We meet for lunch at Buddha's Belly around 1 p.m.  As I approach him at our window-side booth, he smiles at me, shaking his head. What is it with L.A. guys and the way I dress? You'd swear they've never seen a girl in a suit and tie.

Whatev...

I sit across from him with a citrus iced tea waiting for me. How considerate. We exchange pleasantries: He tells me about married life. How his newborn baby boy--Solomon Charles--is the best thing that's ever happened to him, minus all the poopy diapers. He tells me about his rescue dog--a Jack Russell terrier. He bores me with details of the family vaycay to Maine and how the missus discovered her latent allergy to shellfish. She can choke on a lobster for all I fucking care. He asks me questions about this musician I'm so interested in lately. Coy. Gotta play that one close to my chest.

I'm a treasure trove of excellent stories about nothing at all. I talk shit about all the friends I'm no longer friends with. I show off my boots. I brag about my new weekly writer's stipend. I attack him with a sarcastic rendition of "All I Could Do Was Cry" Etta James (he responds by hitting me on the cheek with a spit-ball). I kiss hellos with the hostess who is the baby sister of one of the friends I'm no longer friends with. I turn off my cell phone when it rings, feeling relieved to suddenly have something to do with my hands other than nervously rubbing the sweat from them under the table.

This is going well.

Of course, two years ago, I could be found at this young man's former Mt. Washington bungalow. This is before the wife--a girl who snidely refers to me as his "Sally Hemings moment." This is before the Passat and the haircut. Before the starched Dockers, Penguin shirts and unfortunate switch to Fred Perry canvas lace-ups.

I doubt that he remembers, but it was on this day in 2007 that he walked through the door--me, just steps behind him. My eyes fixed to the back pockets of his his jeans. His Jordans splashing color over the parquet panels with each step. His deep V-neck clinging to his back with a touch of sweat. Sensing that things were about to get...interesting...I quickly rid myself of my panties. I slipped out of my stilettos (these have since been replaced by a massive collection of kitten heels and flats. How quickly times change). I followed him into the bathroom. He closed the door behind us. I felt no fear or apprehension as he guided me by the shoulders over to the edge of the tub and with firm, suggesting hands, pushed me down into a prim sitting position.

My mouth watered as he slyly unzipped his pair of American Apparel skinnies, daring me with round green eyes to protest.

I did not.

With my hands rested in my lap like a good little girl, I allowed him the pleasure of drawing me to his cock; I parted my lips just enough to take him in. I remembered to breathe through my nose and not let his girth overwhelm me. I gurgled. And slurped. But more importantly, I complied with amazing grace as he removed his dick from my mouth nearly ten minutes later, gently took my chin in hand and poured a wicked load of creamy and sweet cum into my mouth like it was a dumpster.

I was also a willing participant when, he removed my dress and bent me over the sink. Then proceeded to fuck me for the next half-hour as the anthems of neighboring hipsters, ranging from "Dreams" by TV on the Radio to "Starman," covered by Seu Jorge played in the background.

Nope. I don't think he remembers that moment one bit.

That is until we prepare to part ways. After goodbye chit-chat, he kisses me on the cheek then takes my chin in his hand. I anxiously grip his arm like someone suspended from a cliff. He stares down at me, smiling.

"Damn, you always did have the prettiest mouth," he says.

He gives me what I am certain will be our last kiss ever then disappears into 3rd St. Promenade. © 2009.

In my adolescent years, I often fantasized about being the type of woman that men fought over. I finger-banged myself into a tizzy over the idea that one day, I would find myself caught between two lovers: one would be the sensible and dependable young man who would never leave me and would find all my whims "charming." The other? He would be a little bit dangerous. His hair and eyes would be dark and he'd be a bit rough around the edges, with all the sex appeal of someone like Vincent Gallo. But like I said, these were the thoughts of my adolescent years...the same years in which I sported a gheri curl and thought acid washed jeans were fashionable and chic.

This is why, on a brightly lit street, in the heart of Hollywood, I am utterly mortified. Just a few steps away from me are two alpha males. I guess you could say that I am "romantically linked" to both. Carlos, the sensible one, and Tristan, the man with mystique are exchanging words in front of a popular nightclub with all the class of a couple of hood-rats. The whole scenario might have been avoided if I'd just remembered the words "Plymouth Rock."

You see, I had an invite to a ridiculous new club that clearly took its cues from 20's speakeasies and old reruns of Sex and the City, requiring a secret code to enter at the door. That code was "Plymouth Rock." However, when my friends and I arrived and were greeted by the apish, Nordic doorman, those words escaped me. I couldn't remember them to save my life. I jumped on my cell phone, calling my friend who had gotten me the invite in the first place. I called everyone in my phone to be exact, but it was no use. No one was available. As embarrassing as it was, my entourage (consisting of Carlos and several of our close friends) was promptly turned away.

As a result, we collectively made the decision to go to a slightly less exclusive, but equally pompous spot on Hollywood Blvd. However, unbeknownst to me, Tristan was there that night, paying a quick social visit to a good friend of his who worked as a bartender on the main floor.

No sooner did our group walk in--Carlos and I hand-in-hand--before we were immediately confronted by Tristan.

"What's this?" he demanded.

I stopped suddenly and stood in horror, releasing Carlos' hand from my own. This tipped Carlos off and he didn't look happy.

"Do you know him?" he asked me, sternly.

Tristan approached. "Of course she knows me," he said, grabbing my wrist. "She's my girlfriend."

With those words, chaos erupted.

"Wait--THIS is him? THIS guy?"

"What the hell? You told me you dumped this asshole."

"Asshole? Who the fuck are you calling 'asshole,' faggot?"

"Faggot?" Tristan moved in, grabbing at his own crotch. "Yeah, I got your faggot right here!"

Right as the first punch was being thrown, a bouncer appeared and tossed all of us out onto the street. Onlookers seemed more amused than anything. But not me.

Which brings me back to the beginning. I watch as they continue to exchange words, and am frightfully disgusted when fist-to-face contact is finally made. Back and forth, they hurl insults, spit at one another, and continue to play "Who's got the bigger dick?" As a crowd gathers, I realize how lame and embarrassing the whole scenario is, thinking to myself, "This isn't nearly as cool as it looks in the movies!"

