| Passion of The Christ |
[Mar. 12th, 2004|01:56 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  depressed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Beach Boys "409" | ] |
Lat night my best friend and I went to see "The Passion of the Christ", and well...there are no words. I spent almost half the movie covering my eyes, sobbing into my hands, and according to my friend, shaking my head saying "No, no, no", over and over. It was horrifying. I don't know how highly I reccomend it. |
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| Boys in Bangkok |
[Mar. 6th, 2004|09:40 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  frustrated | ] |
| [ | music |
| | "American Girl", Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers | ] |
This American girl is missing one particular American boy who's traveling through Thailand, Bangkok, and Lord knows where else. Thailand...how exotic is that? I wish more than anything I was there with him. He's at a full-moon party right now on the beach (supposedley there's something like 20,000 people that go to these fullmoon parties). I just miss him I guess. Plus we've been talking for eight months, maybe more, and we STILL haven't had sex! There are particular circumstances surounding this, but the principle of the matter remains! I am no different than any other red-blooded American girl!
Thank God for batteries.
"The way he moved, it was in sin, so sweet and true, always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for..." |
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| Recipe For Stars |
[Mar. 5th, 2004|07:36 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  artistic | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Damien Rice "Volcano" | ] |
This is the paper that's going to make me famous. The whole class agreed that I put all their writing to shame, even though my teacher only gave me a "B". He said I got an "A" for courage though. He also said with a little grammatical revision, it was definintley publishable. Well, we'll see.
Recipe For Stars
I could tick them off for you on my fingers, one by one (but
never two by four). Brett, Jason, Eric, a couple Mikes, Alex,
Mark...but to you they'd be nothing but names. To me though, they're
something entirely different. They're a time capsule, and stepping
stone, a cocoon, a shelter, a heartbreak, a longing, a repulsion.
They're halfwits, playthings, partners. Lovers, in any other sense of
the word. Far more than some women, far less then few. Or at least that
any healthy red-blooded girl will admit too.
"You'll never forget your first Sarah, so make sure it's special".
These words resonate in my ears almost seven years later, when my
mother first spoke them too me. I was lying on her bed, sixteen years
old, watching her fold laundry. I remember exactly how a patch of sun
felt on the back of my hand, how when I turned my palm up, it seemed
like I could put the sunshine in my pocket and walk around with it next
to my thigh. My hot secret.
I was seventeen, and his name was Brett Sullivan. He marked me,
left a hickey the size of a silver dollar where my Adam’s apple would
be if I were a man. It happened at 7:30 on a Thursday morning in
October, just before my eighteenth birthday. He took me on the floor,
my head supported by a pillow in a leopard print pillowcase, with The
Smashing Pumpkins crooning in the background. The condom his roommate
gave him was blue, and to me it looked more like a lollipop minus the
little white stick, instead of something created to prevent pregnancy
and disease.
He pretended to love me at least. In the end though, all the
pretending in the world didn't ease that pain. All it really did was
make the hurt worse. It like someone was slowly shaving away layers of
my heart with a razor. You don't feel it at first, and then the next
thing you know, you're bleeding all over the place and the sting
becomes unbearable. Brett took a long time to heal. I still have a
scar, if you'd care to see.
Moving onto Jason. He was my first proper tongue kiss, when I was
fifteen, but second on my list of men. Jason was huge down there,
definitely NOT Jewish, (if you catch my drift), and British. His body
looked like that statue of David, minus the ridiculous fig leaf. When
it was over, he took a shower and made himself toast, heavy with jam
(English people really like jam, I hate the stuff). After he left, I
slept for almost thirty-six hours, the velvet escape of sleep being the
only thing to fill the void in me that seemed to grow bigger every day.
Mike Sinnot was a conquest, and screwing him was probably the
bitchiest thing I’ve ever done in my life to date. He was what I’d call
pretty, he looked like Mark McGrath from Sugar Ray. He was my high
school friend Trina’s very recent ex-boyfriend, but she and I’d stopped
talking because someone started a rumor that he and I and fucked. It
wasn’t true at the time, but I made it true. My parent’s were gone for
the weekend and there was a huge party going on at my house. I took him
in the bathtub first, then the sheepskin rug, and as the final act of
rebellion, in my parent’s bed. They found out about the party
when they came back, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I was kicked out a month later.
