Some things you just can’t make up…

Been a busy few weeks, but I’m back. Just got a short story up and trying to cram out a few other things before it’s time to hit the library and work.

I did have a perfectly crazy thing happen a couple weekends ago that I have to share. It’s embarrassing and flustering, but it’s one of those things that you think only happens in cheesy movies until it happens to you.

So the pup was down for the weekend, and I was gonna take him out for some noms before I took him home. Now he and my girlfriend had only met once before for an hour or two, so I got the brilliant stroke of genius to have her meet us for brunch at Cracker Barrel. Non-threatening environment, food they both like, and I can sort of pace the meal by how well they’re getting along.

It’s perfect.

It’s full-proof.

It’s about to blow up wide open.

So we get to the restaurant, get seated quickly, and start looking over the menus. The pup’s nervous and shy, my girlfriend is trying to feel things out to know how to respond, and I’m silently praying that all goes well. Then I get a text message from Dad: “Where are you guys?”

I responded that we’re meeting my girlfriend at Cracker Barrel. Dad immediately replies “Which Cracker Barrel?”

My mind races. Are they coming by? Is something wrong? Did the pup forget something? So I text back which Cracker Barrel we’re at.

Dad’s response? “We’re here too.”

And before I can warn my girlfriend or my pup, here comes Mom. My wonderful mother. “HI THERE!”

Apparently they had just finished breakfast and saw us pull up. I’m completely at a loss for words. And I’m nervous enough as it is. Now we add the folks into the mix.

Dad, in his loving Dad way, gives me a neck pinch. So now I’m sitting in my chair with the Vulcan Nerve Pinch trying to knock me out while Mom chatters away with Pup and my girlfriend about how surprised they were to see us and how happy they are that things are going well. Mom gives the pup a big hug and tells him to be good for his mom and to do well in school. This is nothing she hasn’t done before, and the pup normally doesn’t mind. But he’s twelve, and now his grandma is doing all of this IN PUBLIC. Now he’s as red as I am.

Then my mother, who I sincerely love dearly and would not change one thing about her, reaches over me to give my girlfriend a hug, tell her that she needs to come visit her and Dad more often, and that she’s so happy the two of us are together and how she approves of us and that she’s glad we’re getting on well with the pup.

Then Mom breaks the hugs, tells us they’re off somewhere, and Dad lets go of my neck. They vanish into the crowd while the waitress tries to decide if it’s safe to come take our order yet.

And all I can think to say is, “So, you know what you want to eat?”

And did I mention this is only the SECOND TIME I’ve been together with my pup and my girlfriend?

Thankfully, neither of them disowned me. The pup rolled with it and my girlfriend thought it was adorable. And it only took an hour and two glasses of water for the blush to flush out of my cheeks.

A Good Education – Short Story (NSFW)

One of those “shoulda woulda coulda” tales for Mark and Mike, wherever they are.

Jason and I walked out of the Dollar Tree and towards my beat-up Dodge Spirit. I slipped our candy into the side pockets of my cargo pants while Jason tried to figure out the best way to put our 20 oz. sodas into his jacket. “So what film are we gonna see?”

“It’s called A Bad Education. Some Spanish movie that my buddy Tom said was really good.”

I raised my eyebrow at him as I opened the driver’s side door. “Never figured you for the foreign film type.”

Jason tried to give me a disarming grin. “I’m usually not, but Tom’s a pretty good judge of movies. Besides, I think you owe me for making me watch Birth last weekend.”

“C’mon! That was a good flick!” I sat down and closed my door.

As he dramatically opened his door, Jason scoffed. “A twelve-year-old boy comes to a widow the week before she’s to remarry claiming to be the reincarnation of her ex-husband? You think that’s a good movie?”

I shrugged and started the car. “Hey, it was an original story idea, and it was done very well. God, you’re so dramatic sometimes.”

“You only say that ‘cause you love me.” He batted his eyelashes at me as he sat down.

