Archive for relationships

I Don’t Engage

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said “no thanks, I’ll not,”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

This was not nice, you know,

No slice, you know, of pie.

But she stepped off, to stay,

Now all I say, is “k.”

Time to get a Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by JC

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the  the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’  that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

Time to get a dog.

Enough

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on February 18, 2013 by JC

Will I always need a fucking blue book to break up with someone?

The desperation I’ve seen recently puts my d down like near-freezing water.

What’s with this need to have any relationship as long as it’s defined that way? Do they grow out of it?

In Love on a Boat

Posted in literature, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2013 by JC

I

It’s fun, being in love and on a boat. I was, a long time ago. That was when I knew a woman who was happy to be in love and on a boat. Now I do not, and I do not know where I will find another, but I know where it is most likely to happen.

By the sea there is a boat on which I have been and seen women in love with men. I cannot be sure that the women on the boat who do not appear to be in love or who are in love but unhappy would be happy if on a boat and in love, and so I will horn a man or I will steal his woman without horning him on this boat if she looks happy and in love and I would like to be with her.

II

I am on the boat and we are in the water. I am approaching a man and a woman who appear to be in love with each other and happy. I would like to be with this woman but she is currently with this man and so I will separate them or wreck their home.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” says the woman I would like to be with.

“Yes, it is. Rick Shaw.”

“Rick Shaw? But we’re already on a boat!”

She laughs and I can see that Rick Shaw feels threatened but does not want to project that emotion. We shake hands and the woman looks at me with attraction.

III

It is now dinner time and I have been with Mr. Shaw and the woman for several hours. The woman continues to ask me questions as Mr. Shaw continues to buy me drinks.

“So you said you are from the port city?”

“Yes. I used to be a fisherman but now I am retired.”

“You look fit. I would not have guessed you were old enough to be retired.”

“Margaret!”

“That’s still my name. So, Mr. Coyle, are you married?”

I imagine Mr. Shaw did not feel good by this point.

“No. I have several children but I have never been married.”

“We do not have any children because Richard is sterile and I do not enjoy having intercourse with him and I do not want to marry him. I am glad you are here.”

THE END

Natural Mess (companion to Only What’s Real)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Dishwasher-bound glasses crashed chinkily. It wasn’t a wine bar—it was a coffee shop, The Drippery. I was sitting alone by the half-octagonal window outside which the city awaited me, or would have awaited me if I were that type of guy or it that type of city. The city was doing, that city of people and their projects. About seven cyclists rode by self-righteously in competitive gear, stopping traffic, prompting HOONs, BEEPS and, of course, as this is The City and its people are so important, bird flippage and a dissonant chorus of fuck-yous interspersed with at least one “this isn’t fuckin’ Westchester!” The hot-dog man brazenly pitched his stand at 9 AM and hid his lower face behind a newspaper as he scouted for incredibly eager business. Business men, like my father, talked their way to work cellularly or otherwise.

Inside the dark-wood-paneled-and-floored, red-brick-faced affair, typists typed—soul-patched guy, eyes crimped behind heavy frames; hemp-hatted, moon-faced co-ed girl versus a daunting cup of plain oatmeal, the latter was clearly winning; guy who resembled the lecturer who made me fall in love with philosophy, the cupid of discourse I might say if I were desperate enough to quip. There was a sexy, exotic-looking mocha-skinned lady behind the counter that day. I’d never seen her. I took a shot.

How to go about this, I wondered? Was it different? No—that’s racist. Just be natural. Just go. Just do. Just man up.

So I went up to the counter and ordered another coffee.

“Hey, I’ll take my regular.” I thought that was funny.

“This is my first day. What are you having?” She said, deadpan.

Ouch! Strike one, or was she playing? I called ball one—I pitched too high (low?) and she didn’t swing.

“I’ll have a medium Costa Rican and a formal introduction, pretty lady.” Nailed it!

“Okay, one Costa Rican coming up and then you should leave.”

I’m not a ten. All things considered I’m probably an eight-and-a-half. They say a confident male seven can bag an unconfident female ten. What does that say about a confident male eight-and-a-half and a confident female nine-and-a-half? Any case, I was undeterred and, frankly, falling in love with every further bit of data I gathered about this precious beauty—every bit of evidence suggesting towering self-respect and –esteem; restraint and skepticism in matters of love; oh-so-endearing and oh-so-deadpan coyness; and, of course, the sight of her made me gaga.

“You’re right—I have to go to work. But I’ll be gentlemanly calling again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and so on. You’re a gem, lady, and now that I’ve discovered you I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to coax you out of your native mine. Have yourself a good first day.”

She overfilled my coffee cup. Nailed it!

