i want you

in 57 different ways. some of them involve poledances. and while i don't exactly feel that food and sex mix, i make exceptions for lollipops. red ones.

fog-filled days

imagine we stood, you and i, bold and naked before each other and spoke, with no pretense, all the words shielded deep within our hearts and sang songs of ancient loves realized. and were not tentative about the wild abandon we want to show each other. and started sentences with "and" just because we want to.

imagine we said "i love you" and it was not a need-filled expression and imagine our mouths were supple vessels of pleasure and not bent into rationality like carpenters molding trees into boats and buildings and other vessels made to withstand the ferocity of storms.

and picture, if you will, the you and i within the us who are brave enough to accept love instead of two lost souls who build up walls of self-protection and on the seventh day declare them good. walls designed around logic and rationality that keep out barking dogs and bitter battles.

imagine, my sweet love, that your words were symphonies and cheese and crackers all rolled into one and that my caresses were angel kisses and warm chicken soup and that we fought for peace, not victory.

and imagine that these words fall on your ears and you know they're for you and wonder how you know that ....and then imagine me wondering if you do.

but today, a day for hopeless romantics and the pain and the pleasure of you seems to have closed around my heart. like the fog outside that obscures the mountains and the road that brings me home to you.

holy grails

are just really old cups. when shopping in that arena choose something more modern, functional,perhaps even a multi-purpose item.

oh, and make sure it's not going to runneth over. excess is really not a good thing.

cricketing tips

let's say you're bowling at the death and you only need one wicket to win the game.

useful advice: don't squander your men at the boundary.

and on the other side of that coin...

let's say you're the last and most laughable man at the crease and the light is fading.

useful advice: forget about looking pretty.

mr right?

let's start with somebody who knows how to be wrong.

to the little one

as yet unborn, your seed lying dormant and waiting within this indecisive womb. you will not hear me list the reasons why you should be mine. instead i'll think about reasons you might find to call me mother, proudly.

eye

of the tiger

why i cant:

i will not make you what i need to be for myself.

note to self and all: that's not love

statistics

roughly one thousand three hundred women can be expected to be raped on any day in South Africa. in an Interpol study South Africa was revealed to lead the world in rapes.

a woman is raped in South Africa every 17 seconds, not counting child rape victims. It is estimated that one in every two women is likely to be raped. Between 28 and 30 percent of adolescents reported that their first sexual encounter was forced.

Of South African men who knew somebody who had been raped, 16 percent believed that the rape survivor had enjoyed the experience and had asked for it. A recent study by the south african police estimated that only one in 36 rape cases was reported and of those only 15 percent culminated in a conviction.

LET ME JUST SHARE, HERE AND NOW WITH THE WORLD THAT I AM ONE OF THE 35 WHO SAID NOTHING. I THINK 18 YEARS OF KEEPING SILENT IS QUITE LONG ENOUGH, DON'T YOU?

wonderful boy - part 2

i want you to know, that should we ever evolve enough to that point - the place where we let each other in and it's real, and unafraid, and vital and big - that you won't need to ask twice. there are none i love so well as you.

wonderful boy

my tears taste of you. the good things about you. the things you don't say. i see your protections and i don't mind. be whoever you need to be right now, boy, it doesn't change your sweet, sweet taste.

boy

and as the sun makes it's slow climb skyward i feel you, here, slip-sliding between my thighs. i see you between the yellowed, pages of a dusty book and hear you in the ramblings of tragic, comic theatre of old.

and here, in the echoes of souls gone before and souls still waiting, you rise from the ashes of long abandoned thoughts. i whisper your forgotten name in moments that are not quite dawn and no longer dusk. and, here in the quiet moments, you are big, like immovable mountains and songs people never stop singing. and overly dramatic blog posts, just like this one.

sweet, beautiful you, do not look into my eyes. they belie my words, and all the logic that runs like rivulets through my brain. by my soul, i have taken pains to deny you and yet i seek you in all the markings of my skin, and the memories of moments that never were. if i no longer look so completely in your direction it's only because, now, i see you everywhere.

you're here in the stories of the London blitz. in tales of people sleeping in underground tunnels listening to the sound of doodle-bugs and fragile hope. i find you too, in the moments i try to forget, to relegate you to a knee-jerk freudian lapse of judgment. yes there you are, your eyes not taking no for an answer, your hand brushing tendrils of hair from my shoulder. your love, not asking but offering so much more than i could ever give in return.

masked ball

we hide behind words, like revelers at a masked ball. each understanding why the other can never reveal himself fully. hiding instead behind gaily colored lanterns and other festive embellishments. how beautiful then, when we loosen the ribbons of our capes and naked ourselves on the floor. to weep, to laugh, to choose. i'm on my way.