I just shook my head. “Close the door and let’s go or we’ll be late.”

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the AMC 20 Plex. We floated around the front and waited for someone to open the large Plexiglass door by the men’s restrooms. When someone opened the door, I darted in and ran to the bathroom like my bladder depended on it. While the ticket taker was distracted with watching me to make sure I didn’t sneak into one of the films, Jason slipped the entrance on the other side and went to get us two seats. After several minutes, I walked casually out of the bathroom and down the hall to where the film was showing, watching out of the corner of my eye to make sure the ticket taker was too busy with a family of five to notice me.

I slipped into the theater and immediately saw Jason waving to me from the back row. There were five other people in the small room – a couple of guys sitting two rows in front of Jason, another male couple sitting in the middle of the theater, and what appeared to be a film student in the front row, notebook ready for notes.

I sat down in the back by Jason. “I did mention this film has some gay sex, right? Is that okay?”

“You mentioned it like five times.” I hoped my tone would sooth him and get him to calm down. “I’ve never been with a guy, but I’ve got lots of gay and bi friends.” He gave me a incredulous look. “Long as the story’s good, I don’t care what it’s got in it.” He nodded, still not convinced.

Soon the theater darkened. Jason and I watched the previews, silently motioning to each other whether we had any interest in seeing the advertised film. Once the opening credits started, I reached into my side pocket and gave him his Peanut M&Ms. He slipped me my Diet Coke. Within moments the scent of his Cherry Pepsi hit my nose as the familiar “hiss” of a soda bottle being opened filled the theater. The couple closest to us turned around briefly to give us a dirty look. We smiled and waved.

One of the downsides to being a literature major is it makes it hard to watch films sometimes. It was obvious some of the nuances were lost in the translation and the story didn’t really grab my interest. As for the “scenes of homosexual activity,” they were pretty brief and obviously staged. Very few films outside of porn actually have actors who perform sex, but the really good ones don’t let you know it’s staged. This was not one of the really good ones.

My candy finished, I leaned back in my chair and took a swig of my Diet Coke. Then I heard Jason mutter, “I’m tired.” I looked over at him and he’s pulled up the arms of two or three of the seats and has stretched out across them, half watching the movie as he rested.

He groaned a bit as he stretched his legs, trying to adjust himself without actually “adjusting himself.” His eyes glanced over at me when he realized he’d been caught.

I knew Jason had a crush on me. I liked hanging out with him, but never thought of myself “that way.” And I didn’t know if he’d actually been with another guy before. We sort of had a “don’t ask don’t tell” thing going there. But he looked so vulnerable and so scared that he’d been caught…

Without thinking I placed my hand on the crotch of his pants and lightly pushed down. He bit back a moan as his hips raised up to my hand. Shock replaced optimism and need as he rubbed against my hand. I leaned down and whispered to him, “Step at a time, okay? Let’s just see how it goes.”

He nodded, biting back a whimper as I unbuttoned his pants. I’d always loved to tease my partners a bit before pleasuring them, and since I was heading into new territory, I wasn’t gonna let Jason push me into rushing.

Grasping the zipper of his jeans I pulled the zipper down slowly, keeping a bit of pressure on his bulge. His teeth bit into his lip as I opened the front of his boxers, moving the opening around until his length was completely free.

I’d not seen an uncircumcised penis before, not in real life at least. Wrapping my right hand slowly around it, I gave it a few pumps until I could peel the length free from its fleshy wrapping.

By this time Jason was biting his finger to keep from gasping aloud. Precum gathered at the tip of his dick. Unable to contain my curiosity, I wiggled down to the carpeted floor by his seat and leaned down, giving the tip a soft lick.

Jason’s hips bucked immediately. “It’s been so long,” he gasped.

I rolled his taste around on my tongue. His cock was clean and warm, and his cum had a sort of sweet twang to it. Wrapping my mouth around the tip, I licked at his urethra while keeping up a slow, steady pump. My own cock throbbed in my pants, begging for attention, while Jason struggled to keep quiet.

