In gratitude for an orgasmic conversation
I live in Detroit, MI., where any man knows, sex can be had far easier than a home cooked meal, unless he cooks it himself.
I work as a cook, partly because, I can usually find a regular job that will allow me to pursue my passions of art and music, literature and food, but mostly because I'm a romantic. Not in the pimple faced teenaged emo, stalker song way, but more like Braveheart romantic. And I believe a beautiful erotic experience is a very intentional act. Which leads me to why I must find a great paying corporate job get wed and complete the process of killing my spirit or get the fuck out of Dodge. If I don't, I'm going to bump into some sexy talking vixen and have a fling to remind me that I'm still a fucking artist and dreamer.
I don't know at what point for women that the art and expression of hope dies for women and they begin to look for someone to share the process of dieing with, but lately, which is comprised of most of the time that my present romantic relationship has been exclusive, I've been killing myself, my art, my hope and my desire to enjoy the pleasure of verbal intercourse, guiless sensuality and erotic moments of passionate expressions of hope that can only come from nieve young women, seeking to learn from the dirty old man that would sleep on the couch and let a young, horny, bubble butt, co-ed sleep in his bed, after she left the club in an angry drunk, as soon as pull his cock out of their mouths, telling them, "You don't enjoy what you're doing! You need to stop".
My woman is an erotic bull in a china shop. Proving the difference between a fuck and the act of making love to be as distinguishable as the color difference between a cast iron pot and a cast iron kettle. Her intentions are good and her heart is beautiful, but she's about sexually as expressive and a sheet of drywall and graceful as a hippo on ice skates and as exciting as watching cabbage grow. She likes sex a lot and I love pleasing her, but she knows about as much as a twelve year old, playing post office. And she's in love, so telling her the sex is just okay ain't workin'.
So, as I happily take on the task of achieving the high standard image of American of complacency and morph into something resembling Jaba the Hut, slowly commiting suicide by, eating toxic waste matter from boxes, bags and barrels, handed through windows by anonymus atomatons, increasing my cigarette smoking to more than two packs a day, irradiating my brain with very high frequency meladramatic goobadigook, drinking gallons of coffee andbuilding a social life that demands avoiding human contact unless consuming as much alcohol as possible and eleminating weed, tittie bars and limiting my verbal exchanges with women to insulting ennunedo. All for the sake of love.
I've become addicted to sitting here in front of my computer screen, hypergraphicly clicking out thoughts, emotions and words, hoping that some woman will come into my cyber bedroom, the blog, "Sole Desire", wearing five inch pumps, a wicked lexicon and rain on me sweet encouragements to persist in my futile but noble quest to be a martyr for monogamy. To chant epic mantras and pray litanies, that I become deaf and blind, lose my sense of taste and tactile responsiveness become completely incapable of desire. Forget the seventh chakrah orgasms of my past and settle into this life like a stain. Anything that pleases her.
I've become filled with the kind of pessimism that were I a dog, I'd eat every pup she birthed from my seed to prevent it from having my life. The blessing of these rants is that noone can actually hear my voice.
The pity and beauty of blogging is in the people that encounter and comment on the information that is left in the open are not intimately aquainted with the writer. And the intimate usually have little to say, unless you hurt them emotionally. I do maintain on passion, alternative energy! The hope that I may soon have my biodiesel power school bus converted into a party shuttle to transport young neo hippies to parties in Detroit, offering wisdom and the chance for a brighter future than my present reality.
Many would say, leave her and find another woman, but I'm not talking about an individual woman, I'm writing about the single and available Detroit born, African American women of my age group. The best man for you is dead.
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