the new vanilla

vanilla got complicated and ran away with itself. so many flavors. too many choices. someone wrote a letter and did an intervention. petitioned the court for that old taste at the back of the throat.
when the verdict came in, all the grown children held their tongues. the gavel came down and the judge asked for order: within certain parameters, to be determined by the FDA and, as sanctioned by this court, only in so far as it is safe to the general public, by decree, meet the new vanilla!


Journal # 11.02.16

She wore a suit to the convention, she always wore suits nowadays even if she was walking the mojave desert barefoot. Something inside her had switched, proprioceptively, and all those free spirits baring skin through broken fabrics she once identified with, no longer appealed to her sense of herself. She even began to part her hair definitely and not in one place all the time, but it was a true part – i mean linear – so anyone could follow the line to its natural conclusion, wherever it happened to run that day. The change was neither accidental nor superficial. A vertical adjustment in the makeup of her personality took the horizontal carelessly. Like if you had a birthday party on the ninth moon of Jupiter, and you only served monochrome helium balloons with astronaut ice cream.

vitamin k

How to eat an ice cream

IT wasn’t until i held it in my hand, by the tail of its cylindrical cone, which thank god succeeded the old-fashioned sugar cone, for the generous ledge guarding my grip bought me almost time to escape the dripping cascade of frozen cream, desublimated against the early autumn air…

IT wasn’t until then that i realized i required an instruction manual on ice cream cones.

OF course, wanting one left me hanging. So i desperately shot up out of my car, and out into the safety of the parking lot, where i shielded my activities from my friend…

THOUGH i use the term irresponsibly, to discuss someone who hands off such an imminent disaster as this to me, with a solitary small napkin, and says have at it, expecting some ‘thanks’ in return…

BY my body, between us, for no greater pleasure ought they assuredly be denied than to watch me pitch and moan as the clock ticked out each precious second, in battle with the sugary former globe they so selflessly gave away moments earlier.

AFTER searching the sky for shelter in vain, i went about my coarse and shocking affair of problem-solving, pragmatic at best, American  to the teeth.

WHICH were most helpful to me in taking out the better portion of the wilting cream head in one unhinged jaw sorta predatory swoop from above.

WHY this appealed to me for a solution, i cannot say. Under pressure, my mind likes to fold, leaving my body to grope around, prehistorically.

MY friend was bending his neck out the car window under guise of offering help, as he tried to see around my back, feeling deservedly patriarch to the comedy he had set in motion.

MY mouth turned ice cold as the slush rush moved unsettling fast toward the pain center of my brain. My eyes watched helplessly as the thawing mass above my hand crept over the new cone barricade.

I began to lick furiously from below the lip, up, turning the cone as i went. But the pressure of my tongue dislodged the whole blob, which started leaning precariously to one side, and almost fell its death on my boots.

I pulled back on the tongue, and forward sculpted with the tip. Funny faces were appearing at the windows of the ice cream shoppe before me. I could not seem to work the precarious balance of judicious touch and quick rotation.

ICE cream rivulets formed and slid happily down my wrists and up into my shirtsleeves. I was too preoccupied with my frozen head ache to notice.

MY fingers had tightened their grip,  under duress, and broke through the shell of the new cone, so now i was watering the parking lot with liquid sugar. The kids had half their faced imprinted on the glass, and a few had run outside to stare and laugh.

My inhibitions all left me, finally, followed the ice cream’s way out. The spell was broken! I put a mean deliverance on my face, and tossed the useless watery shell casings to the oily lot of them.


Nobody moved. Not even the second hand of the clock. I held myself high and walked into the old ice cream shoppe of new cone and horror, and found my way to the wash room, gracefully.
In the looking glass, staring back at me, a hideous and wonderful thought!

Returning to the car, i stopped first at the passenger side window, and smiled kindly so as to get a roll down.

Then, out from behind my perspirated back, came a triple scoop of Rocky Road on an old cone (the unforgiving kind), for my dear friend. I handed it to him…
with one, single, solitary napkin.

erotica in e minora all night loco to menana

She was a musical instrument when the fuckwas

k by k

m. hotel 2011

good. I swear. I would know! I had a moment a flash! In a secondhand reflection through a dreamy post mad love made embrace, head in the forgiveness of the goose down pillows we just bought together at the goose down shop uptown. You know the one. And my hair was styled that wild way straight  hair gets styled in a couple hours of heat and hands running through it, and the push and pull and slide friction of the strands against the century count thread white sheets.

I had her in my sights, and she always gave her all to the whole thing in an organic way. Down to the threadcount, the anais nin parfume, the sesame oil, the music, the candles, the all! She did me right, like i did her, too. All thats left in the wake of it are the images following lovely thoughts in my mind. I have us in a snowy virgin country open space I created; took the best aspects of different places we had hiked, set it to the perfect temperature, threw in some snow and an ocelot spying us from a nook in a nearby oak. Scratch that oak, lets make it a beech tree, ya, the kind ya find in deepwoods pine forest. ya. Well, if a beech tree can handle the weight of an ocelot…no matter.

No matter, cause when I went to embrace her in this wonderful place in my head, I really was embracing her right down here on earth in oakland california in this poor excuse of a mattress hiding beneath silk and satin finery. Deluxe moment in time! Holding one another exhausted in that wonderful way after it all, of course, and the dream i had setup perfect-like, such that the two synched up so nice! I blended it like strawberry daiquiris. Thorough!

