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My First Father’s Day Without You, Pops

No son thinks of a day when his dad isn’t there. For a young man, his father is a fixed entity who will go on forever – whether he likes it or not – moving the world to make it safe for the tribe.

A son imagines growing to be the man his father would be proud of, stepping either into his shoes or over them, but never absent his influence. His father is like gravity to his young consciousness, inescapably drawing him into the form he must become.

And now my dad is dead and I am left to finally answer the question every father demands of their sons:

‘Who are you without me?’

-fathers to their sons-

But without you here, the answer I worked all those years for now eludes me, leaving behind a mixture of anger and desperation in its wake.

Like the man who traveled a long distance to end up where he began, holding only a map to nowhere.

I started working towards autonomy around the age of twelve when I landed my first five-figure job. Around that same age, I began regularly testing my physical limits via manual labor, various athletics, general fitness, and diet. As a sophomore in high school, I weathered my first ‘La Noche Obscura,’ with a half-dozen more to follow over the years, each time emerging more spiritually whole. Mentally and emotionally, I have done my fucking work wrestling my shadows.

Bike Crash

Relentlessly I strived,
getting up early to grind. 
Even sat on the cushion and cried, 
refusing the instinct to hide. 
And now you rode off and died
leaving me untied.

Yet, beyond the burning horizon of my anger, I know there’s more to our story than a dead end.

I know a man’s journey is helix shaped, stretching out as we circle round, and that I am neither lost nor defeated. I know that your passing has indeed brought me home, that this is a good thing and brings with it another, richer perspective.

I know that I can now hold a looking glass to our history and absorb whatever it is I see without a point to protect.

I can now see how you maintained a silent steadiness about you, consistently working away like a windmill to deliver power to those nearby. I see how you would engage with almost anyone who rode your bus but chose your circle carefully. I see where you would measure a man’s intentions against his contributions, weighing his character in the balance. I see how you searched for the truth behind the facade and freely shared all you could discern. I see that you pressed on down the trail of life, striving for inner stillness through tireless motion. I see whenever you fell, you got up.

All except this last fall from your fat tire Specialized. The fall which claimed your life on the banks of the Minnesota River at age 79. From this fall it is I who must get up on your behalf.

So get up I will.

Rest in peace pops, Happy Father’s Day.

Commemorative tweet from the location where he was found, the Minnesota Valley National Wildlife Refuge
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PARDON YE

This is a passion piece. No links. No sources. No pics. Just you, me, and what I believe.

I believe in speaking truth to power. I believe in freedom of expression. I believe in the innate goodness of the universe and human beings. I believe that everyone alive is pro-life for that very fact and that life itself is sacred. I believe that whatever the question, more freedom is the answer.

I believe that the greatest men and women in history have bled and died in service to these principles and that rescuing our future from its dark trajectory now rests on our ability to follow suit.

I believe that Ye (formerly known as Kanye West) is both a mirror and a looking glass, reflecting and projecting our darkest tendencies and greatest potential as a single race of living beings.

Historically, such visionaries have been crucified by the masses at the behest of the ruling classes in service to the status quo – Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King. And, although 3000 years of recorded tradition is yet to teach us this lesson, beauty, truth, and love cannot be killed by murdering the messenger.

But enough abstractions, let’s get specific.

Despite what you choose to believe, Ye is not a racist. He is not trying to start a second Holocaust. He is not crazy, off his meds, or dumb.

Ye is a 45-year-old black man born in Atlanta, raised by a single mom on the south side of Chicago who rose to the top of the creative world in several industries. Under Ye’s belt lies 22 Grammys, 10 consecutive #1 albums, a presidential run, Yeezy brand apparel which has rescued two companies from financial and cultural obscurity, the accomplishments of becoming the wealthiest black man-wealthiest recording artist-wealthiest designer-in history, his own academy with sports teams, and on and on. All this without selling out or compromising his vision. Not once.

No one in the music industry believed in his vision to be the best-dressed rapper in the game, that his beats and lyrical ability could wrestle the culture from the death grip of gangsta rap. Ye did that.

No one believed that he could survive putting on the red hat, that his vision of freeing African Americans from the democratic plantation of block-voting which has delivered decade after decade of diminishing returns would alienate him from his base. It didn’t. Rather he gained a new one, empowering the likes of Candace Owens and others to elevate their voices in the fight for family. Ye did that.

No one believed that a prominent rapper could sell a gospel album. Jesus is King hit #1 on the Billboard top 200, and in over 100 countries worldwide, creating an entire Sunday Service church choir in the process. Ye did that.

No one believes that his current commentary on the evil embedded within the entertainment industry will lift a finger in the direction of freedom. We would rather nitpick his language, his approach, his tone, and his timing in order to cheer on the ruling class as they collude to crucify him and everyone he loves. We say he deserves it. He says he can take it. Ye does that.

