into the Beautiful Mess category, but whatever - he does acknowledge my stiletto game proper. And fuck him. Supa does not take personality flaw advice from a man with four children and an ex-wife and a sorta kinda current live-in girlfriend from
And molestation of a grown male, is like, a victimless crime.
Yes. Real sloppy start; granted. Even for me.
But it was radiant and ninety-eight degrees in LaLa land, the earth moved and birds sang and I began reading Anais Nin; he was exotic and new and forbidden and there, and I was freshly bikini waxed in a slinky summer dress, slingbacks and a thong, flossing a new Arabic tattoo; and forgive me for feeling ultimately fucking sexy. And thus he growled the words which propelled our short lived, shifty romance into full throttle: (He: “Damn, I must be some kind of lucky bastard,” when Supa accidently spilled the secrets in her bra). And off we went, sprinting toward the No, I’m Way More Fucked Up Than YOU finish line. Good times.
What can I say? It was summertime. My hormones were later proven to be unbalanced. He was cute. I was bored, on the prowl, inspired, determined to solidify my MILF status, who knows. I let him read (gasp!) some fresh writing material. He sat me down and tried to convince me why I was brilliant. (beware, the treachery of vanity.) We philosophized about everything from nihilism to Nietzsche. We each felt up the other in inappropriate, public places. Like the Mickey to my Mallory, we were wild and unstoppable. We were vibing so hard and yet he was so curiously/deliciously hesitant to join me in this sink-or-swim, emotional equivalent to chicken - which got Supa really excited. Or real determined.
Push/pull/back/forth/yin/yang/estrogen/testosterone. When the raw biological intensity reached its fever pitch, Supa allegedly trumped him by declaring, “Why can’t you just be my willing lover until I find out who I really want to be with, I mean, is that so WRONG?” (Supa, while violently reaching for his crotch) He then literally, how we say in this crumbling contemporary society - punked out.
Falling on his knees (as if I priestess and he confessor), he then tragically explained how he was a just momma’s boy (he’s 41 years old), and no good at these games with Alpha Females, he always loses (what the hell), how he had apparently bitten off more than he could now chew, and that my presence was pressing so hard (pun intended) against his existence that he didn’t like the constant horny disorganized state in which it left him.
The Got Me on My Knees Layla shtick. How original.
So since Supa was all good and heated and had the female equivalent of, how you say, Blue Balls..she stared blankly at fool, then immediately poked out her bottom lip, gathered her toys, and told him to not call her when he was ready to come outside and play.
What mutherfucka, what.
And here’s the kicker. We never actually consummated. Just engaged in a bunch of impulsive, drawn out, erotic and entirely senseless suckling and fondling, necking and petting. Which turns out to be the converse polar opposite of getting laid; when you’re coming off some kind of healthy, self-imposed year of celibacy type thing.
And don’t worry, we agreed his punishment was that I was allowed to blog about it all, as long as I didn’t reveal a solid timeline or drop hints about our haunts. Or call him a dramatic cunt. He goes by codename: The Culprit.
I left him with a bit of sage advice: Dude. Don’t ever finger fuck a poet’s feelings. Stroke them well, or you become fodder.
I told you I was trouble/you know, I'm no good.... Amy Wino
I scribble and lounge in my loft after-hours; the constant companions at my side (incense, books, quotes, pooch, wine) and the incessant pondering begins. #1: Fuck him. Right? Besides, I think I kinda might be in love with somebody else, anyway. Maybe. #2. I’ve gotta get a treadmill. #3. Shall I read the Bible or watch the rest of Bad Girls Club? #4. What am I gonna wear to work tomorrow? #5. What is an Alpha Female, exactly? #6. And shouldn’t that make one more eligible for successful pairing with an Alpha Male? #7. What is an Alpha Male, exactly?
Okay. I will release you from the insanity which goes on inside my brain now….
“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air…” ~RWE
Sigh. Well, at the very least, one could say at the moment:
Looks like Supa’s got her swagga back.
(Karen: Chile, look at me. Actin' UP)
…to be continued….