I am so bored with the whole ordeal, in fact, that instead of seeing who wins my honor, I slip away and catch a cab to In-n-Out Burger for a grilled cheese, fries, and a Lemon-Up. © 2007.

Jameson is a hottie of an intern that I work with from time to time at an Urgent Care facility in East L.A. He has become the object of my affections, now that I've transfered programs. Jameson is so sweet. He's shy, and soft spoken. He listens to Sufjan Stevens, wears Mr. Rogers-esque cardigans (one for every day of the week), and is one pouty expression away from being totally emo. Translation: I am a woman, obsessed.

Jameson and I flirt like crazy. Actually--and more accurately--I flirt with him and he blushes. But every once in a while, I catch him undressing me with his eyes. And each time he gets caught, he has the same expression. He simply bites his lip, smiles, and winks.

As the weeks go by, I notice Jameson becoming more and more demonstrative with his affections. He brings me back a Snickers bar from the gas station across the street from where we work. When I offer to pay for it, he simply kisses me on the forehead and walks away. For our break, I take him to Fred 62, and instead of him sitting across from me in our booth, he sits right beside me and feeds me fried calimari once my order arrives. And then there's the end of our shifts. Once we've prepared to leave, Jameson walks me to my car, carrying my messenger bag for me the whole way. He stands across from me at my car, hanging on my every word. Which is stupid, because I'm not exactly lucid after being awake all night. But it's nice to be doted on by such an attentive guy.

It's even nicer when weeks later, that flirtation moves from innocent and sweet to pervy and completely inappropriate for the workplace. This once-shy fellow has morphed into a grabby, smut-mouthed little beggar. I get risque sentiments whispered in my ear during staff meetings. He writes me little notes of provocation to assure me that he will do ANYTHING to get me off. I'm charmed. I'm flattered. Hell, I'm horny. So, I take him up on the offer.

It's a slow night. Nobody's stupid kid has stuck pennies up their noses or in his/her newborn baby sister's ass tonight. No gang-bangers have been shot. And praise Jesus! No drunken assholes have taken an open hand to their old ladies. Yep, all the stars shine bright for us. For our break, instead of rushing out of there to grab a quick bite to eat, we have decided to give our passion a go. Why not? After next month, we won't be working together any longer. So that way, if it gets awkward afterwards, we'll only have four weeks to suffer through.

So, in an abandoned office next to Trauma Room 4, we sneak in, locking the door behind us. Jameson nervously stands at the far end of the room, well out of reach. I become a little nervous that maybe I'm about to be rejected or something. That is, until Jameson starts to undress. First, he takes off his sweater--the lime green one with the moth holes on the sleeves. Then, he begins to unbutton his faded plaid shirt. I decide to follow suit, but Jameson stops me.

"Don't!" he whispers. "I wanna do it."

I smile at him and continue to watch as he strips down to his boxers. His body is rail thin and death pallor white. But I guess that's just part of his charm. Then after a brief pause for dramatic effect, off come the boxers.

My heart stops. I look down. Then I look Jameson in his eyes. His normally shy countenance has given way to an all-new confident expression. And my predatory nature has immediately been replaced by complete amazement.

It's not everyday that a girl encounters royalty.

All hail, Prince Albert! © 2007.

My mobile rings at 3:43p Friday afternoon. I pick it up and look at the screen: It's Neil. Neil is the former best friend of a recently kicked-to-the-turb-by-yours-truly guy I was dating for most of the summer. He is a scholar from New Zealand and I have to admit: I'm smitten.

Sex is not the cornerstone of our relationship with each other. But what Neil can do with labia and a clitoris is truly something for the history books. That is why, when he calls, I answer--AND QUICK!

"Where are you?" he asks.

"I'm in Santa Monica. Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm leaving for Phuket tomorrow morning, remember?"

"Oh, shit, yeah. I forgot all about that... What's up with queen's minions and Thailand? That place looks skanky as hell."

He laughs. "First of all, the Aussies are the queen's minions, not us--"

"Go kiwi!"

"--And secondly, Thailand is beautiful. So are the women."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Slave trade pussy and Tsunamis is NOT my idea of a good time, but I hope you have fun."

"That's why I'm calling. I wanted to see you before I go."

I smile. I smile big. This is a nice privelege. One for the road. It will be a long month without his lips on my "lips."

"Yeah, sure," I tell him. "I'll stop by tonight."

"It has to be now."

"Huh?"

"I said, 'It has to be now.' I've got a lab from 6:30 until 9:30. My flight leaves LAX at 3am and there's all that security to go through. I was thinking we could get together now. TRUST ME. I'll make it worth your while..."

Here's my dilemma:

I once heard a character in a movie say that everywhere in L.A. takes 15 minutes to get to. Apparently, creative license is not just limited to plot these days, but is also alive and well in dialogue. I am trapped in gridlock on the 10 Freeway, with no end in sight. I have just gotten onto the interstate at the Arizona street on-ramp in Santa Monica, and Neil lives on Lemoyne in Echo Park. On a good day, that's roughly a twenty-five to thirty minute trek. However, on this day, I'm looking at about two hours in traffic--easy. Still, this poses an interesting challenge for me to try to meet.

Those lips. That tongue? The chorus from Bjork's song "Hyperballad" immediately pops into my head. It is my mission statement now. Can I really get across town--past this sea of Mexican migrant workers in their beat-up trucks--past this vastness of black Mercedes Benzes? I'm not so sure, but...

"Yeah, I'd love to see you. I'm on my way."

Okay. It's game plan time. Neil's gotta leave his house at six to get to USC for his lab. It's a quarter til four. That leaves me roughly an hour to get to his place. And I'll need at least that much time with him so that I can get off properly. Santa Monica to Echo Park in rush hour traffic? I can do this.

I decide to take the 10 straight into the eastside then drive the five minutes to his apartment.

I put on some theme music...Accelerator by Royal Trux and I'm off.

I am stuck between a school bus, an L.A. scumbag in a black convertible Bentley, and a soccer mom in an Escalade. I dodge and weave my way through this little maze only to find myself trapped between a slow traveling caravan of late model Japanese imports. This is not moving fast enough.

Then, to add insult to injury, about a mile before I hit the Robertson exit, there is some kind of traffic issue. It seems that a big rig blew one of its 18-wheels and has jack-knifed in the middle of my path. There is a line of cars flooding THAT exit. They resemble a multi-colored procession of ants making off with somebody's food.