We are witnessing a Dark Knight moment in history where we get the hero we need, not the one we deserve. The hero we need, of course, is the one willing to address the pain of the present, rather than hide behind the pain of the past.

Even if we choose to believe that Ye is an anti-semite, that his comments were inspired by hate and not love, and that he should be punished for saying them in order to protect the collective from another Holocaust, even from this perspective, we still have to ask ourselves, what cultural conditions caused the Holocaust? Slavery?

For if, in order to preserve the present, we have to employ the worst tactics of the past, what future do we deserve?

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It’s Not A Dildo, I Am

She squats more than me and same-day-raw-dawgd the richest d-bag in town last time I gave her lip. But she keeps me purrring with that on-demand space kitty.

I can’t get enough.

But that was yesterday. Today she so mad a snot bubble broke through between snarls. Visible heat waves radiating off syllables.

‘Aren’t you going to say ANYTHING? Typical man.’

We were seated across from each other on the patio of Agave House Mexican restaurant not eating. She looked good in her lacey magenta top and high-waisted jorts. Fresh bang-forward do accentuating her one bulgy orb, which was registering eye-of-Sauron level bulgy with newfound blistering rage.

It was my fault. I had invited her to talk and was now using her vocal cords like a ventriloquist to end what I couldn’t bring myself to. I was choking hard on coward cud.

Truth is, I am mad about her, we both bananas, and I’m scared stiff.

My first idea for dinner was to tell her I felt more than fucking. But in front of her formidable frame and against her floral print top I could find no quarter. She was a combat medic on the battlefield. I was Benedict Arnold’ing my feelings for the familiarity of an old foe.

Without a wound to stitch up, she had assumed the role of assailant. It wouldn’t be long now and I would be alone. Again.

I lowered my eyes from her scathing gaze to origin story flashbacks at the Savored Sip downtown.

Has it only been 8 days?

***

We had been circling orbits for a couple months by then. Unnaturally casual, ‘Hi’s,’ in line for lattes. Snarky stimulants administered as judgey fit checks for dopey NPCs. Long nights made longer with secret longing. Intrusive visions of her nude silhouette, a human eclipse of the dim city lights illuminating the panoramic panes behind her.

Whatever it was it couldn’t be. I was talking to someone. She might be married. Move on, these sparks would only burn.

My relationship fizzled. I needed some time off from dating. Told myself I would use the break to focus on a personal project. But long work sessions require distraction to remain productive. Obviously. It’s why you’re reading this now.

Between sessions, I found her online. Sought her out at her favorite coffee shops. Stored witty one-liners for ready-made conversational elixirs.

There is no hero’s journey without directional tension.

Her marriage was over, had been, in every way possible less the processing. A sad story I won’t tell here but one man’s L is another’s W and she was thirsty.

My dm slide came in hot.

Fourteen messages, two lattes, and three days later we were staining sheets while muffling moans to not awaken sleeping babes.

‘I’m so close,’ audible under pillowcase as right arm swings to the nightstand in what appears to be a violent molestation of an unassuming succulant. She’s digging. Pulls out sea-green silicone cylinder and puts it in.

‘MY dildo not enough?’

I’m enjoying my inadequacy more than I let on. Learning to leverage shame for sexual satisfaction is a superpower for anti-heroes.

‘It’s not a dildo, it’s a vibrator,’ she corrects as genital entanglement achieves harmonic resonance.

‘Got it. I’m the dildo and you cum with an entourage.’

Mid-sex humor is risky, especially around climax, but she cleared me with a smile.

We were off to the races. Triple crown in as many days, finish line after finish line crossed over hot heavy breaths.

I toed the line. kept my shit under wraps. Stuck with the plan. We were just thirsty thoroughbreds at the trough. Nothing more.

Until, in a moment of over-sexed under-slept insanity, ‘I Like you.’ Oxytocin scheming.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I do. I have feelings for you.’ My reply while turning head down and away in anticipation of a left cross sure to strike.

‘You can’t like me. That’s not our arrangement. And you sound like a girl. A bitch.’

I froze, reinforcing her point. She kicked me out and messaged in the morning first thing:

‘When Scooter fucks me in his multi-million dollar mansion he doesn’t cry like a pussy after. But he’s no you.’

***

She broke me for five days with the last four words.

But now here we are at a plateless dinner and I’ll be damned if I don’t eat.

I lift my head from the chin. It’s heavy but obliges. I raise my eyes to hers. She’s talking but I don’t care, it’s my turn. She needs to hear how much I need her.

***

Wish us luck as we write this untold tale as old as time. Two birds, bright wings a flutter, taking helical flight to heaven or hell.

Never in between.

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The Short Story of the Longhouse

She hadn’t texted back in over four hours. He was suicidal.

But freezing to death wasn’t as painless as he had hoped. Turns out there was no drifting off into some permanent numb. No, it happens from the inside out.

Arctic atmosphere entered his lungs one breath at a time. Blood freezing into atomic razor blades. Tiny cellular slices gradually reducing him to a pond of icy flesh.