I kinda got addicted to this sort of daydream a couple decades ago, after my best friend Virginia inadvertently got me hooked. She was brilliant! She had trained her mind to pull her away and dissociate into her waking dreams. And I was given this dance of day dream.

m. hotel

daydream #47

What was so good about this connect? What did we have in this way of coming together, that could connect us after all hell broke loose and the cow tipped the oil lamp and burned down the city for all intents and purpose? What was this fuck to her? To me?

Sustained attention. Implicit trust in a physical sense. What we wanted, each of us, the other seemed to naturally have to give over. Reciprocity. Open to flex the supple toned muscles and change direction, but subtle like the wind. You don’t hardly know until you see the weather vane turn, or hear it turn.  The movement occurred gradual like an Chopin nocturne unfolding before our conscious presence. No limbs getting stuck and pressed into pins and needles by it. Na! No falling asleep because its dull and senseless. Best of all, No one was forced to do nothing!

I was so turned on sometimes I crossed her eyes! I mean her seeing me so turned on got her breathless herself, and basically one could say her eyes crossed when i got off, or like I was by the ice cream truck as a kid, but only to watch the other kids delight in snow cones. It was like I delighted in them.

I think good sex was unselfish, because I know if I commit to a moment with someone and I’m only thinking about getting off, it usually won’t work that way. Unless I commit my efforts toward them, going down after they go down, or pinching nipples while they lick my kneecap or tickle my elbow or something cute like that!

Ya, mostly the best sex is the altruistic kind. That’s my take. Cause its not so much about two women being together, like alot of people think or talk about. Bisexuality is unmistakably less about gender than most. Though some people think the opposite. Strange. The best fuck comes irregardless of gender, age, creed. A good fuck could be good regardless of the happy ending, either.  My favorite lucky one will know this by the smile on my face when we are over and out like now, tired draped over one another and falling gently into the bed courtesy of gravity herself. Were there a happy ending for one and not the other? No matter. Were it a man, were it a woman? No matter; whom you love is whom you love. If you really wanna be sincere to yourself about it. Thats what i think. Don’t worry, my opinions won’t cost you nothing! Just a second of your time. All serious attention is rewarded, you know, its… karmic.

She became what she was. And this was a silent rule by which we both must abide: allowance. Letting your partner be someone and feel some way without constraint, and without fear of rejection. Self need not be self-conscious. We get to feel elated, satisfied, bored, anxious, relaxed, ticklish, sensitive, breathless. We let it happen. This takes time, really.   Good fucks deserve the time they take to get there. A good fuck wasn’t always so! Remember the discomfort as we learned one another’s body language and where to translate. Until we found that unique body vernacular of our own. Our dance. How we fuck. And when I say the f. word, i mean it as a term of endearment. The word is street, which turns me on. Cause I know the street, and the street is not always vulgar. Street is also underground, sharp cut, to the point, dangerous-like. Street is sexy. And Fuck is street.

A good fuck often breaks records, goes off the charts! Like magic! Sometimes we felt more than just two or three orgasms together, even simultaneous every now and then. Wow! Sometimes our cries came from somewhere which knew of past lives: a deep place within us. Yes, I believe in past lives. So sue me in the next life, if you think my credibility just fell off. I can still tell you about passion and compassion, intimacy through role reversals. I can still touch on the greater sexual enterprise implicit in some of our affairs. Some which front as intellectual. purely. some which sever themselves from any and all possible sexual context. Some which are devoid of tangible sexual reference.

All of which betray themselves if the right one comes along and offers the best fuck you ever had. Don’t you just love that moment? When the one who considered themselves strictly alpha, suddenly turns over in submission cause you touched them just that deep? Wow! Congratulations is in order! Maybe some martinellis and velvet cupcakes.  Those citizens who have long evolved sexually, know how to turn this trick. Some even seek it out, the turning alpha over like that. It can be addictive. They smile often when tangentially they connect or reconnect with such purists.

Well, my mind is going back now to this cherished recent memory I began talking about and strayed away from. She is pulling me back, what we have is pulling me back there all day long sometimes. Unbelievable. I’m going back there now, all the way, like I did earlier, arching my back over my heels to kiss the lips of the woman who waits for me and all we need are eachother in this moment. No drive bys.  No need for any man to come and take both of our blouses off,  pulling our tights down our slender legs. No need for anyone aggressively forcing what need not be now forced.

I remember the feeling in my lips. When she kisses me. I like it alot. Whose lips when touched with mine, her bottom lip pressing into mytop, and the whisper of a moan she felt and heard between us brought her eyes into focus on me, like that…its the best feeling to be cared like that.

I was watching some porn my friend had on the other day, no sound, just imagery. Guys like to do that porn backdrop thing sometimes on a lazy day. Then if something works out, that’s great for them. Anyways, in the movie the man had his tongue up in the other womans cunt and was working her this way after about twenty minutes behind herself fucking her slow then hard then slow… and this was all well and fine, but not really an attention grabber to me until the very same woman  was approached by a younger woman, looked like she was Argentine perhaps…. and wearing a tennis skirt and a collared summer shirt.

That scene reminds me now of what we just made here not long ago, somehow, the ginger approach, the empathetic looks thrown around carelessly, and especially the moment when she looks  into the Argentine’s starlight eyes,  before planting soft little kisses all over her face and neck, while the penetration she endured pushed her higher into the oxytocin dream, and closer to the girl.

I get to dream like that , sometimes. Like today. What a lucky day. Tommorrow has suddenly arrived.  The time dripped off and spilled away, water into light. Color into glass, then the stained glass is sucked dry of it, again. The glass is kinda purified, black and white like that… waiting for the color to fill her up once more.