I plod along for a bit, wasting about twenty minutes. As I look up the freeway, I see nothing but parked vehicles for miles. It is this reason and this reason alone that I decide to exit La Cienega. I will take my chances near my hood, because I know all of the side streets that can get me across town.

Big mistake.

La Cienega is a nightmare every waking moment of the day unless it's after 10pm. As soon as I glide down the off-ramp and pass the yield sign, I'm stuck--AGAIN! Cars are coming at me from all directions. There's an auction or something going on right there under the freeway. Tons of cars are vacating that...mess. A Caddy, an Olds Cutlass, and a bus yellow Lotus exit the Del Taco drive-thru and now, they're in front of me too.

"Fuck!" I slap the steering wheel. My head starts to pound. I can't believe I left New York City mass transit for this shit. I have one of two choices: I can dick around on this street, or I can take my chances driving through Culver City. I decide to stick with the road ahead.

Things are less sketchy around the Beverly Center. This is the first big break of the whole trip. I zooooooooooom ahead, speeding past faceless pedestrians. Hauling ass past all the shops, restaurants and blurred cars.

I signal and turn right onto Melrose thinking that I can zip down that way, free and clear. On any other day, this idea would be INSPIRED but today, the gods just don't want me to get my pussy licked. You see, there is a backup on Melrose. It originates from a tiny bistro just down the way from the Improv. Cars are honking, cell phones are suspended from car windows with flashes going off left and right. I swear to God it better not be Paris Hilton or somebody that you can see EVERYWHERE because I will jump out of this car and get ethnic on all these motherfuckers.

It's now been forty-five minutes since I last spoke with Neil and I'm nowhere near his house. As I approach the apex of all the shouting and excitement, I ready myself to roll down my window and rip whoever this celebrity fucker is a new asshole when I look closely and realize...it's Paul McCartney. Sir Paul, in the flesh. Mystic-tanned but handsome nonetheless, waving at happy on-lookers. I can't help but be softened by that one. More importantly, I take it as a sign. This is a new invigoration for me. I take a deep breath, smile as I pass him, and with new determination, I am back in the race.

At the intersection of Melrose and Fairfax, I speed through a yellow light, pissing off the approaching car attempting to survive without benefit of a left-hand turn signal (This will only make sense to you if you've ever driven in Los Angeles). There is still a small amount of leftover traffic at Fairfax High, but I leave all of that in my wake.

Melrose is hopping; all of the freaky-freakies and fake-titted blondies are getting their shop on at Fleuvog, and Urban Outfitters. It looks like fun, but that'll have to be me on another day...

I'm cooking with gas; I've just crossed La Brea. I've crossed Highland. I'm going, going, GONE!

It's a straight-shot past Paramount Pictures. I can see my old building and the Monte Cristo as I zippety-doo-dah toward the freeway. It looks empty and there is the brief temptation to get back on it. I can be at Alvarado in five minutes if I do. But my better judgement tells me to stick with what I know.

My mobile rings: It's Neil again.

"Where are you?" he asks, growing impatient.

"I'm crossing Virgil."

It has now been one hour between my invitation to sit on his face, and this follow-up for my E.T.A. I tell him to sit tight. I'm so close, it's not even funny.

I take a shortcut past another former residence on North Hoover, stunt car driving past the inhabitants of this gentrified neighborhood. I look out my window and much to my shock, see a little brown-skinned boy walking his pet goat down the hill--only in L.A.!

My car is spit out onto Sunset Blvd. Everything is beautiful and vibrant here. I see my favorite shop in town, Pull My Daisy, and make a mental note that I will pop in for some shopping soon. The dirty indies are out in full-force, rocking their aviator shades, Ben Shermans, ol' school kicks, and hipster-meets-my-golfing-nightmare pants.

I am so anxious that my pussy starts to twitch...

I hit Alvarado and breeze past the cholos, eses, and mamacitas. Yep...Everything is so beautiful over here.

Someone is blasting reggaeton from their apartment window. I hate that shit, but it lets me know that I'm almost done. I turn onto Lemoyne and maneuver through the tight conglomeration of street-parked cars. I settle on a space between a blue Subaru Outback and a white Mazda 3.

I look into my rearview mirror and do a quick booger check. Then I reapply my lipstick, spritz myself over with some perfume, and pop a stick of gum into my mouth. The clock on my dashboard reads "5:19." It's not the full hour that I wanted, but I'll take it.

The trip from my car to Neil's door seems to happen in slow motion. But finally he answers wearing a cobalt blue t-shirt and a pair of saggy jeans that expose just a hint of his ass. He is barefoot.

Neil greets me with his thousand-watt smile and kisses me on the cheek.

"You made it!"

"Don't talk...just kiss."

And with that command, he drops to his knees in front of me. His head disappears under my skirt, and I claim my prize for a battle well-fought. © 2006.

We pulled into the parking lot of the adult book store. This was back in the day when I used to hang with Eric, my former "gaysian" (a BFF that is gay and asian). Eric and I had spent the ENTIRE night before drinking Bailey's, Frangelico, and Wild Turkey while watching porn. We were on a 23 hour bender. It had been my idea to find one of these "ol' school" sex shops so that we could check out some action...up close and personal. Leave it to Eric to actually take me up on it...

The shop we ended up at was out by the airport. It was a virtual porn superstore. The front facing windows, for the most part, had been shaded either by the elements or on purpose as a means to protect customer privacy. The car that we arrived in (Eric's CR-V) was the only one parked in the front lot. All the other pervs must've chickened out and parked in the back or across the street at the gas station. Eric and I hadn't even bothered to get dressed properly; he arrived in a battered white Banana Republic t-shirt, a pair of paisley GAP pajama bottoms and Teva sandals--and I, in my black Walkmen tee, a pair of dingy white pajama bottoms with cartoon kittens all over them and mismatched Chuck Taylors.

Now, despite the carefully guarded exterior of this fine establishment, the inside was a bright and vibrant display of sex and sexuality: dildoes, masks, latex body suits, ball-gags. It was all there.