He picked himself up off the -14-degree shoulder and got back in the Subaru. He had only lasted eight minutes away from it’s heated leather seats.

She wouldn’t let him take her out. Wouldn’t accept money. Wouldn’t let him rub her feet. This last offer a ploy to steal secret sniffs from between her toes whenever she looked away.

On occasion, stalking would pay off and he would ‘bump’ into her at the coffee shop. She would make him sit at a different table. Would buy her own coffee. Work diligently. Make him text her from two arm’s length away and wait until her submittals were complete to reply.

45 minutes later, ‘I’m just in my phone down era, what are you doing to better yourself?’ Thirteen seconds of eye contact then back to work.

She was an impenetrable fortress. Pussy locked up so tight prime Khan couldn’t penetrate.

Yet he had persisted. He was just interesting enough to get her response rates down from two days to under sixty minutes. He didn’t care how demeaning it felt. She was the last female on earth worth living for.

But now she was drifting away and he was at the edge of yet another mid-life crisis looking down into an abyss forty years deep. He had been here before.

***

He married young and had kids like you’re supposed to. They had bought a house together. A minivan. Maxed out 401ks and 501cs. Sam’s Club Sundays after church. In-laws close by for date night Thursdays to avoid the weekend rush.

In the begining even the sex was sublime. Her body count was two, he was three, and they took it to 1000. Lewis and Clark fucking and feeling their way west into the great unknown.

But not even his square jaw, chiseled abs, and full head of hair could overcome his lack of earning power. She came from money he didn’t understand. His $75k engineering salary not enough to keep her wet past menopause.

By the time their third child turned one she was fucking the resident physician between shifts at the NICU.

He knew but couldn’t bring himself to confront her. Felt too much like failure.

He entered into a secret competition with him. Read up on tantric techniques to up his dick game. Started writing poetry again. Would surprise her with home-cooked candle-lit dinners at the end of her work week.

She picked up extra shifts and came home with strange seamen inside her. Let him taste it before rolling over and turning out the lights.

But she didn’t leave him until his sister died. Seeing him weep was the last straw. She told him she had no choice that he made her do it. He signed the papers, gave her everything, and checked himself into a psych ward.

That was the last time he was suicidal, almost ten years ago.

***

But things were different now. He had hard fought wisdom on his side. He had braved the post-thirty dating wasteland, taken licks from his share of aged-out single moms, and learned to channel his desperation through his writing.

Nobody read him but he imagined future generations finding his hard drive in a post-apocalyptic rubble heap. A half starved blue eyed youth with bony fingers would hold it high above his head in front of circling savages.

‘We are not alone in our suffering, if he can find a way forward, so will we!’

***

And then, a ding. It was her. ‘How are you?’

Fuck it. What’s one more ride on the merry-go-round? He had a self to sacrifice to the furnace of the future.

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Rebirth of the Living Dead

It was the morning of his 42nd birthday. Early spring in rural Oklahoma. A day and season marked by desperate longing. Both pinnacle and gulley. Both beginning and end.

Today was the day she would give herself to him.

***

The sight of her made him sick. But he couldn’t help himself.

For weeks, every Friday he would wait patiently for her to arrive at the coffee shop owned by the only gay couple in town. The coffee was below average and the service worse but there was a table in the corner with an ergonomically perfect chair that relieved the pain from the worsening CTS in his left wrist just enough to make the experience worthwhile.

But she, she was glorious.

He studied her over the top of his company-issued HP Elitebook. He noticed the crook of her neck with its pale supple skin. He noticed the peacoat brought out of storage a month too early because it was too cute not to. He noticed how little she picked up her phone to scroll. An utter lack of fidgeting. No sideways glances.

She commanded the room in stillness. No one else seemed to notice. He couldn’t stop.

She would walk by his table once, or twice if he was lucky, on her way to the restroom. He contemplated sending anonymous drink after anonymous drink to get the numbers up. Perfectly timed deep nasal breath to catch her scent. ‘Evian skin cream agent Sterling,’ he said almost too loudly from behind the screen.

And then one day as she was leaving she looked him square in the eye and waved with a smile. He was on a call dumbfounded. Wanting to puke he brought his hand to his mouth while his cheeks expanded under sudden pressure.

He blacked out.

He didn’t know for how long but it didn’t matter. There was no evidence of actual vomit anywhere. There was a scrap of paper containing a phone number and the initials JL as the nose of a smiley face.

He stopped sleeping. He wrote poems about her instead. Deleted and blocked for her. Stayed home sick about her. Sweat through sheets in her name.

She would let him see her on their usual Fridays but prioritized work. She would respond to his text messages but only after several hours. Sometimes days. She was 29 and wouldn’t date anyone with kids or more than five years her senior.

Two strikes but still swinging.