I was very, very drunk that Christmas, and that's when I got fucked
for the first time. His name was Eric; he was my older brother's
roommate. He was a total loser, 22 years old, working at Subway
Sandwiches and he blew most of his money on Old English and herbs. To
this day, my brother is not blessed with the sacred knowledge of Eric
and I. He'd kill Eric, and then go to work on me. He was an awful lay,
anyways.
I met William on the train ride to from San Francisco to Denver. He
and his brother were from the Big Apple, New York City, and were
traveling around the U.S. for kicks. I was on my way to start a new
life in the grand Midwest. I never slept with William, he had fucking
awful hair and I needed a spittoon after kissing him, he was so
slobbery, but I did let him do other stuff to me. It started out of
boredom, but ended as my first orgasm from a man. When it was time for
me to go, he wrote me a very sweet letter which he slipped into my hand
as I waited for my mother on the platform to pick me up. I don't
remember what it said, although I do remember he had very feminine
handwriting. I think it got thrown out. Just as well.
I really behaved myself for the next year and a half. I enrolled in
school, bought a car, and was trying to staying focused. Things were
actually going pretty good until I met Mark. I hadn't had sex in well
over a year, so to be perfectly honest, I was gagging for it. Mark was
handsome, except for his eyes, which were always glazed over. One never
really knew what he was thinking, but they knew it wasn't good. I won't
go into the details of Mark, but mentally and emotionally, he really
went to work on me. I left the relationship physically in one piece,
but my idea of men and sex and love was shattered. Things really went
downhill for awhile after that.
For his birthday, I got Toby a case of beer and a blowjob. I
regularly used my sex to manipulate and control Mick. I let my
inhibitions go with Michael, and discovered new frustrations (along
with new levels of pleasure) in Bob. I found a friend in Joe, but a
fucking awful lover. I learned the importance of chemistry (and lack
thereof) with Robert. I learned with Andy that no matter how good the
head they give is, sometimes the hanger just will not park the plane.
Then Alex came along.
I met him in a karaoke bar at the beginning of the summer. He was
drunk as a sailor, with thick, wavy auburn hair and a sinewy build. He
wore studded belts and real vintage T-shirts, not that Gap shit. He
also had a voice to envy Damien Rice and Ben Harper. I sat at my table,
falling deeper in lust with each passing second as he wailed "Major
Tom", by David Bowie.
Alex was the picture perfect summer fling. He wrote me a song
called "Lucky Charms", which he'd only play for me when he was tanked.
I only remember snippets of it..."She wears faded jeans and tight t-
shirts"..."Take me on the kitchen floor"..."Comic books and VCR's, tell
me that it's in the stars". It made me cry.
He left for NMU in the fall, and he's dating some chick who's five
years his senior now. I'll bet she doesn't have a kitchen floor like
mine though, with a recipe for the stars on the ceiling. I'll bet she
doesn't make his left thigh twitch like I did. I could have loved him,
if given another chance.
A part of me crumpled when Alex left me in favor of the New Mexico
heat. My hair, long and thick and blonde, that he'd loved so much, I
dyed black. I got thoroughly, sloppily drunk one night, and before I
threw up, I took a lady bic and sheared all but a few inches of it off.
I couldn't stand the girl I'd been over the summer, and the quickest
thing one can change about themselves is their appearance.
The tears seemed to come at strange times too. Grocery shopping, I'd
see a box of Chicken in a Bisket and start sobbing. Once morning, I was
driving down Alameda and Areosmith came on the radio. I had to pull
over and collect myself, plus the tears were impairing my vision. Brett
had been a sting on my heart, a flesh wound. Alex was a full body
bruise.
I'd like to end this on a happy note, say that I've met some great
guy, that we're engaged, and that every night we watch "Friends" and
eat pasta and our sex life envies that of Brad Pitt and Jennifer
Aniston. I don't though. I don't know much more than when I first
started on that leopordskin pillow with the candy colored condom. What
I do know is what pain feels like, and what power feels like. I know
what it feels like to fuck someone, and what if feels like to be fucked
and get fucked over. I know what it feels like to get head in the
bathroom of a train going cross-country. I know what if feels like to
want someone so badly you'll take them on your kitchen floor, among the
pizza boxes and dustpan, the cat looking at you curiously. And that's
got to account for something, right? |
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