Chapter 10
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Aww!”
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957
10
That one, like Chloe someday would, ended abruptly. She accused me of cheating. I told her to leave. We didn’t speak again for two years.
Chloe moved in.
It wasn’t necessarily my idea, but I didn’t argue either. I remember the day she came. Her boxes were all perfectly packed, neatly loaded in her Honda Civic – their labels humored me – “kitchen items,” “summer clothes,” “bathroom.”
I should have seen it as a sign.
Perhaps I did.
She was controlling, manipulative, obsessive-compulsive. Even her goddamned boxes were set in stone… I remember she found a fork in the living room box. It pissed her off… “cute”, I thought.
Those first few months were bliss. Inseperable cuddling, lounging, telling one another secrets, whispering nothings in one another’s ears. I cherished the time together, but began to notice things. Her fingers were chewed upon – not the nails, the fingers, her skin was bare at the tips – pink, fleshy. She would scratch roughly at her scalp. I’d never noticed it before, but with the narrowing proximity of our jointed dispositions, I began too. Fingernails digging, roots suffering, picking at what skin she could gather. I would examine her as she slept. No longer as an affection, as I once had, but with a purpose. There was sometimes blood in her thick hair – spots seemed to grow temporarily thin.
I was concerned.
I was in love.
I said something.
Our lives changed.
She could never look at me after that day. It was as if I had discovered her secret, and she was ashamed. She shouldn’t have been, of course, but as she stood there, denying everything, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Meltdown in 5….
I pleaded, our exchange already running long, and my logic having been spent on her, “Chloe, it’s ok. We can get you help. Lots of people….”
“Is that what I need, your fucking help?”
4….
“I’m not saying you need my help, I’m saying that you have a problem and it’s o.k., we can….”
She was illogical now, wildeyed. I’d never seen her so.
“Fuck you, Marcus! What’s my problem? Why don’t you tell me what it is since you know fucking everything.”
“We both know you have a fucking…”
3….
“You don’t know shit! You act like you don’t have any problems of your own… do you ever wonder why you like my finger up your ass so much? Don’t you think there’s a reason it makes your blowjobs so much better?!”
Dumbstruck.
She was attacking, insinuatingly gesturing at what she knew was a weakness. I was infuriated, yet withdrawn.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
2….“You’re a fucking fag and I’m the one with the problem?!”
She spoke the words as if repulsed. As if the idea that I might enjoy something that a homosexual might as well repulsed her.
I could feel the walls coming toward me… the living room tightening around me.
I edged towards the door.
“Fuck off, I was trying to help!”
“Don’t ever say that to me again! The next time you do I’m moving out!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
1….
“What the fuh…”
I slammed the door in her face and bolted for my car.
Liftoff.
7.23.2007
Section 9
Chapter 9
The pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable.
- Earl of Chesterfield, attributed, mid 18th century
9
Unprotected.
What a stupid thing to do.
Up until that first night with Chloe, I had always known the “histories” of my partners, and if not, I had certainly always been protected. The first time I ever had unprotected sex was with Casandra. We had been together for more than a year and were deeply in love – she was a marriage sort of love, not just a game. We were shopping with my mother in a large department store. We were young, we were wild, and most of all, that night, we were ready. She and I were a well mixed drink. She was the mixer, I was the alcohol – together we were smooth, playful, and understanding of one another… the perfect blend. I always knew what she craved. She always knew when I craved it. We snuck away.
There was a lot of construction taking place in the store at the time, and I saw it as an opportunity. We slid sleekly into a taped off dressing room, and there, in one of the seven stalls, we lost control. It started out as kissing, and progressed into a tug of war – garments flying. There was no foreplay. As soon as I had removed her panties (my favorite pair) I was engulfed. I dove head first into her, my tongue probing, vigorously fumbling her clitoris. This wasn’t foreplay,
this was lubrication.
I rose, laying her backward on a small table in the corner… within moments, we were one.
Without the latex barrier separating us, it was divine… truly heavenly. There was friction, but not the kind that gets in the way – electricity. A thousand moist hands were grabbing at me, struggling to keep me in, fighting to pull me deeper. But not that night. It didn’t take me long, and it happened unexpectedly. Before we had began, I had said to her,
“Just for a minute, I’ll pull out before anything happens.”
A minute was all that was necessary.
I barely got out, my first release washing over disappointed lips.
I can see it clearly, an erotic Polaroid having been burnt into my mind.
Legs spread, shirt pulled up above her breasts, bra pushed clumsily aside, and my angel, covered in my release, from her light pubic hair, across her delicate opening.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I... I don’t know, it just happened, I…”
“Marcus,” she interrupted, “you said you would pull out!”
“I know, but I didn’t even feel it happening. I’m sorry hun, I didn’t…”
“Did you get any inside of me?!”
“No!”I was frantic.
I quickly removed my shoes and took off my socks... I used one to wipe her off, and to wipe away the escapees.
I was scared, but mystified.
After we got dressed I kissed her and assured her of my love. I even mentioned marriage, which, believe it or not, I meant at the time. She smiled and we laughed. We couldn’t help it. That was the beautiful thing about us, we were two of a kind and free with one another.
“That felt amazing, didn’t it?”
“Oh my gosh (she never said God), it felt so good.”
“I seriously didn’t know it was gonna happen. I just…”
“It’ll be okay, Marcus. I love you.”
We never used a condom again.
The pleasure is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable.