He knew she wanted a full-time family. Not the time-share model. But her boundary served only as a levee for the rising tide of his relentless pursuit to ultimately overwhelm. He had put in six semen-retaining months. He would make it twelve more hours.

She had agreed to submit for at least five unadulterated minutes in exchange for full immunity from future advances. One final wave to wash one or both of them to sea.

She had picked the hotel on the county road next to the pull tab bar. He had wanted the casino resort but it was too far to drive. He had accepted coffee instead of dinner, motivational texts instead of nudes, poetry instead of pussy. The Thundermine Motel wouldn’t break him any more than she already had.

Childless men of her age didn’t approach. Chinless incels with grey eyes and rectangular hips. Or, naval gazing gym bruhs too drunk on the scent of their own steroid shrunken scrotums to notice.

The traditional mean had been obliterated by the progressive extreme.

She followed the playbook of a bygone era. Kempt hair. Book clubs and coffee shops. Portrait quality posture. Firm feminine physique. Holding back her hoe for her husband. Even managed vanity into obscurity.

She was too good for the times. But she was lonely and his writing made her wet.

She wasn’t caving, she was paying bank rates on loaned love. She would wear the outfit he sent and follow the included instructions. She would get out of the experience what she could and give him what he needed

It wasn’t easy picking an outfit for a goddess. He wanted her to stand before him in all her splendor, provided for and proud.

He had settled on a white crop top hoodie from Anthropologie with Burberry skirt. She would take these off and leave on the knee-high stalkings, thick cotton panties, and custom-made JL pendant.

What he wanted most was her three-month-old muff. They had grown them out together. He would salivate thinking about pulling thick cotton aside to bury his being in her heavily wooded hobbit hole.

***

He woke in a panic. What time is it? Hadn’t slept in months and his fucking birthday is the day his accursed soul sanctions him to miss! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK how did he doze the day away!

The nightstand reads 9:19. Quick math. He can make it by 10:00 if he didn’t shower and didn’t get pulled over. The AWD in the Subaru will help on the dirt roads. He thought, ‘Maybe she will like my musk,’ as he pulled pre-planned outfit over clammy skin.

Text ding as he peeled out of the neighborhood read, ‘I will be here and ready when you arrive.’ Heart tapback and ‘omw’ reply.

It helped that he had made several planning trips to lock in the best room and negotiate special housekeeping measures with Bernice the motel manager. He could make this drive in his sleep.

He parked the car at the far end of the Thundermine directly in front of room 115 at exactly 9:59. The light was out in the room. The only other car in the parking lot was Bernice’s town car out front of the office.

Wim Hof breathing to reduce his heart rate as he approached the grey panelboard door. One last inhale to find his center as he turned the knob and stepped into the dark rental.

Before he could flip the light he was met with the hiss of what sounded like an aerosol can but was not Secret deodorant spray. Something wasn’t right. He was dizzy. Losing vision. Legs like spaghetti.

***

When he came to everything was according to his instructions. Almost.

The red bulbs had been inserted into the two nightstand table lamps and were the only light in the room. Red silk sheets and pillowcases on the bed perfectly made. Champagne on ice for affect that neither of them would drink. Shostakovich’s Symphony #6 rising ominously from the Bose Soundlink he had sent ahead. Crop top hoodie and Burberry skirt on the floor.

However, he was naked on his knees at the foot of the bed. Bare ass resting on heels with hands tied behind back. Rope around his neck and anchored above to the canopy bedframe. Tight enough to keep him upright, loose enough to keep him alive.

He looked down in front of him. His phone was ringing. Vision not yet 100% but he was certain it was her. By rising up on his knees and leaning to the left he was able to swing his right leg out from under him and land his big toe on the answer button. Successfully sliding it to the right on the fourth attempt in time to accept the FaceTime request.

‘Nice cock. Too bad you’re incapable of listening,’ came her measured tone over the speaker as a shadowy figure emerged from the bathroom.

‘Jackie, we had an agreement.’

‘Yes we did. Fortunately for you, Bernice has grown quite fond of you and will take care of all of your needs. She will give you what you REALLY wanted and I will see you Friday for coffee.’

Reality too unreal to believe and dreams too good to be true, he closed his eyes and let the waves wash him away.

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Hello! Love You Bitch Goodbye

She won’t let me love her. I can’t let her go. I put her in my trunk.

It’s midnight at the Kum N Go on I-40E. Orangish red halogen bulbs. Pall Malls slow burning holes in the dark fabric of a moonless night.

A middle aged, heavily mustached man in a cutoff jean shirt slumps inside surveying the parking lot with bug eyes through thick glasses.

Based on what I remember from chem 101 and an approximate body weight of 105 pounds I have less than 30 minutes before she wakes up. Fill the tank and switch subjects.

Love calculus.

Twenty years ago it was love geometry. Proximity and a few basic formulas revealed the contours of any shape. Times have changed. Old approaches no longer penetrate new hearts.