The place was packed. Well, maybe not packed, but was teeming with the usual suspects: the businessman on his lunch break with a briefcase in hand looking for the sweetest new face in the world of barely legal (or k.p. when available)--the random homeboy clad in a throwback jersey, thick gold chain and pristene new Phat Farm kicks looking for big booty ho's that squirt--a couple comprised of a hispanic rock-a-billy boy and his white Burlesque-y girlfriend trolling for prints of Alberto Vargas nudes--the self-assured butch dyke for whom the sapphically unfriendly sex shops of West Hollywood simply wouldn't do--and various middle-aged "Chester the Molestor" types in plaid shirts and Members Only jackets peppered throughout.

All eyes were on Eric and me as we wandered in. Our presence marked the dawning of the new breed; we looked like nice kids from Sherman Oaks or Santa Monica that took a wrong exit on the 405. Eric immediately attracted the attention of several older white gentleman in the place. He leaned in and whispered, "...another outbreak of yellow fever." Then he headed off toward the cockrings.

I was now alone and in charge of my own entertainment. After browsing the cramped aisles of classic Vanessa Del Rio videos and bukkake DVDs, I settled into a small corner housing bulk sell-through discs...3/$19.99. I hadn't been standing in that spot five minutes before I was approached. He was a bit stocky and looked a little like Lenny Bruce. He said his name was Grover. Grover was the kind of guy that you KNOW can only get laid with a major credit card, and still has the audacity to think he's God's gift to women. I felt him checking me out. I'd never been so uncomfortable in my life.

"Hey, you..." he said. I didn't look up. He continued, "What's a little cocoa princess like you doing in here? You MUST be looking for some fun. I saw who you walked in with. Foo Manchu can't do you like I can..." Then, he attempted to touch me but I ducked out of the way in enough time to avoid his [cringe] finger. This made him laugh. It was the smarmy chuckle of a man who probably never took the word "no" for an answer.

Disgusted and annoyed, I cursed something mean under my breath and headed over to Eric. He'd been watching the whole exchange and was laughing when I got there. "What's up with that?" he asked.

"Suburban rapist..." I replied.

Eric chuckled, then suggested that we head to the back and check out the private booths. This is why we came in the first place.

The booths in this joint were a little different than I'd imagined them to be. Each cubicle was divided by a long, light blue wall that extended to the ceiling, but you could see into the private viewing rooms through the tiny saloon-style doors on the front of each booth. Holding hands, Eric and I slowly strolled to the back, carefully peeking into each one as we went. The first two booths, respectively, were occupied by older guys--soccer dads, maybe. The first didn't seem to notice us, but the second smiled and winked. In the third booth was a black chick with her huge tits fully exposed. We made it just in time to see an older white dude blast her in the face. I'd noticed several signs that read, "ONE TO A BOOTH ONLY." Obviously, rules didn't apply in places like this. The fourth and fifth booths were empty. Eric and I settled into number four. The space was so cramped, I had to sit on his lap. We giggled as we watched a video loop of a brunette chick getting penetrated.

My guess is that Grover watched us go back there and decided that he wanted in on the fun. As he passed by our booth, he glanced in and waved at me, mockingly. I winced and then buried my face in Eric's neck.

Our attempt at horny exploration was no longer fun and now I wanted to leave. "Let's just go," I whispered. Eric whined, "Just ignore him. "

That might've been good advice...if dude hadn't gone and stuck his dick through the gloryhole right next to my head!!!

OMG!

Up until that moment, I hadn't realized exactly why that hole was there. I just figured it to be a glitch in the construction. I screamed and then jumped when I saw it. Eric started laughing hysterically. We heard a fist pound the wall of one of the booths signaling us to keep down the noise.

That was it for me. I mean, I'd gotten into some pretty kinky shit, but gloryholes were taking it a bit too far. So I tiptoed out of there. Thinking that Eric was right behind me, I started replaying the moment, only to turn and find that he wasn't there afterall. That could only mean one thing...

A little less than ten minutes later, Eric came back up to the front. He approached me and asked if I felt like going to In-N-Out Burger. I looked at him, somewhat disturbed at what I feared he may have done. Did he? NO...! He'd never...

As we subtly discussed our lunch plans, Grover called out, "Hey, Cocoa!" Eric turned around and saw him attempting to get to us. Wasting no time, he put his hand on my back and quickly ushered me out the front entrance. Amused by the whole scene, I asked him, "Eric, what the fuck did you do?"

"Just get in the car, ok?!"

Eric popped the mechanical lock with the key remote, but he just wasn't fast enough. Grover ran out onto the sidewalk, tucking his shirt tails into his husky jeans.

BUSTED!

When he realized that I was actually running away from him (and not just playing hard to get), he became angry.

"Hey, you dumb black bitch! You can suck my dick like that, but you can't have a conversation?"

Eric and I jumped into the car and he locked the door.

As he stuck the key into the ignition, I looked at him, shook my head disapprovingly, and said, "You slut..." © 2006.

This is how I spent the summer of '06: crushing on a boy. He was fantastic. He worked the door at a popular hang in Echo Park. I thought he was the bees knees. Of course, leave it to me to fall for the one guy on the planet who thinks I'm a butt-plug.

I, the girl who NEVER "mugs for the camera," jumped through every hoop imaginable to make this guy like me. I took him out, told him about my upbringing, bought him an expensive pocket watch for his birthday, listened to his stories, wished the best for him, gave him his space when he needed it, and even started writing again in a vain attempt to "Tao of Steve" him. I lost my shit on about 80 different levels.

This is what I got in return:

Date: Aug 6, 2006 6:39 PM

I know this is a longshot, but was that you that called my cell at 2am? i'm asking everyone, but very few have my cell number... I missed the call and it was from a blocked number. You don't answer texts...what gives?

ho hum...

I'm going to have a cookie and some salad.


--Me

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

His response:

Aug 9, 2006 2:05 PM Flag spam/abuse [ ? ]

Subject
RE: hey dude...


sorry for not replying, I've been running around getting stuff done. No, the search goes on, it wasn't I who called.

What kind of cookie goes with salad?

I've been in a bad mood lately as well, trying to figure things out with an ex who lives up in SF, getting in arguments with my boss at the bar, etc etc.

how have you been?
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Now, I wasn't heartbroken when I read that Jonathan had been with his ex. I felt happy and at peace. I felt happy because he seemed so bummed and he reminded me a lot of myself when I lived in NYC. I know that no matter how complicated life can get, it always feels good to go home and from what I could tell about Jonathan, San Fran is as close to home as he feels.