- Earl of Chesterfield, attributed, mid 18th century
9
Unprotected.
What a stupid thing to do.
Up until that first night with Chloe, I had always known the “histories” of my partners, and if not, I had certainly always been protected. The first time I ever had unprotected sex was with Casandra. We had been together for more than a year and were deeply in love – she was a marriage sort of love, not just a game. We were shopping with my mother in a large department store. We were young, we were wild, and most of all, that night, we were ready. She and I were a well mixed drink. She was the mixer, I was the alcohol – together we were smooth, playful, and understanding of one another… the perfect blend. I always knew what she craved. She always knew when I craved it. We snuck away.
There was a lot of construction taking place in the store at the time, and I saw it as an opportunity. We slid sleekly into a taped off dressing room, and there, in one of the seven stalls, we lost control. It started out as kissing, and progressed into a tug of war – garments flying. There was no foreplay. As soon as I had removed her panties (my favorite pair) I was engulfed. I dove head first into her, my tongue probing, vigorously fumbling her clitoris. This wasn’t foreplay,
this was lubrication.
I rose, laying her backward on a small table in the corner… within moments, we were one.
Without the latex barrier separating us, it was divine… truly heavenly. There was friction, but not the kind that gets in the way – electricity. A thousand moist hands were grabbing at me, struggling to keep me in, fighting to pull me deeper. But not that night. It didn’t take me long, and it happened unexpectedly. Before we had began, I had said to her,
“Just for a minute, I’ll pull out before anything happens.”
A minute was all that was necessary.
I barely got out, my first release washing over disappointed lips.
I can see it clearly, an erotic Polaroid having been burnt into my mind.
Legs spread, shirt pulled up above her breasts, bra pushed clumsily aside, and my angel, covered in my release, from her light pubic hair, across her delicate opening.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I... I don’t know, it just happened, I…”
“Marcus,” she interrupted, “you said you would pull out!”
“I know, but I didn’t even feel it happening. I’m sorry hun, I didn’t…”
“Did you get any inside of me?!”
“No!”I was frantic.
I quickly removed my shoes and took off my socks... I used one to wipe her off, and to wipe away the escapees.
I was scared, but mystified.
After we got dressed I kissed her and assured her of my love. I even mentioned marriage, which, believe it or not, I meant at the time. She smiled and we laughed. We couldn’t help it. That was the beautiful thing about us, we were two of a kind and free with one another.
“That felt amazing, didn’t it?”
“Oh my gosh (she never said God), it felt so good.”
“I seriously didn’t know it was gonna happen. I just…”
“It’ll be okay, Marcus. I love you.”
We never used a condom again.
Section 8
Chapter 8
The expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action.
- William Shakespeare, sonnet 129
8
That first night was unforgettable. Chloe and I discussed art, as she was a painter; music, as she was a violinist; theatre, as she was the lead in all of her high school productions; and literature, as she was a bookworm, like me. Also, at the time, I was submerged in Shakespeare – the identity enigma that is… you know, the idea that perhaps the guy from Stratford wasn’t the real author, but just some wanker – it’s a big deal to those in the know, and quite controversial. Anyhow, she once told me that had it not been for my fascination with the mystery, and the passion with which I pursued it, things probably would have never turned out the way they did. “I fell in love with Marcus and Shakespeare,” she would say. Of course, we were in love at the time.
The connection we had, and all of the strange commonalities that we shared, were eerie. It seemed as if even my most obscure interests and odd attractions came naturally for her… and vice versa. She beguiled me. She captivated me. And as will happen when such things occur, we were propelled, our lips colliding… one thing leading to another….
Then, unprotected, we made love. It was a different sort of thing, but wonderful. She touched herself, which I had never seen before, and she moaned with each thrust. Not in that fake porn star way, but in the way that every guy dreams of… she was really loving it. And when she finally roared,“Oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming!”I knew it was real, I knew that she meant it. She shivered with each after effect,
she panted with each slight touch,
and finally, she came to rest.
She looked up at me; she owned me. We kissed.
Charm, J.M. Barrie said, is “a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it, you don’t need to have anything else; and if you don’t have it, it doesn’t much matter what else you have.”
Chloe certainly had it. She certainly had me.
But as Cyril Connolly wrote, “All charming people having something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.”
The truth.
Chloe was not the person I touched that night.
She never was, but I fell in love with her anyway.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action.
- William Shakespeare, sonnet 129
8
That first night was unforgettable. Chloe and I discussed art, as she was a painter; music, as she was a violinist; theatre, as she was the lead in all of her high school productions; and literature, as she was a bookworm, like me. Also, at the time, I was submerged in Shakespeare – the identity enigma that is… you know, the idea that perhaps the guy from Stratford wasn’t the real author, but just some wanker – it’s a big deal to those in the know, and quite controversial. Anyhow, she once told me that had it not been for my fascination with the mystery, and the passion with which I pursued it, things probably would have never turned out the way they did. “I fell in love with Marcus and Shakespeare,” she would say. Of course, we were in love at the time.
The connection we had, and all of the strange commonalities that we shared, were eerie. It seemed as if even my most obscure interests and odd attractions came naturally for her… and vice versa. She beguiled me. She captivated me. And as will happen when such things occur, we were propelled, our lips colliding… one thing leading to another….
