January 2010
1 post
(fraught.with.heat)
Years (minutes) later, I remember standing in my kitchen, hands pressed flat to the edge of the counter, directly adjacent to the living room. In the living room there was a couch, a coffee table, a recliner, and an easy chair. In the easy chair (grey with brown thread running through the rough soft comfortable familiar fabric) was my brother. In my brother, a longing he couldn’t express,...
September 2009
4 posts
(darkness.beyond)
When I finally told my mother what was going on, I cried. I don’t know if it was from shame, or fear, or relief. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, which at that time was still made up in Strawberry Shortcake sheets, and covered with a matching canopy. She’d come in to read to me before bed. It’s something she did every night that I can remember. I would lie down beneath the halo of light...
(beneath.me)
I remember what I was wearing. Dark green sweat pants – the kind so obnoxiously prevalent in the eighties, with the bunched elastic ankles and waistline made of ultra thick spongy cotton. It strikes me as odd, now, that I was wearing pants at all- it was summer. Or at least it seemed like it. I remember the pants because I remember looking down at them when my brother and his friends pulled them...
(give)
When I gave my first blow job, I was six years old. I say ‘gave,’ but it’s hard to give something away before you even know what it is, or that it’s yours to give. Perhaps it’s better to say it was taken. Then again, to say that something is ‘taken’ from you often implies intent on the part of the ‘taker’. And is it any fairer to say that you took something before you knew what it was, or that it...
(thing.of.value)
This is, in the purest sense, a story. It is not intended as a confession. It is not intended as a testimony. It is not even a secret revealed. It is a story. And like all stories, there will be something of value to you in it- though I truly doubt I have any idea what that will be. Perhaps it will be a few hours of escape from your own life; an opportunity to become other than yourself. Perhaps...