When You Conjure at the Moon

I value those with different spiritual views than mine. It’s part of what makes the world, and my UU church, interesting places. However, it’s been far too long since I was in a relationship with another pagan. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful it is to have someone who understands all the allusions and comments. I had forgotten that it can be quite nice when he uses your words. There’s a comfort to knowing that the guy understands some of those strange things that go on when you’re cooking, not to touch the pretty rocks without asking if it’s okay, and that the bottle of oil with the odd stuff in it is part of a charm not a condiment in progress. It gives me a calm, warm feeling that I haven’t had in quite a few years.

Divine DiVino’s & The Magazine

I work on East Main Street (or eMain is you like to keep up with the hype). Not long ago it was a very blighted area full of abandoned warehouses and old junk yards. In other words, it was the perfect place to dump a body. Now that’s changed. There are offices, lofts, bars, and my favorite lunch place. It’s a little deli that makes a wonderfully decadant blond calzone, a mean hamburger, a decent Reuben, and carries a to kill for artichoke salad. If you get the impression that I’m in there a lot, you’re right. They know me by face and name.

In the same block as the deli, there’s some construction, so you’re likely to see quite a few guys in work clothes and hard hats coming in alongside the suits, the business casual, and me for lunch. I grew up with a construction worker (Union Carpenter to be specific) father. One of my favorite baby pics is my dad holding me while I wear his hardhat. These men remind me of my childhood — except the cute ones that take my mind to a different realm.  Today, passing the wait for my burger wrap and artichoke salad by texting friends, doing e-mail, and reading the news. I love all the stuff you can do with a phone these days, but I digress.

I notice a young guy come up to the front of the store and stand looking at the lottery play slips, LEO newspapers, the little free magazines (City Slicker & the gay oriented G3). He leans up, grabs a copy of G3 and quickly sticks in in his jeans before anyone notices. Now, I’m fully out, so this act is funny to me. Then I got caught in my own mirth. Here’s a guy who for whatever reason wasn’t comfortable just picking up a magazine and taking it. Yes, I know how butch a construction site can be, and I’m fully aware of the homophobia that can go along with it. No, I didn’t strike up a conversation or grab a copy in some deluded gay brotherhood of the page. I was standing there in blue chinos, and a black, ribbed rayon shirt. If you didn’t get a clue from my attire, well Honey, see if your gaydar is under warranty.

But I have to wonder at a society where the way one loves is such a cause for tension and some people need to hide it. Have we really evoled as a species or are we something far less than we’d like to admit?

Tom’s Pregnant

I looked over at Tom asleep next to me. The moon light streamed through the window and fell across his face. I wanted to reach out and lay my hand on his stomach, but I knew that would wake him, and he hadn’t had much these last couple of weeks. Sometimes I really want to wake up and find that we’re back in our own house not here some in some post-modern wonderland. I wonder why we fucked outside the box that night. Sure, we’ll take care of our son. He’ll have the best we can give him. He’ll be loved. We’re assured that he’s developing normally. 

I eased up from the bed and walked out into the German night. Damn, I wanted a cigarette. I’d given them up years ago before Tom and I met–right after Jason and I broke up. I went on a diet, joined a gym (where Tom and I met), quit smoking, and became a vegetarian. Well, now I really wanted a cigarette and a cheeseburger, but with a baby on the way it seemed a little stupid to want to endanger our health. I heard a noise behind me and turned around. Tom followed me out. Damn, I love him. He’s twenty years my junior, has a head of flaming red hair, freckles on his shoulders. I’m an engineer. He’s a personal trainer. I want to make wild, passionate love to him here in our front yard. But I don’t think he’s up to it. 

In the last few months, we’ve been prodded, poked, interviewed, had fluids drawn and tested. Hell, for a time they even filmed us having sex. Imagine, at 40 I’m breaking into the porn business. It’s not just us. There are about fifty other couples here. Our stories are all similar. It’s still rare that men get pregnant. We’re simultaneously celebrities and specimens–free prisoners we call ourselves. Our biological quirks have turned the religious right from organized to chaotic. I hear a couple of noted right wing evangelists committed suicide rather than explain this new twist in the plan they thought God had lain out. We don’t get a lot of news here. Did God will this? I don’t know. I do know that I have a highly protective instinct for Tom and our unborn son. 