Then, unprotected, we made love. It was a different sort of thing, but wonderful. She touched herself, which I had never seen before, and she moaned with each thrust. Not in that fake porn star way, but in the way that every guy dreams of… she was really loving it. And when she finally roared,“Oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming!”I knew it was real, I knew that she meant it. She shivered with each after effect,
she panted with each slight touch,
and finally, she came to rest.
She looked up at me; she owned me. We kissed.
Charm, J.M. Barrie said, is “a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it, you don’t need to have anything else; and if you don’t have it, it doesn’t much matter what else you have.”
Chloe certainly had it. She certainly had me.
But as Cyril Connolly wrote, “All charming people having something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.”
The truth.
Chloe was not the person I touched that night.
She never was, but I fell in love with her anyway.
Section 7
Chapter 7
Those pleasures so lightly called physical.
- Colette, Meìlanges, 1939
7
Casandra
Looking back now, I only ever had one standard by which to judge Chloe – my ex, Casandra… though the comparison wasn’t a fair one.
You see, there are different kinds of love. None is any better or worse than the other, but some tend to be a bit more “guilty.” I loved the two in very diverse manners.When I close my eyes, I perceive Casandra in a general sort of way. Her skin, being partially Native, is light brown, like coffee with too much milk. She has a virgin’s eyes, chestnut hair, and Julia Roberts’ mouth – this is all the detail I can envision – the museum of my mind having allowed her exhibit to diminish somewhat. Of course, certain displays within the Casandra Wing have been well-maintained. Emblazoned within me will forever be a sort of profligate image of her. She is leaning forward. She is on her knees. “Doggie style” – her favorite. Her smooth ass is arched toward my vision, up into the air, supported by young, toned thighs. The rest of her body is jockeying. She leans lower and lower upon her forearms, moving her upper body forward in a way, her ass moving higher.
Her breasts heave.
Searching… she’s searching for that perfect angle… for the right kind of rubbing. She will do anything to inspire it –
anything to help my artists brush to rub firmly against the heart of her canvas.
I loved those moments… those ecstatic screams… those liquid outbursts.A record player sits next to this particular display. There is a scratch on the track, but no one minds too much… her words repeat, again and again… echoing…
“Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please….”
I can feel that ancient breath upon my neck – incinerated gasps.
And so she remains, my one still perfect memory, bent forward, sleek, sensuous, and begging for what she most desires. A delinquent slut, in a Christian school-girl’s attire. I did love her.
Chloe, when I close my eyes, is less fun in a way. She is a nearly exact replica of that which I still hate and love so well. From her exotic eyes, to her sun-filled charcoal hair, to the smallest freckles and moles… she appears in exquisite detail. There is no need for the imagination, as no elaboration is necessary. It’s just her that I see – not that I could ever complain about that. Both keep me entertained upon occasion… as both help me to fetch milk at least once a week….
Casandra – her taut, arched buttocks, moving pleadingly, so seductively, granting me brief glimpses of her quim… shooting through my mind… and of course, her request.
Chloe – chocolate pouting nipples, begging to be devoured, teasing whore’s eyes, and perfect ‘V’… trimmed and not coarse.
For only an hour with both, what would I give? A prophetic question mark of another manual-session… another polishing of the displays.
Those pleasures so lightly called physical.
- Colette, Meìlanges, 1939
7
Casandra
Looking back now, I only ever had one standard by which to judge Chloe – my ex, Casandra… though the comparison wasn’t a fair one.
You see, there are different kinds of love. None is any better or worse than the other, but some tend to be a bit more “guilty.” I loved the two in very diverse manners.When I close my eyes, I perceive Casandra in a general sort of way. Her skin, being partially Native, is light brown, like coffee with too much milk. She has a virgin’s eyes, chestnut hair, and Julia Roberts’ mouth – this is all the detail I can envision – the museum of my mind having allowed her exhibit to diminish somewhat. Of course, certain displays within the Casandra Wing have been well-maintained. Emblazoned within me will forever be a sort of profligate image of her. She is leaning forward. She is on her knees. “Doggie style” – her favorite. Her smooth ass is arched toward my vision, up into the air, supported by young, toned thighs. The rest of her body is jockeying. She leans lower and lower upon her forearms, moving her upper body forward in a way, her ass moving higher.
Her breasts heave.
Searching… she’s searching for that perfect angle… for the right kind of rubbing. She will do anything to inspire it –
anything to help my artists brush to rub firmly against the heart of her canvas.
I loved those moments… those ecstatic screams… those liquid outbursts.A record player sits next to this particular display. There is a scratch on the track, but no one minds too much… her words repeat, again and again… echoing…
“Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please….”
I can feel that ancient breath upon my neck – incinerated gasps.
And so she remains, my one still perfect memory, bent forward, sleek, sensuous, and begging for what she most desires. A delinquent slut, in a Christian school-girl’s attire. I did love her.
Chloe, when I close my eyes, is less fun in a way. She is a nearly exact replica of that which I still hate and love so well. From her exotic eyes, to her sun-filled charcoal hair, to the smallest freckles and moles… she appears in exquisite detail. There is no need for the imagination, as no elaboration is necessary. It’s just her that I see – not that I could ever complain about that. Both keep me entertained upon occasion… as both help me to fetch milk at least once a week….
Casandra – her taut, arched buttocks, moving pleadingly, so seductively, granting me brief glimpses of her quim… shooting through my mind… and of course, her request.
Chloe – chocolate pouting nipples, begging to be devoured, teasing whore’s eyes, and perfect ‘V’… trimmed and not coarse.