And then...it sank in the next day:

3:52p: Sat on my carpet in front of my iBook, staring at his picture while playing
"Don't Know Why" by Kostars over and over and over again...

3:57p: Began to cry...

4:17p: Sucked it up, went into the kitchen. Fixed myself a snack: sweet corn
drenched in butter

5:21p: Found myself staring at my unmade bed, imagining Jonathan in it, naked, as I have all these times before. With my head in my hand, I sang "Waitin' for a Superman" to myself

6:03p: Checked my email to see if maybe he'd written back...? nope. No such luck.

6:54p: With "Beast of Burden" playing in the background, stood in the door of my
bathroom, fantasizing about seeing Jonathan on the street in front of his bar. He
calls me over and before I can say anything smart-ass or cheesy, scoops me
up and kisses me...slowly and with purpose. I touch my fingers to my lips and I smile. Then the smile quickly fades when I realize that it won't happen.

7:03p: Watched the rest of the 40 year old Virgin, but took a break to look at Jonathan's
picture (him in field of wildflowers) again, realizing that the ex was most
likely the one who took the picture...feeling foolish that I was loving him
through her eyes...

8:07p: Left for the Arclight with B.

8:25p: Missed the movie (Little Miss Sunshine), so went for Thai instead. At dinner...

8:40p-9:30p: ...thought about Jonathan. Quietly lamented. Didn't expound on it to B. But felt defeated.

11:02p: Ended up at the bar, even though we said that we wouldn't go. Turned that
frown upside down and got nice and wet over a strawberry blonde hottie w/
a spankable ass and buddy holly glasses. Too bad he was also
wearing a wedding band...

12:12a: In my car, driving home. Had dirty thoughts of being Jonathan's girlfriend. We're a couple into role-playing. I'm dressed up as a secretary; he is my boss. I've been naughty. I get reprimanded. The whole thing is so hot in my mind, that I drive the rest of the way home with my hand between my thighs. The heat from my body is indescribable!

12:17a: Arrived home and saw Jonathan's picture on my computer as soon as I walked through the door.
Turned to Bravo and watched a rerun of Project Runway

Present: Listening to Roomic Cube (CD) by Takako Minekawa.

As I lay sleeping tonight: Will dream of Jonathan...with renewed hope of success

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yep...that was how I spent my summer. Hopelessly in love. Feeding the beast called "Infatuation" bad love songs so he'd live. But, all good things must come to an end. This crush finally lost its momentum when it was revealed to me that the object of my affections was actually gay and had recently come out of the closet. True, I may live in West Hollywood, but I was apparently absent when they handed out free gaydar...

Still, he'll always be my Jake Ryan. © 2006.

"The Lusty Librarian"

Another boring day,
I spy
through my cat eye glasses
Black and white and marbled
like the floor below my feet

staring at the door
wishing for a vacation
while praying for my salvation
I recite the entire Dewey decimal system

Thoughts will falter...
my mind will alter
details of my fellow librarian
"party girl"
as provisions are made for the college brigade
who will soon take over my world

When...

Through that door
I do see
a man to make a woman of me
Oh, up to heaven I smile and say
"Goddamn! You were in a great mood that day!"

Here is a man like none I've ever seen
donned in black from head to toe
he's walking toward me!
My flesh starts to tingle and my lips do quiver
feeling that shiver moving up and down my spine

Soft spoken is he as he says quietly,
"Miss, could you please direct me toward the Romantics?"
"Yes, Sir," is my retort
as I rather quickly abort
this hellhole of rubber stamps and books to be reshelved

These books,
these shelves like fields of wheat
Great God almighty
does my heart beat
for this guy

As I study him closely
while he's diverted by Kerouac
in my mind is Roberta Flack
singing, "...killing me softly, killing me softly, killing me softly
with his song..."

So overcome with my emotions
I toss all convention aside
I swallow my foolish pride
and take matters
into my own hands

Unbuttoning my argyle sweater
ripping off my favorite skirt
I want this man so bad
you wouldn't believe
how much it hurts

Strange as it may seem
he's had his eye on me before
glancing at me from the periodicals
and wanting me
near the reference books

So in keeping with equality
this Adonis that stands before me
removes his black designer clothing
piece by piece
as to entice me

When...he comes to that most "holy" part
of him and other men
removing slowly that piece of fabric
that stands between him
and this librarian

Oh, to my astonishment,
and much to my surprise
this man
the seventh wonder that I see
with my two eyes

Whoever would've thought?
The cynics won't believe...
This boy is hung like a Sequoia
the mightiest of trees!

As our hearts beat
symbiotic
we form a bond strong as a pillar
with our bodies sprawled out naked
between D.H. Lawrence and Henry Miller

And my cherished lover
is such a dear
when so uncompromised
he looks at me and says, "I want you,"
only with his eyes

It's so beautiful,
this moment is
but please don't be mistaken
for it's all a crazy fantasy
that bails once I awaken © 2006.

You are cordially invited...TO THE PARTY IN MY PANTS where you and you alone will be the guest of honor...



The dress code: casual, although your hostess prefers you in flesh tones

The time: ASAP

The place: dark and secluded, for lovers

I will serve myself up on a silver platter, for you to eat, nibble on, suck on, lap up, or admire from a safe distance. But you're encouraged to have as much of me as you like, so bring a hearty appetite!



Entertainment will be provided in the form of various contortionist positions I have learned throughout the years.

Whatever your lusting mind can think up, I will provide for you. On my back? You got it. On my knees? It's yours. Straddling you on my sofa? Done. This is an honor befitting the man whose name I cried out last night as I fucked myself, loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. So, if you can think up the tricks, then I'll certainly reward you with my treats...

I will be wet, wanting, and waiting for you to put your hands on my body. For you to put your fingers inside me. For you to do what you will. I have been waiting with bated breath for this opportunity to entertain you; to move you from my fantasies into my reality.

To RSVP, you know how to reach me...

Just remember: you're invited

to write your name in white across my dark brown skin.

And I...

will love you...

forever. © 2006.