I reach out and rub Tom’s bare stomach. He smiles, and I fall in love with him all over again. The baby’s awake and I feel him move. I can’t help it. I’ve got to give the man who’s carrying my baby a kiss. I don’t care who’s watching. Hell, most of them have seen more. I feel him stiffen and I honestly consider going down on him, but he pulls away from my embrace. He’s always concerned about PDAs here in Queertopia. The soldiers who guard us are predominately gay and drawn from a multinational force. I don’t think they’d care. When pregnancy is diagnosed (not really a good word but what else do I call it?), the couple is brought here to this base in Germany. After the delivery, they remain on. We don’t know for how long. Here our safety can be guaranteed. Tom, me, and our unborn son are settled into life in Northern Germany. To be honest, we only think we’re in Germany. It could be Russia or Minnesota for all we’re really sure. There’s no sign of civilization beyond the walls of the compound.

Tom and I sit down on the porch swing and I put my arm around his shoulders. Hans steps out of the house. He’s wearing only his army issue boxers. He left his lover in Mainz to take this assignment as our basic guy Friday in whatever the German army calls its BDUs. We’ve become very informal over the course of Tom’s pregnancy. “Is everything okay,” he asks us. We both nod. He’s worse about Tom’s well being than I am. I’ve got to meet his boyfriend David sometime. They can’t have children.

A few weeks ago at one of Tom’s checkups, they told us they think they’ve discovered the cause of male pregnancy. I was circumcised at birth. Tom is intact. We often engage in frottage as it allows for a little more spontaneity. Apparently, that causes some men to become pregnant. Oh, there’s more to it than it. I can’t say I get all of it, but that’s the gist. Red hair seems to be a factor as well. The Pope has refused to acknowledge these births as happening, so neither abortion nor pregnancy are likely be become sacraments anytime soon. And since Tom’s not pregnant according to the Vatican, it’s a good thing we’re Unitarian. It would be awkward raising a non-existent child. The Southern Baptists have decided to re-think the matter of homosexuality. It’s illegal in the United States, the European Union, and China to abort a child from a male-to-male union. In many African and Middle Eastern countries, the fathers are executed.

Tom let’s out a cry, and I jump off the swing. “It’s time,” he whispers as his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out. Unlike with a Standard Pregnancy, the child has no place to move to when he’s ready to be born. If he’s not taken by Cesarian within two hours, both Tom and James will die. That won’t happen. Hans has hit a panic button (it’s officially the Birth Button) inside the house. The hospital and staff will be prepared in seven minutes. An ambulance is here before I have time to think. The paramedics have Tom on more monitors than I dreamed existed and in transport within three minutes.

It’s later. Tom’s doing fine. He’s getting caught up on his sleep. James has my blue eyes and Tom’s red hair. He’s healthy and weighs in at seven pounds ten ounces and his twenty-one inches long. The birth was successful, but there can’t be another one. The birthing process destroys the male equivalent of a uterus. That’s okay. One child is enough for us. More than that would be overkill–even for a couple of gay men. Some men lactate and breast feed, but Tom didn’t. James gets by on a formula. He’ll do okay though. Hans is still with us as our combination body guard and patron saint. We’ve been assigned a nanny–Mrs. Smith. She was a religious sister until a few years ago when she left the convent to be with her lover Gloria.

A nurse comes in to draw another vial of my blood. That’s something else that’s part of our world now. Just a few months ago I nearly passed out when they took a vial. Now it’s such matter of course, I could do it myself while cooking breakfast. We’re not quite studies in human abnormality, but we’re still studied physically down to the subatomic level, mentally for intelligence and insanity (my words, theirs are always culturally sensitive), and even spiritually. I talked with a Jesuit this morning who is studying Male Pregnancy Families to the expressed displeasure of the Church. He said he might even be excommunicated.

ii

I look over at Tom asleep next to me. The moon light streams through the window and falls across his face. I reach out and lay my hand on his stomach flat once more. Our son sleeps in his basinet at the foot of our bed. My husband stirs but doesn’t wake. The Gods are in Their Heaven, and all is right with the World.

Marshall & Me

Climbing back into the bed as gently and quietly as possible, I snuggled up to Marshall laying my head on his chest and my thigh across his groin before pulling the sapphire blue satin sheet over us. He stirred in his sleep and enveloped me in a hug. I guess he’s done this before too. I can’t say he snores–it’s more like the purr of a very contented cat. I want this moment to last until the Conversion of the Jews. The beating of his heart and rhythm of his breathing nearly lure me across the bridge back to sleep, but I resist. I want to run my hands over his body and feel his skin beneath mine. I want to trace the ink of his tattoo and drink his liquor never brewed. “Later,” I tell myself in a hushed whisper. Marshall stirs again. As comfortable as this is, I’m surprised that I’m in bed with him. He’s my best friend, and he’s straight…or used to be. It’s complicated.