For only an hour with both, what would I give? A prophetic question mark of another manual-session… another polishing of the displays.
Section 6
Chapter 6
But did thee feel the earth move?
- Ernest Hemmingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls, 1940
6
I waited two days and called. I didn’t know what to expect really. A lot of college girls pick up ten numbers a night and never think twice about any of them, so having had two days to deflate, I guess you could say my expectations were a bit low. We talked that first night, I shit you not, for six hours. Six fucking hours! It was fantastic! It was as if we had existed for over twenty years, side-by-side, without ever noticing one another. She knew my friends and I knew hers. She had attended most of the same sporting events I had. She cheered at my basketball games when Claudue would play Maxfield. How the hell had I never met this girl before? On weekends she even used to cruise around my small town, beating the same path that nearly every small-town high schooler eventually finds – up Main Street, around the courthouse, library, or town square, and then back down Main again – repeat about a thousand times.
So how could I have never noticed her? I did have a girlfriend in high school, and was whipped like a slow slave, but the fact is, I still noticed chicks. After all, I can still picture the damned Bungi twins, from up in Clancy. These two were incredible. Tall, blonde, nice tits, small waists, great legs, killer everything… and best of all, they were twins. They were like a damned Double-Mint commercial, all cute and innocent looking, but subconsciously, oozing sex appeal and screaming at the top of their lungs, “Fuck us, please… we need you now!” Like I said, I can still picture them to a tee… and do, for that matter, upon occasion, when the J.O. fantasy material runs a bit on the low side. But the point is, I did notice other girls–so why not Chloe?
It’s a mystery to this day how we passed one another so many times and never met…. Anyhow, what matters is that we were hitting it off, big time. She seemed perfect. We talked like that for about a week. Not every night, basically because we didn’t want to appear too much like a couple of love struck high school pups, but enough. Finally, after about three or four of these marathon chat sessions, at eight o’clock on a Thursday night, I invited her over… and she came.
Twice.
But did thee feel the earth move?
- Ernest Hemmingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls, 1940
6
I waited two days and called. I didn’t know what to expect really. A lot of college girls pick up ten numbers a night and never think twice about any of them, so having had two days to deflate, I guess you could say my expectations were a bit low. We talked that first night, I shit you not, for six hours. Six fucking hours! It was fantastic! It was as if we had existed for over twenty years, side-by-side, without ever noticing one another. She knew my friends and I knew hers. She had attended most of the same sporting events I had. She cheered at my basketball games when Claudue would play Maxfield. How the hell had I never met this girl before? On weekends she even used to cruise around my small town, beating the same path that nearly every small-town high schooler eventually finds – up Main Street, around the courthouse, library, or town square, and then back down Main again – repeat about a thousand times.
So how could I have never noticed her? I did have a girlfriend in high school, and was whipped like a slow slave, but the fact is, I still noticed chicks. After all, I can still picture the damned Bungi twins, from up in Clancy. These two were incredible. Tall, blonde, nice tits, small waists, great legs, killer everything… and best of all, they were twins. They were like a damned Double-Mint commercial, all cute and innocent looking, but subconsciously, oozing sex appeal and screaming at the top of their lungs, “Fuck us, please… we need you now!” Like I said, I can still picture them to a tee… and do, for that matter, upon occasion, when the J.O. fantasy material runs a bit on the low side. But the point is, I did notice other girls–so why not Chloe?
It’s a mystery to this day how we passed one another so many times and never met…. Anyhow, what matters is that we were hitting it off, big time. She seemed perfect. We talked like that for about a week. Not every night, basically because we didn’t want to appear too much like a couple of love struck high school pups, but enough. Finally, after about three or four of these marathon chat sessions, at eight o’clock on a Thursday night, I invited her over… and she came.
Twice.
Chapter 5
And so it began….
5
When one attends a small-town, slightly Podunk university, one learns very quickly the value of the imagination. In other words, the transfer from State U. to State College was like breaking-up with wild sex and landing Mother Theresa – you masturbate to get by for a while, but soon grow restless and are left with only two choices: one, get creative with your jerk-time, or two, get rid of the new girlfriend. Well, since most of the students at State either couldn’t afford to, or simply lacked the ambition to dump it, they had learned to make do. I had left monstrous and entered monotonous – it was a bore – a virtually fun free existence, devoid of all raucous resources. The local frat house was a broken down old fire station, and the local party spot was the village Knights of Columbus Hall – exploratory masturbation at its finest.
So, I sold out to the new scene. My wing man, Eddie, and I always did okay, but aside from scoring a couple of sultry sexsational nights and a lot of empty dates, I was lonely, and was beginning to actually desire a girlfriend…
It wasn’t until one Friday night, at the old K of C, that things got interesting. Eddie and I had acquired a third partying party that night, a girl named Colette that I had been screwing, friends-with-benefits style, for the past couple of months. She was fun and wild in the sack, but a bit too much sometimes… with her damned sorority and constantly changing personality. She was attractive, with straight dark hair and ebony skin, but just never quite made the grade, where college-aged society was concerned. A constant partygoer, searching for what most of us had abandoned just after high school ended – to be one of the popular kids. Pathetic in a way, but no one really knew it but me, so she was ideal for what I had been using her for – easy to manipulate, but seemingly confident on the outside – you gotta love them.