Gavinder and I are having a nasty flirtation with each other. He is a first-generation English-born, Sri-Lankan med student that I've met while finishing up my consulting practicuum or "residency." He's tall (6'3), dark (self-explanatory), and handsome (resembles a young, ethnic Clark Gable).

By day, we're colleagues; friends. But once we go our separate ways, me--to West Hollywood, and G--to a tricked-out bungalow in La Crescenta, all bets are off and the attraction takes over. This is our budding romance (over the course of a week), action-packed and commercial free!

Me to G: Doctor, you were looking mighty fine in that lab coat today. Although, I would've rethought those shoes. I've said it before: no one looks good in Sketchers. Not even you. My friend and I discuss this with each other all the time. Those things are heinous! Luckily, though, there's enough about you that is downright spankable so that I can forgive a few fashion indiscretions. You smelled good today. Call me.

G to Me: March, what are you...my fucking wife? Stick to what you do best--getting my dick hard (lol) No, I'm only kidding. Listen, what was that book that you said you wanted me to read? I'm on Amazon.com and I didn't wish list it. Email me the title, yeah? I'm off to the gym...

(SKYPE left, in absentia)

Me to G: G, I don't think I was all that rude to you today. I don't know what was up with that. I was just busy. You're like a chick. I thought all English people were cold and indifferent and shit. Anyway, it was The Interpreter by Suki Kim. And I have a personal question for you, but I'd rather ask it in person... I'll talk to you tomorrow.

(the following is a deviation from SKYPE, and was left on my voicemail)

G to Me: I was on your myspace page. You don't have enough hot women in your friends. I couldn't even get my wank going 'til I got to your writings. And no...I don't like that bloke, either. Don't trust him. Maybe they'll pair him up with Stevens and Rachel. You and me's a good team, yeah? I think so too. I think we could be good in "other places." Maybe you're right about that. Whatever's gonna happen better happen quick, however, because I'm soon to be off the market. My mum's findin' me a proper wife. Call me if you-- (voicemail box cuts him off)

(resume SKYPE)

Me to G: Were you about to propose to me when you got cut off? Maybe you weren't... Who knows?! Arranged marriage sounds scary. Don't go there. Anyway...hmm...I wanna go to the movies and this stupid boy from myspace keeps flaking out on me. And I don't know what the fuck you're talking about! I gots TONS of hot trim on my shit. Anyway, when are we going out? I'm so bored! And I might put out...you're cute...

G to Me: What're you wearing?

Me to G: My epidermis.

G to Me: Fuck you. Seriously. What's on over there in "Gay Hollywood?"

Me to G: a Blonde Redhead t-shirt and some hot pink flip-flops

G to Me: What colour "panties?"

Me to G: I'm not wearing any panties. I don't like them. I just usually go commando.

G to Me: ...So you're aimin' to tell me that today you were going without? I was eyeing that bum of yours--truly electrifying, March. How come you don't wear knickers? And what must your collection of [pants] look like in THAT region? Bake a lot of bread, do you? JK.

Me to G: Panties give me wedgies. And the only time I ever like anything up my ass is when there's a man attached to it.

G to Me: Damn. I want to wank to you.

Me to G: Call a bitch. I'm on my landline.

This marks the first time that we have phone sex with each other. It's hot. He has a bit of an ass fetish. He talks to me about rimming me out and having me tease him by exposing my asshole to him...VERY KINKY. I can hear his hand on his cock in the background. His voice is very low and sultry on the phone when he's being bad. Makes that English accent sound even hotter... Tres "Closer."

To be continued...

I am pinned down to my friend's bed...

My wrists are bound together with my bra.

Just a few hours earlier, I was at the Ponette show, listening to pretty melodies, and now I'm living out depravity at its finest.

As I lay here, my naked body looks different to me now that I don't associate it with my ex. I'd always loved myself through his eyes. But now comes the hard part of learning to like myself regardless.

I've noticed that my abs are back, although in a slightly more subtle incarnation. My tits are fuller and more plump than usual. My hips feel so wide and womanly, it's scary. It feels like they've been hijacked off some other girl's body and surgically implanted onto mine.

But while I'm in the throws of narcissism, my insides feel completely empty. I feel as though I've been kicked out of my home. I'm a drifter on the streets. I've reverted back to feeling like no one will ever love me. Self-deprication at its finest. He's gone. And this time, he won't be coming back.

A tear streams down the corner of my eye. Bomb the Bass plays loudly on the turntable as I wait for a new mister to come and rescue me from myself. That's when Salvation appears. He's 6'0. He's tough. He's my friend. But I don't want him to be kind. Not tonight. I've already told him that I just want him to fuck the pain away...

I spread my legs apart without being asked. But all he does is stare down at me like I'm garbage. I need him inside me so I can replace the love of one cock with another. My breaths quicken; I swivel my hips in hopes of inspiring him to act. But to him? Still garbage. So, now, on top of feeling sad and vulnerable, I can add pointless and ridiculous to that list.

But this is exactly where and how I need to be.

He suits up (condom) and takes his position. Kneeling in front of me, he grabs my legs and hoists them up on either side of him. "Are you wet?"

But before I can answer, he jams his hand into my snatch and feels for himself. Satisfied with the results, he lunges into me.

I stop myself from breathing. He knows exactly what a girl like me needs in a situation like this. I am a love addict. And with any junkie, you have to cut off the addiction at the source. He's bound and determined not to play into my need to be "made love to." So he thrusts deep. He's not going placate; that's what got me here. He's gonna fuck my pussy and punish me for daring to think I could've been in love with that guy. Then he thrusts deeper. Over and over and over again. His fingers dig into my thighs. But I want his hands to rub my body. I want to feel them on my tits. And rushing back down past my navel to my clit. I'm helpless, so I channel that energy and want into fucking him back.

Then it happens: all the memories of the ex start to play like a slideshow in my mind. The first meeting--the phone call the next night--the latenight booty call the following weekend--the pumpkin he bought me for Halloween--the conversations--the kisses--the promises--the laughter--the eye contact--the hand holding--the first farts--the mix tapes--the struggle--the dinners--the inside jokes--the days spent playing hookie--the night we fucked for 5 hours straight--the fear--the plans we made--the infidelity--the lies--the secrets--the betrayal--the boredom--the frustration--the sublimation--and the overall unpleasant feeling that inevitably split us up. Snapshot after snapshot, it's all there.

