brian floyd is hot. the last time I saw him he was probably balding. he's so sexy and i always thought it was a nice side benefit of being pals. the only man better-looking is the indian doppelgänger with a huge thick AHEM who was an amazing kisser, funny, brilliant and spent fifuckingteen minutes post-kiss TOUCHING UP HIS SHELLACED HAIR because i'd tried running my hands through it and COULD NOT GET MY FINGERS UNTANGLED. cue the ER.
i was able to see into the bathroom mirror from the couch. narcissistic clueless echo that he was--that hair product I have NEVER encountered before, and i swear by ice spiker!
so, floyd was safe. i stopped blogging because i was alive. busy not drowning in rape flashbacks. just so safe that even though i was terrified of him i practiced until not only was i fearless...i looked forward to his gorgeous features for one reason:
i had one man in my life who thought i was funny and didn't follow me out to slide his hand down my pants or up my shirt and stick his fingers somewhere MINE and laugh that i should have known, don't look so shocked, would you stop crying!?
I STOPPED SPLITTING IN ORDER TO DEAL WITH THE PTSD. i dealt with it head-on all day every day until it dissipated. because for maybe twelve hours a week i had a place where in all my filth and froth i could spew forth on all matters disgusting, hysterical, philosophical and sexual. all my sex jokes were met with a merry twinkle and pealing chortles. he shot back as good as i came.
in time i was sighing dreamily at the one imperfection the man has: his nonexistent ass. i love a man with an ass. JWWCS had none, and he was a waiter! it was marvelous, watching him jump like an agile curious george onto the counter and reach for his bottles.
he let me tease him when he muddled basil for lemonade. i'd make orgasm faces and beat off in time with him, and he'd just blurt out a giggle and make a face right back, just not an orgasm face, and my heart would just swell all nutella.
so to my secret ingredient i wrote, and he mistook it as a "baby i wanna i just gotta marry you" piece:
Serenade: O Heart, Useless Organ
Your feet tap out south like Texas big as the swath they cut
Like a Bible. Your blood must be in every edition. Parchment
Needs ink to breathe. I would set pen to paper could I note
The molasses your laughter breathes into the armadillo sky.
Your toes curl sunrises, your ankles laze, I fear I’ve fallen
through the floorboards.
There has never been one,
The alchemist frowns. Never, not purple
Nor any fairy tale under the rainbow.
No one has ever loved the ordinary.
But look, one will pluck,
His gnarled finger bunioning mine,
So plucked you will bear fruit. He winks, for
Fools climb glass mountains every day.
Come. Your eyes are that of the third prince.
Once at a supermarket an eight-year-old coveted me.
I had left the apartment at long last, could no longer
Sleep, pricked tho my finger. It burned until the hole
Through me was gone. I grabbed a silver dress, lips
Red, ears dripping baubles. He returned, tiptoe, without
His mother.
As I stooped, careful to cover my cleavage as easily
As I could, I caught my breath at his beauty, thinking
The most confounded things: that I was sculpted ice,I
Maybe a queen bedecked in diamonds out doing my
Grocery shopping, cart and determination shining
As a pair.
I might order one of those.
Now, among the spidering you do,
The fade across the seat of your jeans
Calls to attention lumps of plasticine.
I would sculpt you a bedroom to match
Crawl into my grandparents’ secret room
To retrieve the antique doll hangers
Hearts in spades
And you haven’t a whit to lose.
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