The first time I laid eyes on Chloe, I was taking a breather with Eddie. It was about six-million degrees inside the hall, and about fifteen below outdoors, so it was a nice escape. Anyhow, there we were, chilling. We walked around the parking lot to cool off, and on our way back in, I saw her. Her black hair was swimming around her tanned face, as her turquoise thong panties were playing king-of-the-hill with her black dress pants. “Damn that girl’s hot!” – I had to meet her.We found Colette as soon as we reentered, and I quickly described for her what I had seen outside. Colette didn’t sound too impressed, but told me that she would find out a name if she could, and suggested that she was probably just some random sorority slut, which I found ironic.
Twenty minutes later, I was out on the dance floor attempting to escape the white man’s plight, when suddenly she was upon me. Colette had swooped toward me the way one thinks of vampires as moving – you never see them coming, but then, "poof!", there they are – she looked up at me, and then back at her –“Marcus, this is Chloe. Chloe, Marcus.”
“How’s it going?” I asked, but only half-heartedly, still in shock from Colette’s very forward move.
“I’m great, you?”
The place was so loud that lip reading was really the only option…
“Good,” I screamed, “It’s nice to meet you. I saw you outside and...”
“Yeah I know, your friend already told me…”
I was pissed.
What the hell right did Colette have to be pulling this shit?
“So, where are you from?”
“Oh, I’m from Maxfield, it’s about an hour or so south of…”
“Are you serious?! I just expected when I saw you that you were a city boy! I’m from Claudue.”
Maxfield, my little town, was only twenty minutes or so from her, even smaller hick-berg. We had made a connection.
We didn’t talk much for the rest of the night, but we danced (grinded, really) till the place shut down.
Before I left I had written my number on her hand, and hers was etched into my brain. This, I could tell, was going to be interesting.
And so it began….
5
When one attends a small-town, slightly Podunk university, one learns very quickly the value of the imagination. In other words, the transfer from State U. to State College was like breaking-up with wild sex and landing Mother Theresa – you masturbate to get by for a while, but soon grow restless and are left with only two choices: one, get creative with your jerk-time, or two, get rid of the new girlfriend. Well, since most of the students at State either couldn’t afford to, or simply lacked the ambition to dump it, they had learned to make do. I had left monstrous and entered monotonous – it was a bore – a virtually fun free existence, devoid of all raucous resources. The local frat house was a broken down old fire station, and the local party spot was the village Knights of Columbus Hall – exploratory masturbation at its finest.
So, I sold out to the new scene. My wing man, Eddie, and I always did okay, but aside from scoring a couple of sultry sexsational nights and a lot of empty dates, I was lonely, and was beginning to actually desire a girlfriend…
It wasn’t until one Friday night, at the old K of C, that things got interesting. Eddie and I had acquired a third partying party that night, a girl named Colette that I had been screwing, friends-with-benefits style, for the past couple of months. She was fun and wild in the sack, but a bit too much sometimes… with her damned sorority and constantly changing personality. She was attractive, with straight dark hair and ebony skin, but just never quite made the grade, where college-aged society was concerned. A constant partygoer, searching for what most of us had abandoned just after high school ended – to be one of the popular kids. Pathetic in a way, but no one really knew it but me, so she was ideal for what I had been using her for – easy to manipulate, but seemingly confident on the outside – you gotta love them.
The first time I laid eyes on Chloe, I was taking a breather with Eddie. It was about six-million degrees inside the hall, and about fifteen below outdoors, so it was a nice escape. Anyhow, there we were, chilling. We walked around the parking lot to cool off, and on our way back in, I saw her. Her black hair was swimming around her tanned face, as her turquoise thong panties were playing king-of-the-hill with her black dress pants. “Damn that girl’s hot!” – I had to meet her.We found Colette as soon as we reentered, and I quickly described for her what I had seen outside. Colette didn’t sound too impressed, but told me that she would find out a name if she could, and suggested that she was probably just some random sorority slut, which I found ironic.
Twenty minutes later, I was out on the dance floor attempting to escape the white man’s plight, when suddenly she was upon me. Colette had swooped toward me the way one thinks of vampires as moving – you never see them coming, but then, "poof!", there they are – she looked up at me, and then back at her –“Marcus, this is Chloe. Chloe, Marcus.”
“How’s it going?” I asked, but only half-heartedly, still in shock from Colette’s very forward move.
“I’m great, you?”
The place was so loud that lip reading was really the only option…
“Good,” I screamed, “It’s nice to meet you. I saw you outside and...”
“Yeah I know, your friend already told me…”
I was pissed.
What the hell right did Colette have to be pulling this shit?
“So, where are you from?”
“Oh, I’m from Maxfield, it’s about an hour or so south of…”
“Are you serious?! I just expected when I saw you that you were a city boy! I’m from Claudue.”
Maxfield, my little town, was only twenty minutes or so from her, even smaller hick-berg. We had made a connection.
We didn’t talk much for the rest of the night, but we danced (grinded, really) till the place shut down.
Before I left I had written my number on her hand, and hers was etched into my brain. This, I could tell, was going to be interesting.
Section 4
Chapter 4
A life spent in making mistakes is not only more honorable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
- George Bernard Shaw, Preface, The Doctor’sDilemma, 1906
4
I had recently transferred to State College from State University. I was a smart kid in high school, don’t get me wrong, and I have the records to prove it, but I’ll be damned if I’ve been intelligent for even one second since then.
