Let’s Talk About The Weather

Sun, clouds, weather, cloudy dayShe noticed the gray hair that was starting to appear in his beard as she tapped her fingers on the wooden bar surface. He snuck a glance at her hands. Something familiar, but not. Stared at the ring for a fraction of a second, then turned away and fixed his attention on the bar maid for the next few minutes. Mojitos. The pint-size kind. The drinks are the same. Everything else is different.

-“How have you been?”
-“Good. You know….Busy….Working a lot,” she said. Continue reading

Coffin Therapy

coffinI’d come over his place for coffin sessions once a month or so. We always planned it ahead of time. He knew what I was there for. As soon as I’d walk in the door, he’d pick me up, carry me to the basement and place me in the coffin, which was already open for me to lie down in. We didn’t speak. For all intents and purposes, I was already a corpse. He’d then close the lid and leave me there for a while. I never really knew how long “a while” was until I got out and asked him. Sometimes it’d be just half an hour. Other times it’d be two hours or more. All sense of time tends to lose meaning once you’re in that black hole.

When I’d make plans with him, it’d also be quick and easy. I’d e-mail or text him asking if I can come over on a specific day or time and he’d say yes or suggest another time and we’d both know it was for this. If I wanted to see him for anything else, I’d usually ask him out or to come over. Otherwise, he knew what was up. Continue reading

This Dance, Again

naked womanAs soon as I walked into the apartment, I could tell there was someone else there. It wasn’t a smell or a sound or anything like that, I just knew. As I’ve come to know and expect most things from her.

I set my briefcase down in the kitchen, took off my coat, hung it on the back of a chair and poured myself a glass of water. But I could only stall for so long. Continue reading

When He Comes Through Town

storm, wind gusts, dark cloudsWhen he comes through town, a storm passes through my body. All the windows and doors swing open. If they don’t open on their own, he pries and prods them until they do. A gust of wind rushes in. And for as long as he deems necessary, I breathe and choke on sweat and skin and nails and hair and saliva and the intermingling of his cum with mine. Continue reading

Cruel Intentions, Great Expectations

Placebo, Brian Molko, Joseph Llanes, Rolling Stone

Brian Molko, Placebo’s frontman, rocking it out in Los Angeles. Photo by Joseph Llanes.

I recently saw the British alternative rock band, Placebo, play a concert in New York and fell in love with them all over again. So many of their lyrics speak to me on a deep level and at the same time, they’re so simple, that I think, “I could’ve thought of that myself!” But I didn’t think of that myself. That’s the thing about great literature, poetry and song writing: the writers find ways to concisely articulate something we’ve been feeling for some time that we haven’t yet managed to put into words quite as well.

Seeing the concert reminded me of how I get introduced to them: I heard their song Every Me Every You play in the opening of the movie Cruel Intentions, which came out in 1999 (when I was 16). Both the movie and the song really resonated with me at the time. The beginning of the song went like this: Continue reading

Paulo Coelho on Sexual Deviance

While reading Bo Blaze‘s book, I was reminded of this passage I loved from Paulo Coelho‘s Veronika Decides to Die, which I read some time ago. So I thought I’d post it for you here, too. Hope he (Paulo, that is) won’t mind that I copied a whole two pages out of his material, I do love his work ever so much. Reading a sixth book of his (11 Minutes) now.

Here is the text:

“In his dissertation on Vitriol, he would have to include a long chapter on sex. After all, so many neuroses and psychoses had their origins in sex. He believed that fantasies were electrical impulses from the brain, which, if not realized, released their energy into other areas.

During his medical studies, Dr. Igor read an interesting treatise on sexual deviance, sadism, masochism, homosexuality, coprophagy, coprolalia, voyeurism—the list was endless.

At first, he considered these things examples of deviant behavior in a few maladjusted people incapable of having a healthy relationship with their partners. As he advanced his profession as psychiatrist, however, and talked to his patients, he realized that everyone has an unusual story to tell. His patients would sit down in the comfortable armchair in his office, stare hard at the floor, and begin a long dissertation on what they called “illness” (as if he were not the doctor) or perversions (as if he were not the psychiatrist charged with deciding what was and wasn’t perverse). Continue reading


blue circles

The brown sign above the door reads “Aroma” and next to it is a drawing of a coffee cup with steam rising from it. We walk in, looking a bit delirious as always. In the morning, the aroma here, instead of the one implied, is always that of lemon-scented Pine Sol. It’s 8 o’clock. We sit at the same round table with tired eyes, tired hands, and tired thoughts, having been typing all night. What for?

Our waitress approaches—the same one with washed-out red hair—looking more tired than we are. Tired from working in this place her whole life. She must be in her forties now. She smiles like someone forced to say “cheese” for a photograph and comes to confirm that we will be having “our usual.”

“Two black coffees and plain bagels with cream cheese, toasted? Right?

We both nod. You grunt something that sounds like a “yes, please” in addition.

I stare out the window. There is a young couple walking by, holding hands. The two of us have stopped doing that long ago. They are dressed all in black with their long unbuttoned coats flying behind them. Hair loose, wavy, and unruly, down past their waists, also flying in the wind. They look like a cross between hippies and goths—not quite sure which way they want to be different. They are staring straight ahead, not talking, walking fast, with immense purpose. Seemingly unaware of being on this street, in this city, in this country, on this planet. As if they are from another world. I wonder where they are going; what their story is. No, no more stories. I’m tired of stories. There are already too many of them running amok in my mind and fist fighting one another to be written. Continue reading

The Julie Chapters (part 1 of tk)

“So how was jail, Julie?”

“It was the best experience of my life,” she says.

“How so?” I ask, looking puzzled.

“It made me stronger. It made me tougher. It taught me a lot. After you survive in a place with no heat, no hot water and where everyone is trying to kill you or rape you all the time, you can make it anywhere. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

She tells me this even as she’s trying to convince me that she was wrongfully imprisoned and charged. Hhhmm… Perhaps Frank Sinatra’s song should be updated to: “If you can make it in a New York jail, you can make it anywhere.” Continue reading

The Dina Chapters (part 1 of tk)


My friend Chris often used to say that the two best sounds in the world are that of a woman’s heels against the pavement and that of a champagne bottle being uncorked.

I think of that often when I walk down city streets in high heels. Click, click, click. Regardless of where I’m going, it somehow implies a purpose… I’m going somewhere… I’m moving forward. I’m walking. And I’m making a sound. I’m being heard.

This time I’m walking to meet an old friend. One of my original partners in crime. The one with whom it all began. I want to look into her eyes… I want to ask her where we went wrong. I want to ask her where we were supposed to stop. But she will probably just laugh it off.

“Don’t be silly,” I can imagine her saying. “It’s not like we killed anyone.”

And then we’ll get a drink. Maybe we’ll even open a bottle of champagne… and celebrate. Celebrate what? Celebrate life. Celebrate having survived. Celebrate our adventures; old and new; bad and good. It was all in the name of experience, right? Cheers. Here’s to experience. Clink, clink, clink.

The noise of approaching fire trucks suddenly pierces the air and interrupts my train of thought. There are always sirens in my head.