I am attracted to the dark places.
The places others won't go.
The buildings in the back of the alley.
The homes with broken windows.
The mold along the baseboards.
I'm attracted to the dark places.
The people they attract.
The nod from the man at the coffee shop.
Who knows where I start my morning.
Who lives alone in a hotel room.
I am attracted to the dark places.
The chipped paint. The broken boards.
The swing set falling apart.
The smell of mildew.
The cracks in the linoleum.
The room in the back.
The bed downstairs.
I may look like I've escaped.
May appear finished, sophisticated, and of another world.
But the dark places.
That's where I'm from.
That's where I'm home.
The dark places are my escape.
To a world I know and understand.
To people who know not to ask.
Anything.
They know why you're there.
They know you belong.
At least for that moment.
Maybe forever.
You never leave the dark places.
Once you've been.
They make a mark.
You can't erase it.
And if you're from those places.
If the darkness is your home.
No matter where you go
No matter what you see
You belong to the dark places
You seek them out
And they find you.
I'm attracted to the dark places.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Thursday, April 23, 2015
In the parking lot
She finished her shift.
Putting sandwiches together.
Baking bread.
It was a long day.
Early morning to mid-afternoon.
She went to the gym so she could shower.
And then pulled her aging, dying SUV into a parking lot nearby.
Mostly empty.
And she was near the back.
He climbed in the backseat.
And she met him.
A kiss.
A second.
Hunger.
She wore a skirt, a button down shirt. No bra or panties.
She was blonde and tired and eager.
He was in his suit, no tie. Cuff links.
He took his shirt off. No need for any evidence.
He unzipped and removed his pants.
And sat in t-shirt and boxers as she straddled his lap.
And kissed him.
His hands removing her shirt.
Her hands rubbing him through thick cotton.
The tip of his cock peaked over his waistband.
She felt the wetness of his pre-cum
She inched closer to him as his hands moved from her breasts to her ass.
A finger penetrating her wetness
Massaging her clit.
Two fingers...
Then she was on him, on top, sliding him in
Moaning and saying his name
As he sat there, grabbing her ass
Letting her take him
Kissing her neck and breasts and lips
Their bodies together, held tight
Slowly working into sweet ecstasy
He came. Hard. Deep inside her.
And they held each other.
And sat in silence.
She moved off of him.
And handed him his pants.
He buttoned up his shirt.
And kissed her on the lips.
And got out of the car.
Back to his.
She went back to the gym. Took another shower.
And drove home.
Putting sandwiches together.
Baking bread.
It was a long day.
Early morning to mid-afternoon.
She went to the gym so she could shower.
And then pulled her aging, dying SUV into a parking lot nearby.
Mostly empty.
And she was near the back.
He climbed in the backseat.
And she met him.
A kiss.
A second.
Hunger.
She wore a skirt, a button down shirt. No bra or panties.
She was blonde and tired and eager.
He was in his suit, no tie. Cuff links.
He took his shirt off. No need for any evidence.
He unzipped and removed his pants.
And sat in t-shirt and boxers as she straddled his lap.
And kissed him.
His hands removing her shirt.
Her hands rubbing him through thick cotton.
The tip of his cock peaked over his waistband.
She felt the wetness of his pre-cum
She inched closer to him as his hands moved from her breasts to her ass.
A finger penetrating her wetness
Massaging her clit.
Two fingers...
Then she was on him, on top, sliding him in
Moaning and saying his name
As he sat there, grabbing her ass
Letting her take him
Kissing her neck and breasts and lips
Their bodies together, held tight
Slowly working into sweet ecstasy
He came. Hard. Deep inside her.
And they held each other.
And sat in silence.
She moved off of him.
And handed him his pants.
He buttoned up his shirt.
And kissed her on the lips.
And got out of the car.
Back to his.
She went back to the gym. Took another shower.
And drove home.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Angels....
That Ed Sheeran song.
The one about crack.
About the angel.
I sat in the parking lot of the public library... the dark, damp garage
And I cried.
I was the strange man who'd left my scent, who'd achieved a release
I was on top of her
And then I was not
And there was an envelope and a smile
I don't know what she needed
I don't think it was drugs
It didn't matter
she was always clean and had a job
But she needed something
And invited me in once a week
I guess there were probably others
I was an 11 AM on Thursday
Maybe it was just me
Maybe what was in the envelope once a week was enough
I cried
Because rather than connect with a real human... rather than dig in and open up
I paid for time
for the use of her
she was generous with her time... there wasn't a limit once I arrived
Except one time when her roommate texted to say she was leaving class early
Then I had to go
I learned from her
And she said it helped
The envelopes
And she seemed to enjoy our time
But when she messaged me once and said: "I just want to fuck you."
I thought: she needs some money.
And it became messy in my mind...
More than a transaction but less than a friend
She had a boyfriend.
A guy I'd known a few years back, but hadn't seen in some time
We talked about him once
And about how important it was for this to be quiet
A secret
A day in the week that was our time
And I wondered if they did the things we did -- she and her boyfriend
And I wondered if she liked his fucking better than mine
And I wondered what it would be like ... to be her boyfriend instead of a day on her calendar
And I cried
Because I couldn't imagine this being what she really wanted... a boyfriend and a man who met her once a week
That her need was so bad she'd provide this service no matter what else
Or was she lonely, too?