We met at the gym. I had stood up from the pectoral fly machine. Apparently he’d been waiting to use it, and he moved close yelling at me over the Springsteen blasting in my ears to ask why I hadn’t wiped down the machine. “Because I’m not done. I’m adding more weight — a pyramid set.” He chuckled, gave me a smile, and we became workout buddies and best friends.

About a month later we were in the locker room, and he was uneasy about something, but I wasn’t sure what. He had a new girl friend, and I thought that perhaps they were having some troubles. “Jack, I don’t typically do this,” he said pulling a sweat towel like it was salt water taffy, “Sara has a friend she’d like to set you up with”. Sara was a willowy brunette who worked at a coffee house while pursuing her MRS at the local university.

“Is it a woman,” I asked timidly.

“Of course it’s a woman,” he said scrunching his face at me like I’d asked something insane.

“Well, I’m not interested. I’m gay,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could ( and swallowing hard). I didn’t know how he’d react. To me my homosexuality is as obvious as my red hair. Contrary to scientific belief, gayness not genetically encoded on me, it’s imprinted on my soul.

“That’s cool.”

“It’s not a problem?”

“Should it be?”

“For some people it is.”

“Well, I’m not some people.” That was all of the conversation about it.

We continued to hit the weight floor three days a week, the cardio machines two, and he convinced me to start jogging on the streets. We spent a lot of time together. I had a key to his loft, and had lunch with his father on a weekly basis. He had my sister on speed dial and never missed my niece’s dance recitals.

Two years down the road, and Sara is still at the coffee house and makes the best double shot espresso I’d ever tasted. For a while it was interesting because I was dating her brother Chris. As he was more interested in my bank account than in me, it didn’t last long. She asks about Marshall from time to time, and I get updates on Chris and his cardiologist partner. Evs.

Lisa was the next one of substance to come into Marshall’s world. I introduced them and took a great pride that they hit it off. Just because all I can find are Future Mr. Used to Bes doesn’t mean that I can’t help other people out. Right? She’s a statuesque blonde with a master’s in computer engineering and a job with the government. Her job demands long, often arbitrary hours. His hours are regular. She liked the fact that he and I spend so much time together. I think I was his unofficial and unpaid babysitter.

This year he and Lisa went to Chicago for the Labor Day weekend (I was at Decadence). He came back on a plane. She drove. Her stuff disappeared from his apartment. He never mentioned her name. I got one e-mail from her asking me not to take it personally, but she couldn’t be friends with me because of my friendship with Marshall. “You are great friends, and I respect that. I just can’t take the chance of seeing him.” I heard she transferred to a different city, but who knows.

“Please just don’t wear it around me,” he implored as he handed me the leather blazer she gave him for his birthday. “The damned thing doesn’t fit anyway. Why didn’t she ask you my size?” I didn’t even pretend to try to answer.

ii

“I’ll pick you up,” his voice purred across the ether.

“Marshall, I can bring the costume with me and change at your apartment.” His Halloween party was his farewell to lamenting about Lisa’s sudden departure from his life. I was coming as a Spartan warrior. He was coming as a gangster–the opposite of his day job as the head of security for a major corporation in town I guess. I’m one of those urban guys who doesn’t drive. Usually it’s not a problem, but I really didn’t want to get on a bus dressed in greaves and carrying a short sword. But I didn’t mind wear jeans and changing at his place. Plus it would make it easier for him about getting me home. He shouldn’t have to be the designated drive at his own party. Finally he wore me down. I relented. It’s a thing with us. Nota Bene: While a Mini is a really cool car it isn’t really great for passengers armed with a gladius.

As the night wore on, his apartment filled with people. I needed to get away from the loud music and dancing, so I walked out on his deck. “Too much for you,” came his voice from the shadows.

“I need some air. It always amazes me that women can find the gay guy and make him dance all night.”

“Those sandals don’t look comfortable for dancing,” he said pointing at my feet.

“They’re not as bad as you might think. This is on the other hand,” I said taking my helmet off.

“It’s real metal?”

“I’m authentic if nothing else,” I said with a smile.

“Well, your classical education has to be good for something.” We both laughed.

“Marshall, it’s a great party, but I’ve got to be going. Betty said she’d give me a ride home” I sensed more than the look of complete disappointment on his face.

“How can I get you to stay?”

