Rated R

It was a game we played.

You would come home after a long day. I would be lying on the couch in a technology induced stupor. First thing you'd do would be to remove your underwear from underneath that nice summer dress you liked to wear.

One step. Two. Passing the coffee table, you would walk up to the couch. And stand for a moment. I would pretend not to notice.

"Did you read today in the paper that Russia is having financial troubles once again?"

I would non-chalantly nod and return to my stupor. This time slightly aroused.

"A new militant faction in Bosnia have taken over a town and several U.N. peacekeepers have been slain by gunmen."

Now, the game would begin phase 2. I let my arm lie limp off the edge of the couch, and I would softly carress the floor with my right hand. All this time, we never once made eye contact.

Standing over me, you would step on to the couch. I would lift my arms as if it was completely natural and I would do that no matter if you was there or not. Crouching over my face, you would readjust your sitting position that your dress would lie open right over my head, knees just above my ears, sitting almost directly over my face. All I could see would be the delicate light slightly shimmer through your dress, the slight tuff of blondish-red public hair located right over my eyes, and the soft pink flesh of your thighs.

I would then let out a long slow breath, right between your thighs.

You, sitting facing the book shelf, would pick a tome, seeming at random. This time it was Leonard Cohen's Stranger Music, Selected Poems and Songs. Opening to a miscellaneous page, this time it was "You tore your shirt" from page 169. You would start to read.

"You tore your shirt
to show me where
you had been hurt
I had to start"

At that point, my tongue would begin to carress your thighs, and all the nice places in between. First starting slow, I would slowly start with a gentle touch, savouring the moment. You would continue to read.

"I put my hand,
on what I saw
I drew it back
It was a claw"

Still reading, it was like I no longer existed in your world. A sigh would escape your soft gentle mouth everyonce in a while. My tongue would start to dart between your soft lips everyonce in a while. Kissing and carressing, only using my tongue. Once forgetting the Leonard Cohen, your concentration now broken for a second, you repeated.

"Did you read today in the paper that Russia is having financial troubles once again?"

We did this for hours. Whenever I would start to tire, you would put your hand softly between my thighs, and make one gentle stroke up towards my chest. Stop. And we would continue revitalized. Sometimes on to the dawn.

"Your skin is cured
You sew your shirt
You throw me food
and change my dirt"

It was a game we played.





(Originally written in summer of 1999 -- reposted here 'cause I liked it)

Here's to the few....

I dunno.

Sometimes nostalgia gets the best of me. I forget why I shy away from thinking about the past. Almost 9 years ago I left my home province. Wasn't that huge a deal, I left when given the opportunity when I felt that I had nothing to run away from. I was finally content with myself, had friends, a job, a beat up old car, and even some self esteem.

Where does this all come in? Well tonight, I started Google'n people I used to know. I will stressed "used to" since I am horrible at keeping in touch, and put very little effort into it, especially where parts of my past where I may have been eccentric, off, etc. Maybe I am WAAAAAY too critical of myself. Sure thing. But it gets to me, every last mistake I've every made. It gets too me.

So I'll start off my blog, which may ramble and pulsate with a quote from one of my greatest literary references (though the last few albums have been *ahem* crap and a money grab) from Leonard Cohen --- "Here's to the few you forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care" (The night comes on).

I'll reiterate it again "Here's to the few you forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care".

Bless you, who ever you are, or should that be whom ever you are.