But one by one, they're beginning to disappear. These pictures in my mind are being taken from me each time my Salvation grunts and jams his dick into my hole. It's working...

My tears have dried up by this point. Now I'm in survival mode. He's going to do some damage to my pussy, I just know it. I'll either be stretched out beyond recognition or will be walking funny in the morning.

Then he pulls out of me and jerks off over my stomach. He releases my hands and I tease my clit in hopes of timing my orgasm to his. Our shouts fill up the bedroom until we both come, almost simultaneously.

He wipes me clean then leans over and gives me a peck on the lips. "That guy was an asshole anyway," he says.

Yeah...spoken like a true friend. © 2006.

My mother called me on the phone the other day. I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was a little bummed out.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Um...not much. What's up with you?

"Well, I'm not doing too good. I went off on some folks last week."

"Wait. What do you mean, 'Went off...'?"

"I mean, I had to act a fool on some people. They tryin' to start some shit with me out at that school. AND the store is slow."

(My mom is a 2nd grade teacher and she owns a Subway Sandwiches franchise to supplement her income).

"Okay."

"...and so I had to go in to talk to the school board psychiatrist to try to get released from my teaching contract. Ms. Johnson said that she has a spot open in kindergarten for me out at her school."

I sighed. This is a classic case of the apple not falling far from the tree. My mother has a flair for the dramatic. She is neurotic and paranoid. EVERYONE in the world is out to get her (in her mind). This is a trait that she has passed on to me. One that I wage war against on a daily basis.

"I thought you didn't get along with Ms. Johnson."

"I don't. But I'll take anything over this bitch principal I'm dealing with now."

"Okay, so what'd the shrink say?"

"He say I'm burned out--"

"Well I could've told you that..."

"Yeah, and I guess that's right. It's just these kids nowadays is so BAD. I mean, they done put every retarded bastard in the hood up in my class, honey! One little boy just up and shit his pants. So I said, 'DeAndre! Why you done doo-dooed in yo' pants like that?' And he looked at me and just shrugged his shoulders like he didn't know. Can you believe that! I'm so sick to death, I don't know what to do. And that Subway in Walmart done took all my business. I had to put my own money in the store last month."

"Why don't you take a sabbatical?"

"Well, that's what I'm tryin' to do. That psychiatrist say he can get me released from out there if she won't let me go on her own. I just don't want no mess from her."

"She can't start shit with you if you go on sabbatical. And then you can go back and get your Masters and so that way, you won't have to deal with those low-rent assholes and you can teach somewhere else."

My mother sighed. She sounded mentally exhausted.

"I guess..." she said after a long pause. Then she started counting. I heard a bell ding and a bunch of Southern accents in the background. I could tell that she was at Subway.

"Hold on a second. I got to finish countin' out this money for a drop. 60-80-100-120-140..." The sound of paper money rustling in the background was sharp and crystal clear over the phone. Seconds later, she was back.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm here. I just had to put that drop in the safe. Now, what about you? You finished with school yet?"

"No. In December."

"That's good--"

Just then, a long and tortured moan filled up the phone receiver.

"Eb! Is that you?" She seemed truly taken aback by it.

"No. That's my TV. I accidentally sat on the remote and turned it up."

But that's not true. It was actually a boy that I fool around with in the afternoons. He was lying underneath me on my bed. I'd been jerking him off for the past twenty minutes and for the duration of this phone call with my mom.

"Oh, well you need to work on that. That mess is too loud. Them white people gonna kick you out with all that noise...!"

"Ugh, God! Will you stop with all that 'white people' shit? No one's kicking me out of anywhere."

Like I said..."a flair for the dramatic." I know I may seem like an asshole for fooling around with boys during my mother's hour of need. But hey, she was the one that always preached the importance of multi-tasking. © 2006.

My groupie is asleep on my sofa. He's naked, lying on his back. His snoring sounds like an out-of-tune trumpet that is ringing through my apartment. It's much worse tonight than usual.

About ten minutes ago, I was on top of him, naked. As he lay sleeping , on his back, I was spread eagle with his dick in my right hand. My other hand was shoved into my pussy. I rolled my middle finger around on my clit, trying to find the perfect position in which to get myself off.

His entire body was laid out before me. He has amazing legs that are just the way I like 'em on a man: toned and hairy. I ran my tongue across his kneecap as I pinched and twisted my nipple.

Then I squeezed my left breast, imagining what it would be like if he were lucid for a change. This passing out drunk shit is wearing thin. He was so much more fun when he actually put out.

I glide my hand over his hairy cock and balls. The roughness of his pubes feels so good under my palm.

I can now relate whole-heartedly to men who get turned on by girls who are passed out drunk in front of them. Sure, I don't condone it, but I can understand what makes them so horny over it.

It takes me a while, but I finally manage to get myself off. This is in spite of that dreadful noise he is making. The orgasm is swift but strong. My pussy throbs and throbs as I press into it harder while fingering his nuts.

I put a pillow under his head to make sure he sleeps comfortably. He'll wake up in the morning with a hangover.

I really wish he'd stop snoring already! © 2006.

"Rivers C."

What do I gotta do to get with you,
Oh, my catatonic Ivy Leaguer?
Half-Japanese girls may be your poison
but you've never had a black chick's beaver...
Sweetest thing there is around...
we black girls have got the knack!
Here's the adage, memorize it:
"Once you go black, you never go back."
Still, there's one thing that I wonder
My fantasies of you I ponder
Might I be your sweet cockteaser
sexy singer of the defunct band, Weezer? © 2006.

I am pinned against a large magnolia tree. The body thrusted up against mine belongs to the middle Richardson brother, Jeremy. I am older than he is. By about two years. His body still bears the distinct mark of youth. He is virtually hairless; I don't suspect he has to shave everyday. His skin is smooth and transluscent. We are the same height but he is strong and somewhat powerful. He can pick me up and carry me around with the same level of proficiency that I could carry a handbag.

This is the third time that we have met in some clandestined location like this. The first time was in his bedroom during a Fourth of July picnic. While everyone else was in the backyard enjoying the fireworks, Jeremy and I were dry humping each other into a stupor. The second time was at the movies. Our mothers decided that they needed adequate time to go shopping. Mine, to buy my "first semester at college" clothes, and his to buy him a "first year at private school" uniform. We were sent away with twenty dollars, respectively. Since I was old enough to get into Rated R movies, we picked one that neither of us had any interest in paying attention to. Then used our hands on each other the whole time.