“You want help cleaning up?”

“No, I need a Spartan soldier around in case things get out of hand.” I smiled, rolled my eyes and went to walk back in. He grabbed my hand. “Thanks I owe you one.”

“No, Marshallcakes, you owe me a couple. By-the-way, what the hell are you dressed as?”

“A 1930s gangster.”

“Okay, because I thought you were a pallbearer.” He laughed but let me get back to the party this time.

iii

By 3:00, the guests were gone, the garbage bagged, and his cat was retrieved the neighbors across the hall. “Jack, I’m too tired to drive. Would you mind spending the night?”

He’s got one bedroom, a couch that is so uncomfortable it would keep a narcoleptic awake, and I have nothing to wear but my costume. I knew this would happen. I was tired, hot, sweaty, and just didn’t care. “Evs, just give me the damned sleeping bag…”

“No, Jack, you can sleep in the bed.”

“Giving me your bed. How gallant of you,” I snarled doing my best pissed off fag.

“I didn’t say I was giving it up either.”

“Well, you’ll be sleeping with me naked.” Somehow I doubted it would get him to change his mind. We’d shared a bed in Tampa once. I figured he had a pair of shorts I could fit into lying around.

“Only if you shower first.”

“That’s a given.” I growled and went into the bedroom stripping off my wet and smelly costume. The bathroom off his bedroom hadn’t been used all night. I think because you get to it through his closet. It meant that I had a clean place to bathe, but at that point, I have settled for the Ohio River that’s only a couple of blocks away. The sandals left brown stripes on my feet. My hair was matted to my head. The way the kilt of the costume was lined with a heavy cotton, so I felt like I’d been in a diaper all night. I didn’t want a shower. I wanted a bath. I filled the tub with steamy water and some bubble bath that Lisa must have left behind, climbed in the liquid heaven and lay back. The water started to cool, and I sat up and pressed the water out of my beard. Opening my eyes, I saw Marshall naked and looking at me from the doorway.

“I need to use the tub too,” he almost whispered.

“I know. Sorry, just give me a second.”

“Or I could join you.”

“Damn it Marshall,” I was almost laughing at him.

“It would be almost like the gym except it’s my apartment, and I’m slightly drunk.”

“And straight.” I noticed the tattoo on his hip. It wasn’t there a couple of days ago. I knew it well. It was the kanji for dragon exactly like the one I have on my calf. What the fuck?

“Not really,” he said with an impish smile.

“What?”

“Why do think Lisa and I split up?”

“You’re an ass with the women who love you,” I said with a shrug. He climbed in. “Fuck Marshall. Get out!”

“You.”

I wasn’t sure what the Hell was going wrong in his head. “What?”

“Not specifically you, but I told her there was someone else.”

“But you’re straight.”

“Yes, but I’m in love and lust with you. Look sometimes the right person is the wrong gender. I’m tired of pretending. I want more than your friendship. I can fight my feelings and be straight and miserable–probably mess up someone else’s life in the process, or I can give in and take a chance on happiness with you.” I couldn’t answer, for his tongue was in my mouth.

iv

I’m many things, but I’ve never been one of those bears out to convert the breeders. Honestly, it’s a lost cause. So I’ve got this guy breaking up with his girl friend to be with me. Yes, I find him attractive. He’s a mix of races and ethnicities that blend into one gorgeous male form. And while I’m flattered, he’s always just been my friend, my workout companion, my buddy. He’s cool. I can complain about the guys I date, and he listens. We get along famously. What if this is the best thing that could ever happen to me? Do I mess up a wonderful friendship? It’s a crap shoot for a guy who doesn’t play dice. I do the only thing that I can under the circumstances. I pull away from his embrace. “Jack don’t…”

“It’s too fast Marshall.”

“Next you’ll be singing ‘The Tango Jack.’”

“Marshall you’re drunk.”

“I thought…”

“I’d been waiting for this?” He nodded. ” No. I never considered it. You’ve been a friend to me, and that’s how I’ve always thought of you. It’s not that I don’t find you attractive. I’m afraid of losing a friend.”

“That won’t happen. I can’t imagine not having you as a friend.”

“What if we bomb as lovers? What happens when you decide you’re into women again.”

“I’m just in love with you.”

“You’re into me for the sex. Ever done a guy?” He shook his head. “One of the best women you’ve ever been with is no longer with you. Your best friend is gay, and you’re curious. I can understand. Beyond tonight, will you hold my hand in the theatre?” He looked at me blankly. “Will you take me to the company Christmas party?”