Or was it these new scrotum scrunching boxers from Hugo Boss? Testicles forced to retreat inside prostrate. Diminishing pheromone emissions. Hugo’s raw dogging her right now bent over my kitchen table. I’m numbering my t-level on one hand and unnutting my prostrate.

Focus. Twenty minutes to discover new math and rescue my future from the death grip of destiny.

Why did she have to wave at me? Why couldn’t she just have gone about her day and left me to continue inserting tidy formulas into LCD illuminated cells designed to measure future values of current expenditures?

The tiny glow on the horizon is NOT my friend. I should know this by now.

I can’t help it, my body animated by mosquito soul. A warrior class blood sucker who ascended to Valhalla in a bygone era. Elevated to human form in the present. Still irredeemably drawn to the light. ‘Hope Kills,’ will be my epitaph.

FOCUS. Fourteen minutes.

Untouchable peach pressed into well worn jeans. Equestrian mornings, motorcycle afternoons, siren song nightshift.

I drive a Subaru and my dog has fleas.

But my thicker than average shaft. I’ll show her the data. Convince her of the benefits of being a standard deviation to the right on the pussy stretching bell curve.

I’m hard just thinking about it. Cool breeze gently blowing the scent of precum into my wet nostrils.

FUCK! Six minutes, maybe less. A muffled moan from the trunk audible ahead of schedule.

THINK. What did the pastor say, love conquers all? Prepare to be conquered my love.

The tank has been full for fifteen minutes. Thick glasses behind the counter lost interest. Plus, I’m 94.5% sure he’s an ally. The time is now.

Hang up the pump. Walk around to the trunk. Open quickly. Use the element of surprise to prevent tire iron wielding demise.

Too late. The first strike folds thick shaft in two. Which, in turn, folds head to knees meeting strike two between my temples. There was no need for strike three, I was out cold.

***

Horn honks. Trunk opens. I climb out. Head throbbing. Broken dick bleeding out.

Passenger door swings open. Pink Cadillac parked on the dirt service road.

One armed toddler behind the wheel. Wordless command, ‘Get in.’

Take the wheel. Drive west together.

Blinding sunrise behind us.

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Pearl Necklace: Part One

pearl necklace

He parked in direct sunlight, killed the engine, and kept the windows of his ’94 Sunbird up as active penance for the sin he was soon to commit.

It was 12:55 on Friday afternoon in Northeastern Oklahoma. The bank marquee read 108 deg. F as a black Audi Q3 assumed its stall in a nearby vacant lot.

Even without binoculars, he could see down Jackie’s blouse from his lookout on the third story of the adjacent parking structure.

‘Lord, thank you for 20/20 vision, panoramic sunroofs, and the plastic surgeon on 3rd Street,’ he whispered before running a thin tongue across dry lips. His sponsor had given a testimonial on the benefits of practicing gratitude at a recent PAA meeting.

‘Come on little guy, shows about to get started,’ encouraging his crotch with his best Jackie voice. He closed his eyes and tilted his neck back 90 degrees bringing the back of his balding head to rest atop a headrest-free baby blue bucket seat.

His mind now a movie screen featuring a scene from three weeks ago. Her ladies taking center stage squeezed between two elbows resting on a jewelry case.

‘Can I take anything out for you?’

‘I want a pearl necklace.’

‘This what you have in mind?’

Well-moisturized hands moved automatically from inside the case to behind her neck, holding in place a sequence of small white beads buoyantly adorning her gravity-defying bosom.

‘It is now.’

He had no idea what he was doing and didn’t care.

He was organically aroused for the first time since mom had found him downstairs at second base with a Tinder date on his 29th birthday. He reached 34 last week a virgin. He lived next to the stack of magazines in her basement.

But none of that mattered looking down from the roof. He had the high ground now. Thick, hot blood in his neck underneath new pearls. Eyes reopening.

Showtime.

Squinting against the blinding heat and fogging windows in the Q3 below, he trained his sights on the now folded-down back seats.

***

‘Did you bring the comforter? I can’t keep telling Manny I’m redoing the display case every time he asks about my red knees.’

‘Are you wearing the panties I left you?’

‘Yes, Chuck.’

‘Good girl. Now back up into Chucky’s lap.’

Things were looking up for Chuck. He had put 1500 miles and 15 days between him and his #metoo moment.

The allegations were 100% factual but he was too pretty to be served up as prison meat.

Nightmarish clarity hit him with the realization that the 19-year-old intern was no longer conscious. Looking down at her bloodied, unmoving asshole he understood it was his future he was peering into.

Reflexively puckering in response, ‘This must be what they mean by empathy.’

Within twenty minutes of fucking and choking the life out of the office copy girl he had abandoned his beachfront condo in Laguna, leaving his Porsche 911 and Mercedes G-Wagon in the garage. He had accepted the fact the VC firm he had built and was about to take public was no longer a viable source of income or teenage pussy.