Remembering something an old girlfriend once did to me, I moved my mouth off his length and sat back. My hand kept up a steady, slow pump, the kind I used when I wanted to drag out my own release as long as possible. Jason raised up just enough to look at me. I smiled to relieve the worried look in his eyes as my free hand unzipped my own jeans. I had opted to go commando that day, so it took little coaxing for my own shaft to fall free. With a wink I unscrewed the top of my Diet Coke and took a drink, letting the soda fill my mouth. Then I leaned back over and sucked his tip again, my lips trying to create a seal that trapped his cock in a bubble of warm, sweet liquid.

That did the trick. Jason’s dick throbbed with urgency and I had just enough time to swallow the soda before my mouth filled with his gooey cum. Trying to pace myself, I swallowed what I could, keeping just a bit aside so I could actually give it a taste. When Jason finished, I raised up again, making sure to catch his eyes. The moment he looked at me, I licked my lips and took a moment to cherish the bit of seed I saved.

“Sure that’s your first time?” he whispered.

I nodded as I let go of his cock. As I sat back down in my seat, I licked his juices from my hand.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jason moving. When I looked at him, he was draped over in the seat beside me, his hands moving my pants a bit to free my balls as well. With no hesitation, his mouth slid down my shaft, taking as much as he could while his soft hands teased my balls and jerked the bottom of my cock.

My head leaned back against the wall, my eyes closing and my hand resting on the top of Jason’s head as I surrendered to his expert technique. His mouth sealed around my shaft as he slid up and down, moaning softly and obviously enjoying himself.

Within moments I felt my own release building. My hand instinctively grabbed the back of Jason’s head. His mouth slid up towards the top of my shaft, but his marvelous hands kept up with their work until every drop of my semen had been swallowed.

Once my eyes finally focused, I looked over at Jason. He was licking the last of my cum off his lips as his flaccid, relieved cock flopped out of his open jeans. He nodded towards the screen. “Looks like the film’s about over.”

“Guess we better get straightened up then.” Before Jason could move, I reached over and tucked his cock into his boxers, buttoning them up and fastening his pants for him. Then I reached down and tucked in my own shaft, zipping up my pants as I winked at him. We gathered up our trash just as the credits rolled.

As we exited the theater, we tossed the trash in a trash can by the door. “So…what now?” Jason asked.

I shrugged. “This is all new to me.”

“Step at a time, then?” He asked.

“Sure.” I smiled at him.

Jason looked at his watch. “Panara should still be open. Wanna grab a coffee and bagel?”

“Sounds good to me!” We walked across the parking lot to Panara as my mind raced. I noticed a couple of young women walk by us and my cock twinged. I tried not to look at them.

Jason gave an odd laugh. “I saw that.”

“Sorry.” My head hung down.

“Don’t be. Give yourself time to figure out what you want and like. Some guys like both. It’s not a crime.”

“Yeah.” I forced my head back up, a headache growing at my temples.

“Step at a time,” Jason’s voice said again. My headache eases as I felt his hand take mine.

A glimpse in my mind, or an amused look at the voices in my head.

For those of you who read this regularly (all two of you) and wonder when it went from a writing journal to a blog, the answer is simple. I’m still writing fiction but my writing time has been trimmed down a bit, and most of the writing projects I have now are pretty lengthy and not ready to come up here yet. Hopefully within the next couple of weeks I’ll have some opening chapters and / or work in progress postings up to show you what I’m up to.

So why the blogs? Well, first of all, I want to get into the habit of posting something here at least once a week, whether it be a story, essay, book / movie review, blog, or just a humorous little tale. That’s the mission of a writer – he or she writes.