“We don’t have a Christmas party…” Yes, Marshallcakes, that’s what a boi wants to hear.

“That’s not the point. Marshall, what scares me worse than you wanting a woman is that you’ll want to go all gay.”

He reached for my beard and ran his fingers though it. “What is it with you and the labels? You accept me as this mix of ethnicity and race, and you don’t try to label me. You accept me as the straight guy who loves you as a friend. Why do I have to be sexually labeled? You’re prejudiced.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You can’t accept who I am because you can’t conceive who I am. A true friend would understand and empathize.”

“I do love you as a friend. I don’t want you to make a mistake you’ll regret. A true friend does what I’m doing.”

“So?” He’s great with those one word replies.

“When it doesn’t work…”

I saw rage on his face that I’ve never imagined could be there. “That’s why you’re single. You end the relationship before it happens. I could give you a litany of the men you’ve dumped before they could text you.”

“Shall I give an epic catalogue of the women who’ve graced your bed?” I watched as he clenched his fists. “I’m the first guy you’ve kissed.”

“You’re the only guy I’ve been attracted to.”

“You’re in love with me?”

“Yes–and lust.”

“Court me. Take me on a date. Buy me flowers, and a bottle of wine.”

“You hate cut flowers. It’s him,” his fist hit the tiled wall, and he didn’t flinch. “I’m not competing with him. I’m sick of him.” He grabbed my head.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen him. And let me go,” I said pulling from his grasp.

“But he was in your bed last night. He was in the tub with you when I walked in. What did he have besides a head full of blond hair and fingers callused from the guitar strings? You always complain he was a lousy fuck on the times he was sober enough to get it up, emotionally unsupportive…”

“Marshall don’t!”

“No, he fucked you up. I can’t have you because he didn’t want you.”

“Look,”

“No you son-of-a-bitch you look,” he yelled as he pushed me. ” I’m paying the price because he’s the world’s biggest asshole.”

“And because until last month you were into women. Marshall, if I fall for you and you dump me…”

“Do you know how much courage it took for this tonight? I had this all planned out. I nearly lost my nerve and let you leave with Betty. I was on the balcony when you walked out trying to decide if I could go through with it. And it’s not even that you aren’t interested. I could deal with that. You’re writing a script. I’m at your mercy. I can only win if it suits your plot. I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to sleep there or on the floor or the goddamned roof. It really doesn’t matter.”

I dried quickly and left the bathroom wrapped in a towel. “Marshall, I’m…” He hit me. It was a classic right jab to the nose. I was too shocked to feel the pain or realize the blood was dripping onto his carpet–at least it’s black.

“Go stand in the tub. I’ll get you some ice.” He wasn’t tender about it. He brought the ice in a sandwich bag. “You’ll be fine,” he said throwing the ice at him like a forward pass. His coldness hurt like his anger and his fist never could. He left the bathroom and me. I sank. I didn’t care about the blood. I didn’t care about anything. I lay my head against the wall too distraught to cry. I slept.

I woke as he jerked me to a standing position. Fear filled his eyes. There was blood everywhere. This time I was afraid and struggled from his grasp. “Jack, I’m sorry.”

“About waking me up?”

“Yes, I know how much you value your sleep.” I could only pull him to me and kissed him. “Jack, the blood.”

“It’s okay. I’m safe.”

“No, it’s just gross.” I laughed. He turned on the shower.

We cuddled in his bed without sex. I got up to use the bathroom.

OUUCH!

It’s done. I’ve been to the shop (Acme Ink Body Piercing), and my right nipple is now pierced with a barbell. Let me get the question many people ask taken care of first, and I’ll even be quite blunt about it: fuck yes, it hurt. I have a fairly decent toleration for pain, but this one was all but past my threshold. I’m okay with nipple play, and I’ve had more than one partner bite; this was a new experience. No, I didn’t scream, but I did grunt – loudly. Am I glad I did it? Yep. Will I go back? I’m not sure. While lying on the table I was sure that I no longer want a lorum, but now…. I’ll decide later. Let me say that I think women who have the little guy in the boat pierced are absolutely the bravest creatures on this earth.

The procedure took longer than I expected as everything was autoclaved – including cotton swabs and sets of rubber gloves – before he began. I had to sign a paper that went through the serialization process to prove it has been properly cleaned. The biohazzard area is well defined; I tried hanging my shirt there, but Neal, the piercer, pointed out it wasn’t a good idea at all. He wore a mask and explained the process step by step. He was clear about what to expect – even while marking the path of the barbell with genetin violet. He had me practice deep breathing, and at one point told me to relax and concentrate on my breathing – and slowing my heart rate down. I was a little nervous – okay more than. I knew it was coming, “not on this exhale but the next.” Still it was an experience I won’t soon forget.

