October 12th, 2011

Dear Journal,

No man wants to shit where he eats. Yet, the desire to distance oneself from the entanglement betwixt platonic and THE not so much is seldom offereD.

I recently sharted where dinner was being served and I'm not a fan. I mean, yes, the itch was majorly nullified in the huge dick kind of way. However, I would have rather the owner of said-penis be an entirely different human being. I barely like him in conversation, and I don't think of myself as a size king so no justification there. Then why pray tell? What could lead this little Edie down a shank spiral of buyer’s remorse and passive aggression? The only context one needs to know before gouging at my honest intent to live, is I have had the blessing and curse of having the victim of this tale in my life with much time as prequel, both directly and indirectly. Since puberty he was the only person I could recognise as homosexual, or exhibited stereotypical homosexual behaviours at least. He has since verbally and physically used his sexual maturity at an early age and overall prowess to joust, teach, intimidate and even antagonize the truths of my own sexuality. How does one turn away from a decade of verbal foreshadowing, asserted solely from his grasps and over abundant physical affirmation of devious intent? In all the ways I have gagged at the thought, I do so now with a layer of dick remorse to make it really sting.

I met up with him after work that day at some random Japanese Supperclub on Hollywood/Vine. The location should have been the clue that all would traverse to butt-duckets of nonsense after that. And yet, I ventured. He was the only person who was driving from L.A to Napa for Nik’s 25th birthday and I wasn't going to miss that. He was hosting a special event, or maybe there was no event, and it was just him working his entire post office soiree inside the crimson lit, vegas style bamboo palace. The factual aspects of his life are rarely put into logical context. He sees clearly to that.

I arrived with full duffle in hand. He was about as drunk as you’d get if you had to wear a suit to work and it's  8 P.M on a Friday. I was kinda irritated being I had all my shit with me and wasn't drunk, so I acted like a dick, with him solely, per usual. After a few rounds of heavy-witted banter, negated advances, and a drink or two, I was able to grab the keys from him to put my baggage away. On the way to the car I thought to myself, “Now I can go back and really do some hoe shit.” I had been a while since I properly went out. Since I hadn't intended on paying for a single drink, by way of my waist line standards and his happy hands, I didn’t see much reason not to partake in the social delights of sweet libations and sexual courting.

I locked the car door and turned around to see him standing there with his hand out. "You need something?" I asked with cunty inflection and curious tone. He kept his hand out and walked closer to me with his everyday sexy, mostly sinister eyes. He got so close without stopping I placed my hand on his chest and repeated the question with more of a negative rhetorical sound. He took his hand and pushed it down my chest and grabbed the flaccid bulge in my pants while biting his lip.

"I can have whatever I want?" he asked with the same cunty inflection I had ushered in as fair game.

I slapped his presence from my body away and pushed him back with heavy hands and even harsher words. He laughed it off and threw his arm around me like we were doing a buddy walk down the pavement. I let his hand stay there and just rolled my eyes. His narcissism-drenched persistence has never changed. I highly doubt it ever will.

We went back inside the sushi house and kept drinking. I met some of his coworkers and friends while he flirted and fondled a good handful of straights and gays. I never understand how he does it. I've watched from afar and side-by-side. With body language alone, the unsuspecting victim falls prey to his coy and candid ways.

I watched guys go from questionable to comfortable then easily to affectionate in literally 80 seconds. It's insane. It's not that I can't talk to guys at bars, I just don't really have that “whatever- fuck it-”if you want it i got it drippin’ like water” attitude. I play more to my innocent charm and vulgar wit than anything else. My main issue is never really being able to tell if the fritz and dizzyspells in those random ass moments have worked or not.

And secondly, because I can never quite tell if the guy in my hopeful thrall is ever gay or straight. I mean yes, there is gay gay and I love it, I can see that, I know (kinda) what I’m dealing with there and I know most of the cards in question. And then there’s that mid-level quasi Dickies and Vans with “maybe” a dirty white tee or some nondescript black concert tee of a band that you know you've seen the cover art for but can't personally name one song- but be hella gay type dude. Nine time out of 11 those are my options, both in flirtatious defence and offence.