Mistake one: I chose State U. because my dad liked it. The Ivy League was beckoning me like a right conscience, but I had a sweetheart, an over-ambitious father with a budget in mind, and not one ounce of get-go in me. I didn’t care one way or another where I went. I was going to be a lawyer, and all that mattered, I thought, was where a lawyer went to law school. I’d never given even a second’s thought to the fact that law schools tend to prefer kids who go to fancy undergrad institutions. I shouldn’t be too hard on myself though, it was a rookie mistake – everyone makes them.
Two: After spending two years surrounded by a place at which I had never felt for one second comfortable, I transferred from one shitty State school (not that they all are) to another, even more pathetic one; once again turning cold-shouldered away from the pleadings of my paid advisers and the offers of the Ivy League. There was no special girlfriend this time though, and no pleading, tight budgeted father – this was my own error, my own ignorant fuck-up.It wasn’t all bad though. My major was philosophy (that’s right, philosophy – look in your undergrad catalogs below the title, “Useless,” you’ll find it there…) and I found that the staff and program that I had transferred into were far more experienced and useful than the one I had left – this was an accidental benefit, mind you, certainly not the result of any research.
Another plus was that I got away from the dorms. I moved into a great two-bedroom apartment and began to live the life that I wanted, instead of the one everyone else thought was necessary… and had duly prescribed.So there I was, living alone in a great apartment, attending a school that held low enough expectations that it generally didn’t require much in the way of effort to attain good marks, and a junior in college. So what did I need? The same thing my body had felt I had needed since the age of about fourteen, when my 501’s began to tighten with noticeable frequency around the middle, and my zipper was often transformed into a sharply edged tent, anxious to tear through any fresh and willing hymen it could find.So what did I do? I began to invest heavily and freely into my pad. It was my intent to make it not only extremely comfortable for myself, but as desirable as possible for the opposite sex as well. Thus, if I was out and saw something interesting, like a plush leather recliner with a massage system and armchair mini-fridge, or something clever, like an oak coffee table with miniscule built-in remote control drawers, I bought it. Granted, it was an exuberant lifestyle for a kid with only meager savings and a part-time job to live, but I had the two universal necessities of every happy college student: credit cards and parents.A totally respectable wardrobe, of course, followed (complete with some seriously overpriced eau de toilet and a Movado watch), along with all of the other various, necessary accessories: a generous DVD collection, an assortment of candles bearing a variety of fragrances, a few cookbooks, and down to earth artworks to make me seem more family-oriented and approachable. I was on my way. The final step… I found friends, I went out, I partied, I had a few wild nights and a generally good time. Then, four months after arriving, I met her.
A life spent in making mistakes is not only more honorable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
- George Bernard Shaw, Preface, The Doctor’sDilemma, 1906
4
I had recently transferred to State College from State University. I was a smart kid in high school, don’t get me wrong, and I have the records to prove it, but I’ll be damned if I’ve been intelligent for even one second since then.
Mistake one: I chose State U. because my dad liked it. The Ivy League was beckoning me like a right conscience, but I had a sweetheart, an over-ambitious father with a budget in mind, and not one ounce of get-go in me. I didn’t care one way or another where I went. I was going to be a lawyer, and all that mattered, I thought, was where a lawyer went to law school. I’d never given even a second’s thought to the fact that law schools tend to prefer kids who go to fancy undergrad institutions. I shouldn’t be too hard on myself though, it was a rookie mistake – everyone makes them.
Two: After spending two years surrounded by a place at which I had never felt for one second comfortable, I transferred from one shitty State school (not that they all are) to another, even more pathetic one; once again turning cold-shouldered away from the pleadings of my paid advisers and the offers of the Ivy League. There was no special girlfriend this time though, and no pleading, tight budgeted father – this was my own error, my own ignorant fuck-up.It wasn’t all bad though. My major was philosophy (that’s right, philosophy – look in your undergrad catalogs below the title, “Useless,” you’ll find it there…) and I found that the staff and program that I had transferred into were far more experienced and useful than the one I had left – this was an accidental benefit, mind you, certainly not the result of any research.
Another plus was that I got away from the dorms. I moved into a great two-bedroom apartment and began to live the life that I wanted, instead of the one everyone else thought was necessary… and had duly prescribed.So there I was, living alone in a great apartment, attending a school that held low enough expectations that it generally didn’t require much in the way of effort to attain good marks, and a junior in college. So what did I need? The same thing my body had felt I had needed since the age of about fourteen, when my 501’s began to tighten with noticeable frequency around the middle, and my zipper was often transformed into a sharply edged tent, anxious to tear through any fresh and willing hymen it could find.So what did I do? I began to invest heavily and freely into my pad. It was my intent to make it not only extremely comfortable for myself, but as desirable as possible for the opposite sex as well. Thus, if I was out and saw something interesting, like a plush leather recliner with a massage system and armchair mini-fridge, or something clever, like an oak coffee table with miniscule built-in remote control drawers, I bought it. Granted, it was an exuberant lifestyle for a kid with only meager savings and a part-time job to live, but I had the two universal necessities of every happy college student: credit cards and parents.A totally respectable wardrobe, of course, followed (complete with some seriously overpriced eau de toilet and a Movado watch), along with all of the other various, necessary accessories: a generous DVD collection, an assortment of candles bearing a variety of fragrances, a few cookbooks, and down to earth artworks to make me seem more family-oriented and approachable. I was on my way. The final step… I found friends, I went out, I partied, I had a few wild nights and a generally good time. Then, four months after arriving, I met her.