He pocketed his Bitcoin Ledger and the $10,000 cash he had stashed in the fireproof Sentrysafe under his California king canopy bedroom set. He bought an unmarked car from Lou’s chop shop and hit Interstate 10 headed east. Looking back was not an option.

Less than a week later he was coasting on fumes into a Tulsa Quik Trip. Twelve years of Bitcoin investments transferred to Scottsdale hookers for hot wax hand jobs.

‘I’ll never get laid again,’ he thought out loud, ‘or worse, it’ll be in long-haul cabs underneath toothless truckers on the road to anywhere but here.’ Poetic fatalism.

But God had plans for Chuck that didn’t yet include sliding down to the ranks of lot lizard.

Almost within reach, Jackie was white-knuckling the gas pump as if it would extract from her all the frustration of a woman cursed by breadwinner status. Starved by her own success, she hadn’t been fucked in forever, spousal loathing seething behind her downturned mouth.

She wasn’t 19 but she had a vibe Chuck could taste.

‘I need a ride.’

‘I need a hand back at the shop.’

Jackie didn’t ask Chuck what was wrong with his car or why he couldn’t Uber. She didn’t ask what his plans for the car were. She didn’t ask him anything. As far as Jackie was concerned, no man with less than 8″ would have balls big enough to approach a slim, middle-aged woman with a ring for a ride.

Her jewelry store didn’t open for another 15 min and was never busy on Tuesdays. She made a mental note to scrub the security footage as she walked Chuck back to her storage closet converted office.

‘Manny won’t fuck me in here, says it could disrupt sales, but I bet you will.’

‘Why would you want any Manny to fuck you?’

‘He’s my husband.’

‘Of course he is.’

‘Don’t mess up the do, customers coming soon,’ she said turning her neck 90 degrees to his left while pivoting 180 degrees counter-clockwise on her heels, bending at the waist, and lowering her check to the desk.

‘Wait,’ taking a fistful of hair to halt her descent while simultaneously sweeping aside loose papers, a photo of her dog Dayna, and a Hello Kitty stapler. ‘Bare wood feels better.’

The next eight business days she took lunch on Chuck’s lap in the backseat of her Audi. She disabled the security system at the shop and gave him a key to come and go after hours as he pleased. She left money at night and leftovers in the morning.

Sales were up.

***

The sun was setting as Celeste came to. Everything hurt. She couldn’t swallow. Shallow breaths. Stabbing recollections breaking through forgetful defenses.

No, not now. Get to safety first.

To be continued….

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Barred For Life

He had a PowerPoint to update but couldn’t because she was basting the sweet bread.

She must do this on purpose to prevent his deck from reaching the catsup overlords looking to optimize their warehouse footprint after an otherwise canceled market analyst had managed to make public a well-argued case for imminent recession.

She had her back turned, ignoring the impotent fact of his existence while serendipitously preserving livelihoods, one warehouse-closing presentation at a time.

The catsup commanders however, in exchange for temporary employment, knew as much about him as he did. For example, they knew that despite his current productivity lag, he would, ultimately, opt for the cold comfort of empty corporate platitudes over risking rejection at her hands.

Yet loaf after delicious loaf he lusted, eyes fixed just over the edge of his laptop screen, back slumped against the graffitied coffee shop wall.

Warm liquid fats applied evenly around the edges. Steady shoulders. Supple elbow rhythmically pivoting between butter and bread. Heels of her flats pressed firmly into the white linoleum at slightly more than shoulder width.

Slender frame saran-wrapped in olive leggings and a grey, over-starched baker’s smock dusted in gluten-free flour. Her top and bottom halves coming together to form a nostalgia-inducing earthy granite aesthetic.

He is 7 years old again. Running inside from a pogo-ball workout on the deck of grandma’s house sweaty with deep crimson running down his leg from a fresh knee scape.

He was crying softly.

The kitchen was to the left of the dining room as he entered through the sliding door from outside. Eunice had just taken the lemon bars out of the oven.

A violent passivity baked into her bones, Eunice, like her piping hot lemon bars, required sufficient time to set up before enjoying.

He had burst into the grizzly den hot with blood in early spring after a long winter.

She turned to face him sliding tulip print oven mitts from warm, combat-ready knuckles.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she whispered, beating him to the punch and anchoring his feet to hell itself.

The abrupt change in momentum carried his center of mass over his toes and created a sudden pressure on his bladder which released down his leg.

He was a pussy wet with tears, sweat, blood, and piss getting fucked by a 70-year-old woman with a 12″ spatula.

Later that night he would bury his terror under bar after bar of her tart treats charting an underground course towards certain virginity where, later in life, he would leave the sweet bread at the coffee shop returning home in time to masturbate before meeting deadline.

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Wayward Semen

wayward seamen image

Her mouth hole was flapping open again making a perfect target. He was certain it was within striking range.