Now...we're here. In a different venue.

Jeremy is dressed like any good southern boy in a crisp white button down shirt and a pair of creased khaki pants and brown Oxford shoes. His hair is sandy blonde and his bangs fall gently over his right eye.

My skirt is turquoise and made from starchy, heavy cotton. It is hiked up around my waist. My panties are hanging from a branch overhead. How they've gotten up there is as much a mystery to me as the meaning of life itself. Jeremy's left hand is kneading my breasts like dough underneath my sweater set, while his right hand works double duty holding me up and gripping my thigh.

In my hand is his cock. It's hard now because I've been stroking it a rather dangerous distance from my pussy. I like playing with fire by geting him off like this. One squirt in the wrong direction and we might become parents...

There is no snappy dialogue between the two of us. Jeremy's breath pulsates in my ear. His hips pump into my palm: 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.

My nipples have swelled into hard little rocks. It's a new sensation for me. So is all the wetness from my cunt. It's forming a little puddle on the front of Jeremy's pants. His fingers probe the inner folds of my pussy. It's warm and cavernous. He tickles the inner folds, then jams them upwards toward my cervix.

The roughness from the tree will end up leaving a nasty vertical scar on my back, as well as innumerable scratches from the nape of my neck down to my ass.

But this is no match for the Karmic damage I am doing to myself.

You see, Jeremy is the preacher's son.

Not only that, but I am boning the preacher's son on a tree located behind our church. It's Sunday morning.

We're SUPPOSED to be stacking hymnals...

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. © 2006.

He looks like Roger Daltry circa Tommy but when he speaks, he sounds like Weirdly Gruesome from The Flintstones.

"There's compromise to every relationship," I tell myself. And so far, I'm doing my fair share of it. We've agreed to meet at this schweaty little dive bar on Hillhurst. Here I sit, amongst an assorted array of hipsters and dirty indies, that might as well be the extras in a music video by The Cramps--or better yet, a Russ Meyer film.

So far, he's felt me up twice; he keeps telling me what a "tight little package I am." That can't be good. And although I've been here with him for an hour or so, I've barely gotten a word in, edge-wise.

You see, this is a blind date. My first meeting with the Canadian. He's a broker that used to be a rockstar once upon a dream, until the U.S. recession hit and he got dropped from his label in the early 90's. Yeah...I know all about it. He's already told me the story twice and if I play my cards right, maybe he'll bore me with it again.

He's a little scruffy and he smells like a twelve year old boy who masturbates all day without cleaning up afterwards because he has no objectivity about the rankness of his own nuts. Then he goes and applies a thin layer of lip balm. Now he smells like piss and Carmex. Or as my friend calls it, "Eau d'Echo Parque."

Now, in all fairness, as creepy as this fellow is, there is still something rather endearing about him. Physically, I couldn't be happier; he's older...like around 36 or so. But he could easily pass for 28. I like what he's wearing: he looks like a skater with his big jew-fro, and vintage ACDC t-shirt. He's got on Chucks--I'm a sucker for guys in black Chucks--and his button-fly Levi's are fading out just so. He's drinking an O'douls.

The Canadian pulls me in close; he says to me, "I think this could be the start of something really special. I mean, I don't know what you've got going on but I know that I don't have anything going on and I think that you've got this--oooh---hot little body and you're just so---oooh---cute and you're wearing this little outfit, baby, that's gettin' me so hot looking at you and--oooh--I just wanna do all these dirty little things to you and you never know, you know? I mean, this could be like a little fuck or a hookup or who knows? Maybe we could fall in love...?"

Poetry.

Then he leans in and kisses me.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of us are outside. We're tongue wrestling in front of a laundromat located in the same shopping center as the bar. I'm pinned up against my old Mercedes. It's balmy outside; people are watching. I'm sure of it. The Canadian is still a bit of a performer. I think it excites him that we're now being cheered on and cat-called. I feel his hand inch its way up my thigh and over my ass. I'm not wearing panties. He seems titillated by this.

This is the one place that I see we won't be having problems. Man, can he kiss. He coos and groans and then follows that up with a diabolical little laugh. I hope it's true what they say about "crazy" being synonymous with excellent prowess in bed.
"I know you won't come home with me, but what do think about us messing around in my car? I mean, we're already out here kissing like teenagers, so I think it would be fun to have a little romance in my riiiiiiiiide..."

He's parked on the next block over...

His car is filthy. It's a late model blue station wagon. There must be at least a two-inch thick layer of dust on the thing. He talks my head off as we approach it. I'm checking out his ass. I don't know...he's growing on me a bit. Like ivy on brick... I'm feelin' him.

The Canadian opens the door for me and I climb in. I can still hear him droning on and on and on as he walks the short length of space to his door. He climbs in beside me. As soon as the door closes, he shuts up. Now we're sitting face-to-face.

"Oh, baby, you know--oooh--I'm really excited about that sweet little bum you've got there. It's just so--oooh--and I'd really love it if you'd just lean over this seat here and lift up your skirt a bit and let me have a little taste..." I don't want sex from him, but, yeah... I'll let him rim me out.

I stretch myself out across the front seat of the car (per his request) and lift up my skirt. Then I wiggle my little ass in his face. He's spellbound...

His tongue is wet and a little bit squishy. It traces circles on my cheeks and then probes my asshole. "Mmm, baby," he says while slurping away. "You're just so--oooh--tasty."

Then, he backs away from my ass and digs three fingers into my pussy all at once. It's okay, though... I'm wet for him. Now, while he's fingering me, he goes into this whole monologue about his allergies and having to go to the hospital for them. He tries to "long story...short" the anecdote, but it just goes on and on in spite of itself. Regardless, his fingers don't stop. I'm fucking them frantically.

When he finally realizes how close I am to coming, he snaps out of his verbal blitzkrieg. He finagles his way underneath my t-shirt and cups my right tit in his hand. It's so good...

After it's over, we kiss our goodbyes. I walk back to my car, recapping the evening in my head. The Canadian may not be a total keeper, but he'll make an interesting diversion until something better comes along. © 2006.