Section 3
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Chapter 3
White lies always introduce others of a darker complexion.
- William Paley, The Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy, 1785
3
Chloe Stemons came into my life during my junior year of college. From the start she was a handful. One of those girls – you know the type – great body, sparkling eyes, luminous hair – and unhappy with every inch of herself. She would put on that bantam white smile and act all bubbly. Any room she walked into she became the focus of… disgusting if you think about it. And perhaps most hazardous of all was that this girl was smart. She was a razor blade, cutting swiftly through every guy’s calm, causing their blood to surge, and their erections to follow. One-hundred percent table-grade.
What she came to be, though, was an entirely different thing altogether. As it turned out, she was nothing more than a honey-flaxen glint in a shit-black stream. At first I thought I’d struck gold, but all I’d really found was a particularly well-polished rock – discolored by a life lived in turbulence and shimmering at first, but just something extra to wade through below the surface.
I loved her hair. It was a sort of polished ebony, and it shined the way you think of new cars as shining. It was shoulder length with a touch of curl to it, but let me tell you, those soupy curls, enticing as they appeared, were nothing more than shiny nooses, waiting to strangle the life out of any sorry bastard they could get close enough to wrap around… and wrap around me they did. After one night with her I felt secure. I felt as if I had found something solid and worthwhile. It was that just-purchased, new home feeling – it’s fresh, it’s yours, and no one has ever slept a night in it but you. What I had bought, though, was a quickly-built shanty with a clapped out roof, rainwater seeping through slowly, ruining the damned thing from the inside out.
Her eyes were caliginous, but luminous. The stunning contrast teased me, enticed me, baited me, seduced me, and finally, when she was ready, fucked me for everything I was worth! But wait, wait… I’m getting ahead of myself.
Chapter 3
White lies always introduce others of a darker complexion.
- William Paley, The Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy, 1785
3
Chloe Stemons came into my life during my junior year of college. From the start she was a handful. One of those girls – you know the type – great body, sparkling eyes, luminous hair – and unhappy with every inch of herself. She would put on that bantam white smile and act all bubbly. Any room she walked into she became the focus of… disgusting if you think about it. And perhaps most hazardous of all was that this girl was smart. She was a razor blade, cutting swiftly through every guy’s calm, causing their blood to surge, and their erections to follow. One-hundred percent table-grade.
What she came to be, though, was an entirely different thing altogether. As it turned out, she was nothing more than a honey-flaxen glint in a shit-black stream. At first I thought I’d struck gold, but all I’d really found was a particularly well-polished rock – discolored by a life lived in turbulence and shimmering at first, but just something extra to wade through below the surface.
I loved her hair. It was a sort of polished ebony, and it shined the way you think of new cars as shining. It was shoulder length with a touch of curl to it, but let me tell you, those soupy curls, enticing as they appeared, were nothing more than shiny nooses, waiting to strangle the life out of any sorry bastard they could get close enough to wrap around… and wrap around me they did. After one night with her I felt secure. I felt as if I had found something solid and worthwhile. It was that just-purchased, new home feeling – it’s fresh, it’s yours, and no one has ever slept a night in it but you. What I had bought, though, was a quickly-built shanty with a clapped out roof, rainwater seeping through slowly, ruining the damned thing from the inside out.
Her eyes were caliginous, but luminous. The stunning contrast teased me, enticed me, baited me, seduced me, and finally, when she was ready, fucked me for everything I was worth! But wait, wait… I’m getting ahead of myself.
Chapter 2
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close.
- Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaìiyaìt of Omar Khayyaìm, 1879
2
I was raised very well. Early on, my existence was, if anything, a culmination of Grandma’s house, Oreo cookies, ballparks, snow forts, smiling faces, and occasional far off destinations (Hawaii, Disney World, London, Paris). It was from within the folds of said experiences that a burgeoning young mind, wrought like a kitten with a variety of interests, came to exist. From baseball to Beethoven, lesbians to Les Miseìrables, Bird to Bach, tennis to Tchelitchew, vandalism to Van Eyck, masturbation to Mozart, hand jobs to Hamlet, and still today, golf to god, kayaking to Kant, and sex to… well, sex… I was enthralled with the world around me – a sponge. Anyhow, somewhere along the way, one of my fascinations became my family, or the history of, that is….
As it turned out, the further I delved into my ancestry, the further I realized what a mutt I am. Nabokov would have likened me to a tossed salad. Unfortunately, even an image as innocent as that, in the euphemistic lexicon of contemporary America (USA, that is. I, like most U.S. citizens am in the habit of thinking of the United States as the single composition of all of the Americas), can imply an undesirable and somewhat repulsive image. Quite like America itself, if you think about it. We are all Romans – look at the people around you sometime, you’ll see what I mean. We dress ourselves up in pretty clothes, we drive around in our SUV’s, and we sleep comfortably each night knowing that our home security systems are hard at work. We have become such slaves to our wasteful ways that we no longer realize how fortunate we are. Perhaps that is what initially drew me so strongly to her. She was an occasional, brief escape from the darkness of the imitation of the real world that the real world around me had become. Say that three times fast.
And so, the interested young man that I once was, left home… abandoned his nest in search of all of those things that had compelled him for so many years… and what did he find?
Her.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close.
- Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaìiyaìt of Omar Khayyaìm, 1879
2
I was raised very well. Early on, my existence was, if anything, a culmination of Grandma’s house, Oreo cookies, ballparks, snow forts, smiling faces, and occasional far off destinations (Hawaii, Disney World, London, Paris). It was from within the folds of said experiences that a burgeoning young mind, wrought like a kitten with a variety of interests, came to exist. From baseball to Beethoven, lesbians to Les Miseìrables, Bird to Bach, tennis to Tchelitchew, vandalism to Van Eyck, masturbation to Mozart, hand jobs to Hamlet, and still today, golf to god, kayaking to Kant, and sex to… well, sex… I was enthralled with the world around me – a sponge. Anyhow, somewhere along the way, one of my fascinations became my family, or the history of, that is….
As it turned out, the further I delved into my ancestry, the further I realized what a mutt I am. Nabokov would have likened me to a tossed salad. Unfortunately, even an image as innocent as that, in the euphemistic lexicon of contemporary America (USA, that is. I, like most U.S. citizens am in the habit of thinking of the United States as the single composition of all of the Americas), can imply an undesirable and somewhat repulsive image. Quite like America itself, if you think about it. We are all Romans – look at the people around you sometime, you’ll see what I mean. We dress ourselves up in pretty clothes, we drive around in our SUV’s, and we sleep comfortably each night knowing that our home security systems are hard at work. We have become such slaves to our wasteful ways that we no longer realize how fortunate we are. Perhaps that is what initially drew me so strongly to her. She was an occasional, brief escape from the darkness of the imitation of the real world that the real world around me had become. Say that three times fast.
And so, the interested young man that I once was, left home… abandoned his nest in search of all of those things that had compelled him for so many years… and what did he find?
Her.
Novel Ideas....
The follwing few posts will have nothing to do with poker. As I explained early on, this blog is as much about me laying myself out there from time to time and taking whatever criticism my readers can offer.... I've begun working on a young adult/adult novel and am looking for some such criticism. As such, the following is the first 10 chapters/sections... I appreciate all posts, ideas, etc. and love criticism. But USEFUL criticism. "Man that sucked" or "GREAT!", though appreciated to an extent, do not help me in the least. Enjoy.
Chapter 1 -- Work in Progress
I’ve often wondered what she lacked.
1
The processes that take place as we grow and wade through life are amazing. Children come into the world crying, smiling, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and lugging around heads that are three times too big for their feeble bodies. They love everyone, they have no biases, they shit themselves constantly, and are curious – full of questions that they can’t ask… yet. Then, just as the sun begins to rise upon both their infancy and uprightness, they begin to see things differently. They understand the word “no,” and biases begin to form. A young, white four year old is exposed to her first black child in the park one day – she has no idea what to think – no one ever explains it to her properly.
Five years later and girls hate boys, boys hate girls, and both are at constant odds with those who raised and instilled so firmly within them the prejudices that they already carry. A few more years down the road and they are swearing. They take a drag off a cancer stick for the first time and nearly gag, but force it – cool has now become the most important thing. The sun sets a few more times and suddenly they are behind the wheel of nearly two tons of steel, taught to propel it at speeds over 100 miles per hour. They’ve been dating for a while, but this is the big step – the car. They lose their virginity a half hour after curfew on some random night, in the backseat of their parents’ random car, to some random girl or guy who, unbeknownst to them, they will neither talk to nor hear from again in just a few, short random years. The next day they fight, terror-stricken to remove the thick white stain from the unrelenting back seat – he didn’t know anything came out of her, really….
Two years down the road and they are “adults”. Eighteen years of age and expected to have obtained the quantity of common sense necessary to live a healthy, successful life. Remember what Einstein said though, “Common sense is a collection of prejudices acquired by the age of eighteen.” For some, by this time hate is a family value. Others have learned to love and respect their elders.
Chapter 1 -- Work in Progress
I’ve often wondered what she lacked.
1
The processes that take place as we grow and wade through life are amazing. Children come into the world crying, smiling, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and lugging around heads that are three times too big for their feeble bodies. They love everyone, they have no biases, they shit themselves constantly, and are curious – full of questions that they can’t ask… yet. Then, just as the sun begins to rise upon both their infancy and uprightness, they begin to see things differently. They understand the word “no,” and biases begin to form. A young, white four year old is exposed to her first black child in the park one day – she has no idea what to think – no one ever explains it to her properly.
Five years later and girls hate boys, boys hate girls, and both are at constant odds with those who raised and instilled so firmly within them the prejudices that they already carry. A few more years down the road and they are swearing. They take a drag off a cancer stick for the first time and nearly gag, but force it – cool has now become the most important thing. The sun sets a few more times and suddenly they are behind the wheel of nearly two tons of steel, taught to propel it at speeds over 100 miles per hour. They’ve been dating for a while, but this is the big step – the car. They lose their virginity a half hour after curfew on some random night, in the backseat of their parents’ random car, to some random girl or guy who, unbeknownst to them, they will neither talk to nor hear from again in just a few, short random years. The next day they fight, terror-stricken to remove the thick white stain from the unrelenting back seat – he didn’t know anything came out of her, really….
Two years down the road and they are “adults”. Eighteen years of age and expected to have obtained the quantity of common sense necessary to live a healthy, successful life. Remember what Einstein said though, “Common sense is a collection of prejudices acquired by the age of eighteen.” For some, by this time hate is a family value. Others have learned to love and respect their elders.
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