The last time he had retained semen for over 60 days he had shot a load from his seat on the couch over the coffee table splattering the TV and a photo of his mom next to a 6′ sunflower protected by a hobby lobby frame with the words ‘stand tall’ etched vertically on both sides.

He had given up semen retention for six months after that, returning to Facebook dating for a steady diet of hands-free nut-busting.

Years prior, in the aftermath of his divorce, he had learned that Facebook dating is the Golden Corral of online dating which is the dumpster dive of actual dating: patrons so desperately hungry they are willing to eat anything.

Occasionally when he logged in he would reflect on how his relationship with the website mirrored the relationship the website had with the general public, that being, he was going to suck it dry and pretend as if nothing had happened.

When he swiped on her, he added a note with the question, ‘What’s got a bottom at its top?’

Adding a comment to a like was free on Facebook, unlike Tinder, and increased the chance of sex on the first date by 7.5%, even if it was an actual rip-off of a cracker-jack joke.

‘What?’ Celeste replied predictably eager.

‘Your legs and I belong between them,’ he fired back, reveling in his statistical prowess with fingers crossed she was within 35 lbs of her profile pictures.

This was the 12th time he had used this line that summer and, hopefully, the eighth to get him laid the same day.

When she arrived at his Manyard Mannor loft apartment ninety minutes later wearing Lulu tights and a Pink crop top tee he was surprised at how little of her exposed stomach spilled over her waistband and how close to kempt her hair was.

He grabbed her wrist pulling her inside and shutting the door in one motion. Understanding his nonverbal command she dropped to her knees. He held back her hair while she took him in her mouth. Twisting her around and pantsing her in time to get off two pumps from behind before blowing his load inside her.

‘Fuck. This. I can’t. Shit. You need to leave. I. I have to go.’ Words blurting out to the rhythm of each genital convulsion.

‘I’m naturally shy and don’t normally do this on a first date. I think I’m falling for you. Go get me a towel.’

‘It’s just the oxytocin, it will wear off. I should have just came in your mouth.’

‘You can but it’s my turn now.’

45 min and three semi-flaccid, teeth-grinding orgasms later, as she was gathering her things to leave, ‘I’m ovulating, thank you for your service.’

He wasn’t nor had he ever been in the military.

In the weeks that followed, he had had to first block her number, then when he couldn’t block her iMessages from coming through on his Macbook without disabling the feature for all his contacts, he resorted to weighting his phone to the bottom of the river and switching to a burner.

When that wasn’t enough he deleted all his social media accounts and ate his deposit along with three months’ rent to move across town into a different loft half the size because he couldn’t afford any larger deposit after draining his 401k to break his lease at Maynard Mannor.

Even then he had to pawn his TV to pay for the Uhaul, accepting a discounted rate on account of a discoloration on the screen likely caused by jerking off too close to the set, the clerk had explained.

‘I was sitting on the couch across the room.’

‘$79 is the best I can do.’

Loading the Uhaul by himself in late August had pushed him to the brink of heat stroke before he remembered an anonymous Twitter account he had created to distract him from his misery and refine the punchy one-liners that landed him in this mess to begin with. He went inside to cool off and build his empire.

Twitter, or X or whatever had been studiously noting each of his breathless condemnations of the fairer sex since first login and subsequently filling his feed with content from the red-pilled incel community leading him to indefinitely swear off all women and renew his efforts towards semen retention.

It was now October. His nuts had swollen to rival the cheeks of the winter-prepping local squirrels and forcing a slight bow-leggedness which he exaggerated for effect as he entered the coffee shop, ordering his pumpkin spice latte like Wyatt Earp ordering the Clanton brothers to stand down at Tombstone.

He preferred to sit at the table around the corner away from the register, but Carol the 62-year-old single dog mom had beat him to the draw and would likely remain seated until the tax extension deadline. She pretended to be an accountant for a big firm but really just did her neighbors’ taxes in exchange for home-baked goodies she pretended were for her non-existent grandchildren but were actually for her severely overweight dog.

A quick scan of the rest of the shop produced only one viable location to enjoy his PSL for a few minutes before returning to the office. He took his seat at the community high-top in the back near the restroom.

It was the sound of crocs scurrying across laminate flooring that hit his tympanic membrane first, drawing his head up from his phone in the direction of what he anticipated to be an attacking chihuahua.

It was Celeste. Hands on hips, belly now forming a recognizable bulge behind her Lulu waistband, mouth open barking unintelligible syllables in one continuous stream of delightful triumph.

She had found him but he wouldn’t give up that easily, he would fire back, 60 plus days of ammunition on demand.

He would end this how it started. Right here. Right now.

The community table providing the necessary cover for his left hand, which was already in his lap beginning to draw his weapon from its trousered holster.

‘Why are you looking at me like that, did you not hear anything I said?’

The delivery driver opening the back door caused a draft of warm, danish-scented air to rush out and meet the cool morning as he stood up, cock in hand.