Before Neal called me back, I had a wonderful conversation in the waiting room with a woman who was with a friend. Let me explain that Acme is in an old doctor’s office, so there’s a waiting room, and each artist has an exam room where he (or she) does the decoration of your choice. The friend was ahead of me getting a nose piercing. It was nice to have someone to chat with while waiting – especially since she didn’t have any judgement about the art. She has several tattoos herself, and just doesn’t like needles enough to get a piercing – other than her ears.

And I didn’t come gayly home and take to bed either. I went in the music store, bought socks at the running store, went for an ice coffee – very nice on this global warming day. I feasted on authentic enchiladas verdes, tres leche cake, and Jack’s Pumpkin Ale while watching an episode of Lair. It’s been a pretty decent day.

More Body Art

I’ve made the appointment for the new body art. By this time tomorrow evening, I’ll have a ring in my right nipple. I’m somewhat nervous about getting it, but I’m also really excited. Tattoos take a few minutes, but a piercing should go fairly quickly — shouldn’t it? Too bad there’s no body modification on the Service Auction list.

The Priapic Cardinal

I am the very model of a Priapic Cardinal
I’ve information sexual–pederastic, homo, and animal
I know some Queens in London
And a Leather Bear in Saracuse
My porn is sorted in its bin
In order categorical
I’m very well acquainted too
With matters Kama Sutrical
I’ve many cheerful facts about quadrapedalsexuals
I wear a dress when you confess
And think bad thoughts while saying Mass
I’ve seduced more altar bois than
Than ever have I litanies I’ve prayed
I use a pallium for bondage
And chrism as a lubricant
I can’t help it because I get off when I’m de-flowering Catecants
My pants have got some strange stains
With my vestments I’ll not trouble you
In short in matter sexual–pederastic, homo, and animal
I’m a the very model of a New Order Cardinal

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate

I’ve been working on one of my short stories this evening, and it amazes me that when under the spell of my Muse I can write effortlessly, but when she is off doing whatever Muses do when they aren’t inspiring, a simple sentence can be pure torture. Letters, stories, blogs, poems, simple business e-mails require serious, conscious thoughts when She isn’t sitting behind me. My delete key works double duty, and I wonder how I lived when everything I wrote required setting pen to paper – a true indulgence these days.

The quiet solitude of this weekend will be followed by a noisy gregarious one filled art – not just St. James. I have friends with openings on Friday and Sunday, so I will overindulgence on an ocular banquet and delight in my avarice for that which I don’t really want. For those who might wonder about such things, one can, oddly enough, get a hangover from art. I’ve had them before, and they have nothing to do with how much one imbibes at the reception – or the ubiquitous after party. In fact this version of a liquor never brewed might just be more intoxicating than the alcohol and possibly more dangerous.

Didn’t Socrates warn against the artist? Well, I’m the poet, the writer who’s even more jeopardous than the painter. My Muse challenges me to throw all caution to the wind and write.

As always, Dear Reader, I bid you peace.

Newfound Ecstacy

sprinkle me with faery dust
as i bind your to our bed
dance your song and
sing the dance
glad that we’re both men
tangle me in your web
as the candle wax i drop
a kiss upon your ankles
the two backed beast we make
brace the depths
and brace the shores
keeping it in mind
it is my hand what wields the whip
yet i’m the willing slave

Evs Again

I knew as soon as I clicked the lock I’d made a mistake. My keys, my clothes, my everything was in that locker, and I was wearing only a towel. There was nothing to do but get in the shower. At least I’d smell good. I did have a clean pair of boxer briefs in my hand, so I would be in more than just a towel when I called the front desk. Not that the trainer hasn’t seen me in just a towel before, but you know, it was different. When I got out, I called the front desk. No answer. So I asked a guy headed out to ask M to come in. In two minutes, in he walked with a smile and bolt cutters. Soon I had access to my stuff, and he even found me a loaner lock so I wouldn’t have to bring everything home;even though the gym has shower gel, I use my own. He said he’s always locking his keys in the house, his locker, and the car. I didn’t ask if he has a spare set around his neck. Actually, I wear my locker key on a chain when I work out and shower, but today left it in the locker and intended to leave the lock unlatched. I am not dead, ergo I am stronger.