Was there more than a transaction for her after a time?
She moved.
On with her life.
Miles away.
I wished her a Merry Christmas... she wished me a Happy New Year
And that was the last we corresponded
But one day. After we were together.
I went to the library
And I heard that damn song
And I cried
The one about crack.
About the angel.
I sat in the parking lot of the public library... the dark, damp garage
And I cried.
I was the strange man who'd left my scent, who'd achieved a release
I was on top of her
And then I was not
And there was an envelope and a smile
I don't know what she needed
I don't think it was drugs
It didn't matter
she was always clean and had a job
But she needed something
And invited me in once a week
I guess there were probably others
I was an 11 AM on Thursday
Maybe it was just me
Maybe what was in the envelope once a week was enough
I cried
Because rather than connect with a real human... rather than dig in and open up
I paid for time
for the use of her
she was generous with her time... there wasn't a limit once I arrived
Except one time when her roommate texted to say she was leaving class early
Then I had to go
I learned from her
And she said it helped
The envelopes
And she seemed to enjoy our time
But when she messaged me once and said: "I just want to fuck you."
I thought: she needs some money.
And it became messy in my mind...
More than a transaction but less than a friend
She had a boyfriend.
A guy I'd known a few years back, but hadn't seen in some time
We talked about him once
And about how important it was for this to be quiet
A secret
A day in the week that was our time
And I wondered if they did the things we did -- she and her boyfriend
And I wondered if she liked his fucking better than mine
And I wondered what it would be like ... to be her boyfriend instead of a day on her calendar
And I cried
Because I couldn't imagine this being what she really wanted... a boyfriend and a man who met her once a week
That her need was so bad she'd provide this service no matter what else
Or was she lonely, too?
Was there more than a transaction for her after a time?
She moved.
On with her life.
Miles away.
I wished her a Merry Christmas... she wished me a Happy New Year
And that was the last we corresponded
But one day. After we were together.
I went to the library
And I heard that damn song
And I cried
Monday, April 20, 2015
Almost Carried Away
My heart was almost carried away.
I was almost lost in a cloud of love.
A haze of newness and desire.
I stood there. On the tile floor of a grocery store. I stood there.
And my heart stopped.
We talked. M and I.
We knew each other from a club on campus.
She was new, I'd been in it the whole time I was in college.
I was in grad school, she was a sophomore.
Her hair dark, her eyes even darker.
Her skin a delicate olive. About 5'4"
A swimmer and so incredibly fit.
I had just picked up a diamond engagement ring.
It was sitting in my car. I spent more than half of what I made in a semester from my grad assistantship on that ring.
In 6 months, I would be married.
But right then. As I saw M, I knew.
Knew that I should ask her. That I should get on my knee and propose...which was silly, because the ring was in my car and I'd have to explain that ... but it was what I knew I should do.
There was a connection I could not explain.
I would see her again. And again. And again. Even after I was married, we corresponded.
And I wondered.
What would have happened had I been carried away... Had I asked her to marry me on the floor of that grocery store. Or at the very least, asked her for coffee. Forgotten about the ring for a bit.
My heart was carried away. But not too far.
And one day, I received a message. An email. From M's mother, who was using M's email. Because.
Because M had died. In a fire in her apartment. And her mother said there were a handful of people with whom M had corresponded regularly. That she'd even talked with her family about me. And that the only way to get in touch was this email, which they hadn't accessed until after the funeral.
Had I taken her to coffee, would my life be different? Would she be alive?
Or would it have been just one more moment... my heart slightly more carried away... our lives continuing on their inevitable paths?
If I'd asked her to marry me, what would she have said?
My heart was (almost) carried away. Once.
I was almost lost in a cloud of love.
A haze of newness and desire.
I stood there. On the tile floor of a grocery store. I stood there.
And my heart stopped.
We talked. M and I.
We knew each other from a club on campus.
She was new, I'd been in it the whole time I was in college.
I was in grad school, she was a sophomore.
Her hair dark, her eyes even darker.
Her skin a delicate olive. About 5'4"
A swimmer and so incredibly fit.
I had just picked up a diamond engagement ring.
It was sitting in my car. I spent more than half of what I made in a semester from my grad assistantship on that ring.
In 6 months, I would be married.
But right then. As I saw M, I knew.
Knew that I should ask her. That I should get on my knee and propose...which was silly, because the ring was in my car and I'd have to explain that ... but it was what I knew I should do.
There was a connection I could not explain.
I would see her again. And again. And again. Even after I was married, we corresponded.
And I wondered.
What would have happened had I been carried away... Had I asked her to marry me on the floor of that grocery store. Or at the very least, asked her for coffee. Forgotten about the ring for a bit.
My heart was carried away. But not too far.
And one day, I received a message. An email. From M's mother, who was using M's email. Because.
Because M had died. In a fire in her apartment. And her mother said there were a handful of people with whom M had corresponded regularly. That she'd even talked with her family about me. And that the only way to get in touch was this email, which they hadn't accessed until after the funeral.
Had I taken her to coffee, would my life be different? Would she be alive?
Or would it have been just one more moment... my heart slightly more carried away... our lives continuing on their inevitable paths?
If I'd asked her to marry me, what would she have said?
My heart was (almost) carried away. Once.
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