Friday, November 20, 2009

Losing my Head

I love Peter Parker's place because it is immaculate. And I don't mean that kinda immaculate that denotes him having something to hide. I mean that kinda clean that is lived and comfortable with just a slight bit of anal.

You know, like mine.

And it always smells good. Like the cologne he wears and the soap he uses, wrapped in a layer of baby powder and some kinda spice.

Right now though, the house smells like whatever he has simmering on the stove. And despite the fact that I have some home training, my mouth fills with saliva at the smell of it.

He's cute, leaning over the pots and pans, his sweats flushing against the curves of his ass, stirring and tasting, dancing to the music coming from the stereo system. I think I like watching a man cook. It's something like an aphrodisiac.

Did I mention I go hard for men in sweatpants?


"Hey you," he says, kissing my forehead with his hands, warm from cooking, molded to either side of my face. "I've missed your freckles*."

He gives me a spoon to taste, some sort of lemon based sauce flooding my taste buds. It's good. Damn good. So good in fact that I take the spoon from him and lick the rest of the broth from its surface.

"Damn you are hungry aren't you?"
"I told you. I haven't eaten all day."
"Well if you give me maybe five more minutes, I will feed you."
"Five minutes is all you get. After that I start raiding your kitchen for Oreos."

His place is laid open like a field. You can see directly from the front door all the way back to the door that I assume is his bedroom. I have explicitly made it a point not to venture back that way. I am master of the couches up front.

The apartment is nice, masculine but still comfortable, impressive without trying too hard. I expected it to be all leather couches and dim lighting, but its far more electronics and family and friend photos.

He keeps being more than I expect him to be.

Within his promised five minute timeframe, he's bringing the food out to a tiny table on the balcony and pouring me a glass of wine.

That's a lie. I'm having Bacardi, lol.

Sitting outside overlooking the highway, the air just starting to turn crisp with fall, we laugh and talk and drink like we have all the time in the world. It's nice to stop every once in awhile and just be. I am slowly but surely learning how. It's nice to be around someone who has already mastered the practice.

Before I know it, our food has long since disappeared, we are on bottle #2 and the temperature has dropped more degrees than my nipples are comfortable with. Before I can even ask, he wraps us in a blanket, pulling the bottle underneath the layers with us, and continuing our conversation seamlessly.

At some point, he moves me to sit between his legs, half leaning on his chest, the heavy ropes of muscles in his legs intertwined with mine to keep me warm. I feel the weight of his arms around my waist, his chin still resting easily in my hair despite the fact that he is half leaning, his height just that much greater in comparison to my own.

"I like your hair straight," he mumbles into my ear, sweeping the mid-back length fall of strands over one shoulder, his chin hooked into the curve the opposite one makes when it reaches my neck.
"Oh, that's right. You've never seen it straight."
"No, I haven't. I wouldn't have guessed it was so long. I think I like the curls better though. They're more fun to play in," he responds, raking his fingernails from my temples to the nape of my neck rhythmically.
"In a minute you are gonna put me to sleep."
"I wasn't planning on doing that until much later."

The change in his voice isn't lost on me. Where he was once all fanciful loops and pastels, he is now geometric shapes and primary colors.
I mean that to say, he is very serious.

I falter. Not having expected this of him has left me without my usual wit to defend myself. My back stiffens against his torso.
"Don't," he says, the soft curves of his lips grazing the thin skin of my ear with butterfly kisses with every word he says. "Stay with me. Tonight. Stay." It's just barely above an inaudible whisper, but it is unmistakably more command than request, his teeth dragging along planes of my neck. Goosebumps erupt across my back, a universe of constellations erupted from the energy of his hands on my skin. He moves his hands through my hair to lean my head to one side, my throat completely vulnerable to an assault from his mouth.
I imagine he can see the pulse of my heart beating underneath my pale skin.
"Just... stay."

His hands have found the skin on my back, easing slyly up the track of my spine, scratching lightly on the descent.

I. cannot. breathe.

"Peter I-"

He turns my head so fast and covers my mouth with his I think my neck might snap. He's kissing me, talking to me, murmuring in my mouth and I am slowly losing my composure, letting his kisses mold me into whatever shape he wants.

I'm not even entirely sure who's effort is involved in turning me around or even that I have moved until I find my hands pressed to his chest, kneeling between his long legs, every bit of my position lending itself to surrender.

At some point he grabs my hands, pulling me up from the balcony floor, walking me backwards down that long hallway I have made a point not to walk. I am protesting, but weakly, his lips devouring my feeble attempts at sensibility before they can barely make if off my lips. My back finds the door and he pushes me hard against it, holding me there, looking at me. I hope this means he will stop long enough for one of us to regain our composure. I open my mouth to speak.
"Don't you fucking dare."

He lets the door swing open behind me unexpectedly, pushing me firmly towards the bed. He closes the door hard behind him.

And I know he's not letting me out of here.

Before I know we are just limbs, arms and legs tangled like ivy. Somehow my shirt has gotten off. I don't remember him even touching me to take it off; I assume that he just somehow mentally convinced it that it wanted to leave the premises and it abandoned me on its own.

He kisses like a warrior, all ferocity and passion, no pretense or idle obligation. He is talking to me and I am so very focused on catching ever word he's saying.