I watched the way he worked the room and made people want to be near him. In this drunken mass of weekday release and the "let me hide my true self" shit that happens in this age range after 11:30 P.M. I began to use the night as an anthropological experiment.

I began to slice his actions more closely to the bone and deduced that he probably, most likely, lightweight deffy mob, wanted to fuck me. It was already a running gag within the friendship circle. He paid for all my drinks or got someone else to, and made sure that I was in cohorts to every other guy he talked to. It felt as if he had this undying desire to be validated by me and it was starting to get a little insightful.

The night came to a close. I had mapped out how far he would allow the unrequited sexual tension between the two of us to continue. He relayed his seductive plan ( which was simply just the nights natural move) with slow moving eyes and fingers in unauthorised places-to head back to his place and rest up for our drive to Napa in the A.M. A friend of his was joining us when we passed through Oakland, which only helped my grand ploy to making him my bitch before I fell into rapid eye movement.

We all got back to his place after a drunken sing along to Beyoncé-because duh-and decided a night cap was needed. His friend pulled a handle of Sky Vodka from the freezer and we all poured shots. Upon taking two, I said that I was near death and wanted to shower. His eyes followed me as I took my shirt off in the kitchen while walking to the bathroom in his bedroom. Before leaving the room I turned around in one circuit and said, "All are welcome," then laughed while unbuttoning my pants. I got naked and turned the shower on. When I checked to see if the bedroom door was left open or closed, there he was disrobing to the extent of joining me in the shower. "You prefer the front or back?" I asked. He laughed and replied, "I'll take whatever you can give me."

"I ain't giving you shit that you haven't already had...from me at least," I sassily replied. He laughed knowing that at least he was getting head. Flashback to Howard Homecoming 2006, when I sucked his dick in the kitchen of his then boyfriend's apartment in D.C. while Dani played sleep in the adjacent living room. Ya’ know, hoe shit.

Before he got in the shower, I dropped to my knees and looked up at him with just my eyes. "Wait, I smell like all day.” he said with hesitation.

Basically, the feeling that his genital region had that- I've been sitting inside myself collecting my own moisture throughout a significant amount of hours-type shit going on. So I rose to my feet and kindly mentioned,

"Well that's your bad. Nevermind.” was all I could offer.

We started to shower together as if we were two college girls in the locker room, talking about boys, erroneous social constructs and bullshit. When the soap was rinsed away, I grabbed his semi-chub and began to tug a bit. He looked down at my introduction to intimacy like he couldn't believe I was really going for it. He reached for my erection and I told him no. I kept jacking him off slowly in the shower until his he rose to full attention. I stopped, opened the opaque glass shower door and towelled off on the carpet while staring routinely in the mirror. He followed. In the space between the bathroom counter and the bathroom door I started stroking his falling member, only this time allowing myself the same pleasure. I bent down and took his foreboding elongation into my mouth like I wasn't phased by the length or radius. He slid his hand from the back of my head to nape of my neck to which I slapped it away and looked up with stern eyes, cock still in hand to say "Never. No. Not happening or I stop."

I didn't give him much of a choice in the matter. I think my vindication on the matters at hand held him completely enthralled. I had him exactly where I wanted him.

I didn't let him finish to expulsion just yet. Instead, I walked over to the bed right when I could feel the veins throbbing from the base through the shaft making the head grow to full force. I slowly adjusted myself on the bed in doggy position and looked back knowing he would chase. He did. He grabbed a condom and a little lube and tried to go in from behind. I stopped him before any solid rhythm could begin and told him that wasn't working. I grabbed his shoulders, laid his back on the bed and straddled to remain control of the dance. I traced his body from neck to pubic hair holding his rod with one hand and cradling his jewels with the other. In my mind, what I gave him orally in the bathroom as a 7,7.5-8 on a scale of 1 being looking at it like a warhead hard candy and 10 being Superhead herself may she reign. I decided to land a solid 9.5. Can't give everything too soon.

