A Woman.

I am not gentle and docile. I am not soft-spoken and nurturing. I am not traditionally domestic, or classically feminine, and yet I demand to be treated as such. But who am I to ask for such favor? The truth is: I am not a woman. I am not the last creation of God, I was not designed as the perfect male companion, (all sugar and spice and everything nice) and men don’t see me so sweet. The curves of my hips do not make them weak in the knees, my gentle features do not calm their spirits, and they don’t feel the need to take care of me. And who can blame him? The melodic tones of my voice do not remind him of his mother, my chemical composition was not made to assuage his biological cravings, and I do not naturally sublimate my own needs for the needs of him and his son. I am not that kind, I am not that caring, and I really don’t give a shit. I am not patient enough, and my pussy powers are limited. I have not been blessed by the gifts of Aphrodite, or touched by the legacy of Helen of Troy; my face will never start a war, nor will the fruit of my loins spawn a faith that will change the course of the world. I am not so beautiful, not so graceful, and my tits don’t stop traffic. I get it! I am not the fairer sex, so my requests are not so fair. But knowing doesn’t change anything, because I want it more than ever. Treat me like a Princess. Touch me like a lady. Just pretend that I'm a woman . . . even if my dick is bigger than yours.

The Meaning of LIFE

We call them choices; and yet they are laughable in their ignorance. I mean how do we know? I'm confident, I am secure, I am honest in my awareness of what I am willing and able to give in this season of my journey; however I am by no means sure, and I would be an idiot to say otherwise. I know the limitation of my logic and the immaturity of my emotions. I am a child. A three years old deciding his future's fate, yet unable to comprehend the depth of such a decision. But we are held to the choices we make and our LIFE progresses accordingly. Is it really that simple? Is it really that cruel? Am I really left to my own devices when dealing with issues of LIFE, LOVE, FAITH, and DESTINY? Seriously?! Getting what I deserve I can deal with (after all I’ve been working on my meta-spiritual karmic resonance for a while now) but getting what I choose . . . that I'm not so comfortable with. I'm selfish, and spoiled, and judgmental, and arrogant, and frustrated, and tired, and impatient, and insecure, and self hating, and emotionally and intellectually stunted. My choices are more likely than not to lead to disaster than joy; and yet still I choose. I constantly choose who, what, when, why, and to what degree. I deny men an opportunity because they don’t say my name with the inflections that I have come to expect, and I tell friends that they are that no longer because they thought that shade of green was blue. I want to know if I chose my choices right. If I am better off without, or if I have brought about my own tragedy. Will I be thirty-five and useless; forty-one and alone; fifty-three and pathetic; or sixty-seven and feeble, with no memory of a long term? I refuse. I will not be that guy. But how do I change the course that I have set when I do not know what I am doing wrong? Or worse than that . . . when I think my choices are true? How do I step outside myself and do what’s best for me, when it’s my soul that’s telling me what to do? It’s silly really . . . that he would put something as preciouse as my LIFE in my hands, when I hardly know the meaning of the word.

Drowning. . .

I keep waiting for him to come and save me; for him to find me and help me keep afloat. For him to be spiritual and brilliant and generous; and dominant enough to tell me no, yet never use the word. I keep thinking that he will arrive just in the nick of time, with light eyes and a bright smile, and quickly say "Take my hand!" But he hasn’t come . . . or he's come and gone. And when I had him I didn't know who he was. So I guess now it’s time I learn to swim; or simply row the boat ashore.

Nice Guys. . .

Nice guys finish last for a reason. They are too easy to break. They are honest, caring and vulnerable, with a fragility that leaves savage hearts feeling guilty. Who wants that on their conscious? Their beauty bares a heavy burden. Risking the responsibility of turning yet another good man bad, I'm not sure they are worth the effort of learning to love someone well. Their gentle eyes make me think too much, and yet telling them goodbye makes me ache. I'm done with pedigree and culture; well spoken men with brilliant minds, who offer open hearts to their partners, are not my cup of tea. I wind up hurting them anyway so I might as well get it done immediately. I tell the best ones to go fuck themselves and if they are lucky I’ll try to use them first. I judge and weigh their substance against false systems, to try and cheat them of what they’re worth; and what’s funny is that they never question it, because they think we are as pure as they. Sex is a different matter, for that is where they hold the cards. They are always better than the last; offering things he could not see; tapping into your innate urges, nice guys were designed to fulfill your needs. But wicked whiles can trick their raw intimacy; for where for them sex is both flesh and spirit, for you sex can still be just sex. So just moan and say you like it at the time, then play on their gentle jealousies: Criticize and emasculate; convolute, and dramatize (keeping emotional distance is a necessity or eventually YOU WILL FALL). What you never want is to find that you love them . . . the way that lyrics love a song; for then you are trapped, locked, and stolen from the person you want to be, for together you are made better than who you are separately. True love is made of equals; nice guys deserve nice girls, and I'm not sure that’s something I am able to be. Nice guys finish last for a reason . . . and I think it’s because there is something broken inside of me.

Relax

My therapist says that I have a tendency to over scrutinize, articulating the context of the situation until the chink in the armor becomes the Achilles Heel, and I find my reason to bail. He says I should just go with the flow; enjoy playing in the fantasy, and just see where the current takes me.