Many years later, over a campfire, he would tell their teenage grandchildren it was a combination of exhilaration, terror, and a warm draft that caused him to profess his love that day, pants falling to his ankles, wayward semen painting everything in sight, including grandma, their unborn mother, and the unsuspecting delivery driver.

‘Sometimes, love happens to you.’ He would say, extinguishing the fire.

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Chili Recipe

There was a young man once healthy except for his donkey who had constipation

The young man tried everything to get the donkey to shit until one day he read an advertisement for a new doctor in town

This was exciting because he lived alone and the nearest city was a three-day donkey ride a distance his constipated companion could not travel

Following the instructions on the advertisement the young man made an appointment for the next day explaining to the gum-chewing desk attendant his interest in homeopathic gut remedies

Upon arriving and filling out the paperwork requiring him to divulge his bank information, family of origin, list of all the books he had ever read, driver’s license, social security information, and finally, medical history with full release authorization a male nurse appeared beckoning him from the lobby down a dimly lit hallway to the tidy Dr’s office looking out onto the parking lot of the Kwiquie Mart where he re-explained his interest in homeopathic gut remedies

The doctor who was understandably very busy servicing alone the entire village avoiding unnecessary movements like eye contact behind fogged spectacles far away surmising every detail both shared and unshared while calculating a precise medical formula designing a custom cure

No question was asked

Then after exactly 60 seconds the Dr’s pen began furiously moving across his pad for 92 seconds when he violently tore off the notes in the direction of the young man making eye contact and entering the room for the first time asking in the tone of a commandment do you want to be healed?

It was the young man who was far away now noticing the nondescript painting of a donkey up and to the left of the examination table braying in anguish due to the artist’s inability to include a straight line anywhere on his broken frame

Wordlessly removing the prescription from the Dr.’s outstretched hand the young man turned to leave with instructions to have it filled at the nearest pharmacy and schedule a follow-up in 10 business days

Remembering the nearest pharmacy was a 3-days ride from his very small village the young man was suddenly very hungry for his semi-famous donkey chili

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Once Upon a Time in the Early Morning Revelry

wet horizon

I’m staring at my shoes again. I am a footwear aficionado. It’s the butter-colored laces that define me.

I’ve never been more alone.

The analog skin of my 44mm ceramic Apple Watch Series 5 is frozen at 4:04. Tiny hands holding my future hostage. Rage retreats behind a trembling terror.

Stop crying. Remember how to breathe.

Recite mantra: you are more than where you are. Erase the memory of how I got here and where I thought I was going.

This nightmare will never end. Eyelids beyond my strength to lift.

Wet soil swallows me to my ankles. Primordial parasites feast on my middle-aged flesh. It will be a slow inconsequential death.

Immediately overtaken by the impluse to cum but the thought of mud-drenched tennies turns the blood in my shaft to liquid nitrogen.

This is not a dream. Today yet another cheap remake of yesterday. Diminishing returns deposited daily into a vast neural network of vainglorious self-loathing.

I haven’t always been 41 but as long as I can remember I have been:

Untrustworthy with a weapon unable to hunt can’t fish have a blog I don’t write in shop at natural grocers drive a financed Subaru watch porn meditate vote Republican cry at the movies fuck single moms with high body counts go to therapy to cry about the movies I cry at and the women I can’t fall in love with.

I swear to Christ I have no idea who did this to me but I know I can’t do forty more years of grandiosity suspended in lethargy.

I’ll drag the razor across my wrist on Denali in the spring. Sacrifice my flesh to feed grizzly cubs. No search and rescue will be deployed. Life insurance will pay my auto loan. FMLife insurance lapsed I’ll have to postpone till next year.

I’m breathing normally now but I once held it for 37 years. Then, one afternoon, violently exhausted a seething vitriol in the direction of my 75-year-old father casually sitting across the dinner table from me at the time. It was a fatally slow burn. His heart stopped four years later pulling him unnaturally from his bike onto his neck. He died almost instantly.

I was jealous when I got the call because he died poetically painlessly.

I am going to die on the shitter with perfect abs watching my only two bitcoins go to zero staring blankly into the fertile faces of every woman I failed to love.

This is reality. Reality is an abstraction. Especially her, the one who got away. She appears to me now in grotesque twilight while I grope to caffeinate her from my consciousness.

She’s wearing a flower print dress with a small mustard stain on the shoulder strap, a sunflower in a field of poppies. Supple ladies lactating in biological response to the crying toddler holstered on her back.

There’s a sprinkler. I look down. Shoes washed clean.

I roll over and pen my plan to win her. It doesn’t sound grandiose against the chorus of crickets outside the aluminum-framed bedroom window.

Renounce all other women retain all semen write this manifesto buy a gun enroll in BJJ surgically remove my tear ducts quit therapy stop going to the movies get a hobby that requires other men but doesn’t require their wives’ approval – maybe fishing, pay off debt get insured edit my blog into the next great American memoir of early morning revelries.

What do you think?