He takes a step back, lifting his t-shirt over his head deftly with one hand, my hands simultaneously circling his waist. Sliding my fingers between his skin and the waistband of his boxers, I eased down his sweats and boxer briefs in one smooth motion. And-

"OH SHIT!!!"

(to be continued...)

*Note: He swears I have freckles. I swear I ain't that light motherfucker.

Thursday, November 12, 2009


I used to wear a cross around my neck.

Nothing fancy. Just a simple, silver creation that I really liked. To my recollection, I wore it everyday. Actually, if I am being truthful, I don't remember ever taking it off.

Until of course I took it off.

The cross went the way of my faith; I don't remember it being a conscious decision, just a slow winding down into permanent separation until one day I put it down to never pick it up again.

I was raised in the church. Despite being barely out of toddler years, I remember the small white church my family went to in a small town outside of Atlanta. It was my grandmother's church; it became our church because it was hers. It was where our family gathered every Sunday under her watchful eye.

I don't remember the services. I remember the feeling. The antsy impatience of a child. The singing and shouting circling the low ceilings of the old church. The instruments, loud and raucous, seemingly pushing the walls back a bit further from the lone crimson aisle dividing the pews. Shying away from the hoots and hollers and screams from the pulpit. Being more than mildly curious as to the origin of the strange language and dance of speaking in tongues. I remember picking up heavy hymns and navy bibles, pretending to read them because that's what I saw everyone else doing around me.

And isn't that what you are supposed to do?

I learned the language of assimilation early. In the uproarious services of my grandmother's old school Southern Baptist church; in the quiet dignity off mass in the dark caverns of the cathedral where I went to school. I learned to sit and stand on command, to speak and sing as a chorus, to be quiet in reverence or in fear.

Whichever was most appropriate.

Even as a child who didn't really get to be a child, I recall feeling like an Other. I remember my discomfort at some of the rituals and rote ramblings. I can sharply recall sitting through countless ceremonies and sermons with questions freight train-ing through my head that I'd been conditioned not to ask.

I remember the guilt for even having questions at all.

It was a long and twisty road, from childhood to adulthood, many vital milestones marked with some sort of entanglement in religious rite or ritual.

I learned them. I remember them to this day. But I never quite felt a part of them.

But that doesn't really matter, right?

As an adult, I find that my belief in God is no less potent than the last time I remember standing before an altar. But as an adult who is a member of more minority groups than I care to mention, I find that I often can't stand on the steps of a church without the very visceral instinct to run.
Fast and hard.
That way.

Like my faith, I keep thinking that one day that cross from my childhood will turn up in a box somewhere. Long stored but still flawless, unwarped by time or offense. I keep expecting that one day I will open the lid to something that even I had forgotten I had packed, and it will be there.

Just like I left it.

And I will be able to out it on, settling nicely onto the skin it once occupied, complimenting the things that have grown and matured on my epidermal landscape, but still present.

It hasn't quite worked out that way.

As with most things though, I presume nothing is ever where you left it. And in order to find your way back, you have to wind your way backwards through your own personal forest, taking note of the markers on the trees and considering other paths you could have taken...

Thursday, November 5, 2009


For as long as I can remember I have had a thing for buildings. Not necessarily the architecture, but more so for the lives, the stories contained inside the construction.

In my mind, each house is a curtain to be lifted, revealing the show inside. Each home its own stage, replete with all the trappings, each front door the portal to whatever lives are contained therein.

When I was younger and attending a tony private Catholic school on the north side of my hometown, I remember riding through the streets with my face pressed up against the window, looking at the houses and mentally painting the stories of the people inside. Were they married? From the South? Did they live alone? Did they have a dog? A pool? Did they like the color purple? Were they good at math?

As a child it seemed just the fanciful wonderings of a highly creative kid prone to daydreaming. Now that I am older, only slightly wiser, I mostly see it for what it is.

I was a kid always looking for home. I never really had that particular place where I felt safe or welcomed or comfortable. I always thought that everyone had a kind of homestead; that house that, even if it was a grandparent's or friend's, where you felt some sort of peace. Where you knew you could always go to when you needed to just be ensconced in warmth. As an adult, I recognize that isn't really the case. But it never stopped me from wanting one anyway.

I moved around as a kid, luckily not as much once I reached puberty years. But for a time, we never had a house either. We did eventually come to rent a place on the southwest side of the city that I affectionately referred to as The Dollhouse. It was great. And comfortable. But still not really our own. We moved out when I was in college 800 miles away. I didn't even pack up my own things. As strange as it sounds, I always wished I'd said goodbye.

All my life I have been searching for my own space in the world, some physical manifestation of home. I certainly have amassed a small army of people who love and adore me despite knowing me wholly. But I still would like that place to call my own. I don't even really want a house per se. Just...


I've always wanted a place to send my magazines to. A carved out place so that I wouldn't feel a dull pain low in my belly at the sight of blank lines on a form asking for a permanent address. Maybe a stain on the carpet from that time the dog knocked over a bottle of red wine. Familiar perches and pictures and pipes and planes that I know intimately. It's silly, I know, to put so much stock in a structure. But for little La, it's still a very fervent desire.

I'd like my own curtains to my own stage, holding the theater of my life.