Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Sometimes, Life is Like a Movie

So, there I am, talking about my "conflicted" life on Facebook and on Instagram with a photo revealing that I am reading both the Bible and a raunchy s & m fiction book simultaneously. Well, here's another little scene to paint a picture of my character:

It is noon. I've decided to tan in my skimpy-ish little animal-print bikini. Push-up top with thin straps, bottoms with little pink ties. I lay on the grass and opt for my sultry and "sinful" reading. After having had a few much-too-revealing conversations with my grandfather, picking up the book in such little clothing feels...a little strange. But I go for it. This is me. Age 26, sexy, in shape, tan building steadily like it never has before. And moreover. sex deprived--for two whole months!

I lay basking gloriously when my grandfather comes out on the porch. "Have the sprinklers sprunkled?" he asks. The ones that wet the mulch have been on throughout the entire duration of my bronzing, so I answer yes, as water from the nearest contraption gently trickles down my ankles, barely there. He nods and explains that he will be downstairs watching a movie if I'd like to join, and in response, I inform him that I'll be down in about 30 minutes, returning to my dirty erotica.

About two minutes later, I wonder how the grass stays green in this ninety-something-degree heat, if the sprinklers only reach the mulch.

And as if on cue, the real sprinklers turn on. COLD! Fifty-something-degrees of cold--rather ironic since I'm reading Fifty Shades of Grey--showering atop my baking body!

I rise up quickly in reflex, forgetting that my top has been unfastened, and my bottoms have been wedged in my ass crack for maximum sun exposure. As I spring forward, my breasts become exposed. I try to remedy the situation while simultaneously realizing that this act, without re-fastening, will be unsuccessful. I give up and, instead, reach for my towel to cover my breasts, but I'm standing on it and nearly catapult my own body straight into the ground. I jump off, gather my belongings, grasping them to my chest in a grip that I am positive has me looking as if I suffer from cerebral palsy, and run, wedgie-assed and topless onto the porch, yelling repeatedly "shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!"

Here I am, "sinful" smut reader in "god's country", running around topless in the sprinklers.

I suppose I can honestly say that this book really has got me wet!

ba-dum chhhhh!

Little Packages

Old Spice for
an old flame;
Nivea beard scrub to
face the harsh reality;
Manchego cheese
with my whine,
hoping to let the man go,
but he's still there,
A Creeper in my mind.

Magnum says
he's too big in my head;
Sunscreen because
I have no protection;
Pathfinder as I
find my way without him;
Pinot Noir for the
dark alleyways he still
absently walks me down.

It's the little packages
That bring the biggest pains.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

The Many Ghosts of You

Pillows no longer suffice
for tangled up legs and bodies,
and delete buttons only exist
on keyboards and
not in the mind.

Matching puzzle pieces almost
always fit together in that
unchanging way.
Maybe we were pressed against one
just hard enough to seem
like our colors and lines were meant to be.
A false connection.

And among all the uncertainty
when it's dark and quiet
and the lonely night is
tugging at my brains,
the one thing that I know is this:
blankets pulled tight over-head
won't suffice in protecting me from
the many ghosts of you.