Sublimation of a Date Gone Awry

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by JC

“Check it: so I took dis crack ho out to Ruby Tuesday, spent twelve dollas on her ass unda da supposition I was gonna get something–or at least something-something–in return. Bitch ain’t done a mothafuckin cocksuckin thang to date. So I called her up to collect. I said “Listen, cunt: I ain’t gonna be just throwin a Hamilton and Two Washingtons in to da motha fuckin wind, so to speak. You gonna make good on da terms of our agreement. Either you’re gonna pay me, if you can’t pay me your pimp’s gonna pay me, if your pimp can’t pay me i’mma bust caps and then yo momma gonna pay me, if your momma can’t pay me, and you can’t find an alternative means of recompensing me, then have fun sucking my dick, bitch! Damn. That’s fourteen percent of my wealth you took from me! That ain’t nothin to sneeze at! That ain’t nothin to jerk off at! That’s big fuckin bucks to me! What has this world come to? The immorality is rampant, and it’s disgusting. When you can’t trust a ho, then, man, this world’s just gone to shit.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I can’t buy booze no more, I can’t buy ganj no more, I can’t buy rock no more…I can’t buy blowjobs no more. All my life’s pleasures is gone because this crack ho felt entitled to my money–the sweat of my fuckin brow. I work hard. I bust my ass. And it’s come to nothing…except if you’ve derived some pedagogical value from my story–if I’ve channeled some wisdom your way. Then, my life ain’t so bad and I’ll live on. Things ain’t so bad.

Thanks for listening. Moral of the story: if you’re gonna be dealing with a crack ho, if you’re gonna be transacting something with a crack ho, then make sure you get your end first, cuz they ain’t to be trusted. All right–take it easy!”

I’m not a john. I went on a bad date with a lady two years ago, partook in a heated e-exchange the next day because of some miscommunications, apologized, and ended up spending twelve dollars that subsequently got repaid on a not-so-bad second date. I made this in reasonable anticipation of default; wrote a sketch of the final product during my accounting lecture. What can I say? I’m expressive.

The Sharpest Knife

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 17, 2013 by JC

You want all the jabs you can get. In your mind they reinforce the idea that I’m evil and you’re perfectly innocent.

I’ll devastate you with the truth–as I see it now and will always see it–until you’re as done as I am.

The truth is that whether you choose to self-examine or not, you were the first, worst, and most consistent sociopath in this relationship.

Exhibits A-Y (one more and we’d have had an alphabet’s worth of evidence!):

You hid at least three mustache rides from me and falsely portrayed yourself as a rape victim (twice!) to keep this ever-fucked-up relationship going and control the way you were perceived.

Ask Aidan, that best friend of mine you shamelessly, desperately, disgustingly assaulted with your eyes and threw yourself at in my presence and behind my back–he gave you an 8.5 on a 10 point scale for sociopathy, and he thinks you’re pathetic, “desperate enough to make anything work,” manipulative, narcissistic, and always good for inspiring a hearty, derisive laugh. I’d say he’s got the nail hit on the head about 75% of the time with that description.

Ask Brian, who you dubbed more attractive than me in a public setting.

Finally, ask skinny-fat Greg from California; skinny-fat, bitch-titted, sociopathic Rob; Mountain-Man Dan, your opportunistic white knight in underwhelming armor; poor, little, puny DM, pre-diabetic Ashton, the abusive, scrawny Chris W; poor, little, puny and probably homosexual Sol; fat Bill, Tim the Borderline Autistic, approximately seven hipster app developers in Portland, and Felix, from whom I would have sought lessons on breaking up if you had it your way–only a few of the innumerable sexual vacations you toyed with embarking on or actually embarked on while we were together. Maybe you were just insecure and trying to make me jealous. That, of course, would vindicate you, right? Vindicate your getting sliced, sluiced, stuffed, schtooped, slammed, fucked, made-love-to, cunnilingualized* real good at every opportunity. Here’s a secret: as long as you want it, as long as your fickle, BV-afflicted thoroughfare of a pussy craves novelty, anything unfamiliar will serve you right, so don’t worry about finding a sexual match. Everyone who’s capable of copulation–even if his erectile prowess is lacking or sporadic; even if his hands are useless; even if he’s an atrocious kisser–is a potential match for you!

What’s more: if you’re ever desperate for friends, you know you’re always a hit with half-chubbed heterosexual males! Avert your eyes to the crotch–I know you like to and it never lies.

I hope that’s comforting to you at this difficult time. You’ll find your next “monogamistic” arrangement very soon, I’m sure. Perhaps you won’t get 7.5+ inches of ready and athletic phallusticity out of it, but you’ll synthesize happiness from your deferent, abjectly cuckoldable and immasculine husband–modelled after Daddy Len and me circa late 2010 and early 2011, before I grew a sufficient pair to confront you on any of your endless bullshit–and your lifetime of messy, dramatic affairs. You’ll find someone who has potential but no support network, habits or interests that encourage testicular descent, you’ll run him into the ground, and then you’ll find ways to make him feel like he’s wronged you.

My conscience, for one, is still sterling.

P.S. You can tell mom and dad they’ve succeeded in creating a spineless-monster-cunt-milquetoast in their own combined likeness, and that I totally would have slammed the shit out of the former’s cooch 30-40 years ago.

*(I was no competition for Rob on that, as I couldn’t bring myself to grow something comparable to that misshapen strip of shit on his upper lip. I’m so very sorry I didn’t get better acquainted with your clam, the cutting edge of vaginal epidemiology, while we were together.)