He started doing that "OMG I'm about to cum" thing with his body when your stomach stretches and you take one hand and place the base of your dick with the gap between your thumb and pointer finger. I don't know why guys do that. Even I do it. It's weird. But also a good sign that your doing something right. I put on another condom and sat on top of him. It was easier to get it all in. I was the one controlling the speed and gravity in which he entered my body. I closed my eyes and rode him gently just to get it all situation to enclosed perfection. Once my ass cheeks were fully rested with lube and spit on his inner thighs, I started swirling around in tiny figure eights, keeping him wilfully subdued to the tightening and loosening of  my spherical muscles at play.

‘Fuck yes’ I thought to myself. Mission accomplished. Not like masturbating wouldn't have sufficed,  just slightly more parading of one’s full indulgence to pleasure with a live human specimen, rather with a bottle of coconut oil and a washcloth.

The swirls alone had him buggin. " Damn boy," he said.

Side-thought: I didn’t like being called ‘boy’ but whatever.

"You grinding on it like you really want that shit huh?”he insisted on asking.

My response: "Shut the fuck up, you fucking up. Stop.”

He responded with a laugh and lightly muttered his version of a rhetorical statement-question through heavy breath, "Oh yeah? Over ‘ere messin’ with it like you want it tho." That was his last claim to his own title of who guarded the throne of sexual reciprocity and mental dominance.

I quietly maintained my steady speed, blatantly ignoring his supposed reign. Continuously in motion to the twists and turns that lead me there. "Seriously tho, Please stop talking," I snapped. He got the hint. And if he was unsure of the intent, I think it was made clear when I saw his mouth open to remark yet another time and I held my hand over it.

When I could feel the humidity of him trying to talk into my hand, I grabbed a pillow and lightly placed it over his face. "I'm about to cum please don't fuck this up!", I added.

And to my joy he actually followed the rules. He didn't speak. I started to my own body while bouncing on his, in a systematic attempt to find that deep deeded itch and rub it out fast as possible. He took over the stroke I had on myself, which actually helped. I started to cum all over his chest and face, keeping the flow of the glide up and push down a constant. I gave him the typical porn star moans and groans with little to no attention at his climax or lack thereof. With one last exhale, I dismounted and plopped a couple inches to his left, on my back with my hands on my chest still panting. He leaned over on his side and with much satisfaction exclaimed “Damn boy, that’s what I’ve been missing all these years?” I rolled my eyes and asserted, “Jigga, this is not The Notebook. I just really needed to get some and I don’t fuck with Grindr. You’re welcome.”

Feeling the absence of earnest in my voice and frankly in the room, he rolled out of bed and threw the condom in the bathroom trash. When he crawled back in bed I was already in sleep mode. He tried to kiss me and I held my lips at bay with teeth closed. The more he tried to seduce and titillate the more I knew that I had successfully analysed a situation more than ten years in the making and won. The pleasure in knowing that to him he had had all of me combined with the reality that he had absolutely nothing brought me pure joy.

I pulled my iPad out of my man bag and with much comfort pulled up HBO to find the George Harrison Documentary that had just been released, pressed play, totally paid attention for all of 8 mins, then gladly counted my fucking sheep to slumberland.

The days after he attempted to rekindle the manipulated flame he thought he had sparked and more so, he received no things from me. During the limo ride from vineyard to vineyard, “ Better With The Lights Off” played to a pleasing crowd of those well off their asses. All of us in properly displaced conversations while keeping an ear to the main buzz of the whole vehicle. A voice jolted through the sunroof, and of course it is he! In proposal to the group, leading his monologue from whatever corner he had been professing to the members of Nik’s court.  

“Omg have you ever fucked someone and wished the lights were off?” To which I replied with jester like glee, “Yeah, you!”

Check mate.