But sometimes things keep us from writing: sickness, family obligations, work, stress, vacations, lack of inspiration, other projects, and so on. Those are tough times for a writer, because to many writing is a compulsion. It’s difficult and hard and painful and we try to avoid it but we feel compelled, if not obsessed with getting the things in our heads and hearts out on to paper and word processors. The lucky and talented few of us are paid huge bundles of cash in small paper bags. The rest of us simply type away on blogs like this so their families can read it and wonder where they went wrong.

The other pitfall in writing is that writers often live in their heads. Even when they’re not typing away on a keyboard or scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper, there’s something in their brains that’s always trying to work out a tricky plot point or crafting the scene we need to get us to the next chapter of our book. And then, suddenly, in the middle of our kid’s holiday play or a romantic dinner or your uncle Julius’ funeral, we’ll scream “I’ve got it!” and rush to the nearest piece of paper or keyboard and scribble it all down before it gets away. Many a writer has spent a late night trying to decipher the notes he or she scribbled down on a basketball game program or napkin from the hotel or the $80 dollar souvenir book you just bought because you wanted to remember your $500 night at the opera as something romantic and beautiful.

One of the problems with living in our heads is that we sometimes (okay, often) miss things going on around us. This can be very frustrating, especially for our partners. A couple of days ago, I read a post of a woman complaining that her writing husband was so involved in his writing that he didn’t catch her kissing, grinding, and offers of a blowjob as a sign that she wanted sex. While I hope I am NEVER that oblivious, I readily confess to being off in my fictional world, only to find my girlfriend staring at me with a patient, amused smile on her face as she waits for me to come back so we can finish discussing…um, whatever it was we were supposed to be discussing (sorry, sweetie).

I’ve often heard tell of “football widows” and “gamer widows” and the sadness of living with shopoholics and drug addicts, but I have to wonder if living with a writer isn’t as bad if not worse. (I’m not trying to scare you off here, love). We live in a world crafted of worlds. If another world – one we’ve created or one that we’ve read in a book, seen in a movie, or experienced through travel or a video game – captures our imagination, we incorporate it into our own personal world, where it often becomes as real as the spilt popcorn on the floor that we just don’t see or the trashcan overflowing with empty bottles and crumpled notes that we’ll throw away “as soon as I finish this last paragraph…”

So that’s a glimpse in the life of a writer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go empty the dishwasher – right after I finish one more scene in my short story.

Things that weigh me down

So, in an effort to tone up some and get rid of a bit o’ the belly fat, I’ve started walking more now that the weather’s warmer. And I bought something that I never pictured myself owning before: wrist and ankle weights.

Now the wrist weights are only a couple pounds and the ankle weights are adjustable up to five pounds (think I have them at around two to two and a half pounds now). I’m not out for the “Arnold” look. Just want to be in a bit better health and look a bit better.

This in and of itself wouldn’t be a bad deal. You do a couple naps around the neighborhood with the weights, making sure that you use natural and easy movements so you don’t jerk yourself or pull something, and life is full of glee (with someone to saw and someone to see).

And then I got the brilliant idea of wearing them to work. The first day wasn’t too bad. I had the ankle weights on and my body adjusted quite nicely. I used the wrists weights for a bit but I was doing a lot of cleaning and kitchen work and I didn’t wanna get them dirty or mess up someone’s food.

I felt pretty good and said to myself, “Josh, that’s so fun we’ll do it again! And life will be like a leg of lamb (with someone there to lend a hand).”

Well the next time I tried it, my body was already a bit tired so it took a bit of time to acclimate and adjust to the new weight, but by the end of the day I was fine. And when I took off the weights, my limbs floated into the air.

“I can do this!” I told myself.

Soooo…I did it again.

This time, it was a Thursday. The day had been slow according to the morning shift and I had a good worker there with me. So I did all the outside trash and cleaning with my ankle weights on, cleaned up, put on my wrist weights, and I was ready for battle. Saeed went off to stock the cooler while I stocked the drink counter and clean the floors.

Only whoever stocked the cooler that morning did a REALLY crappy job, and that person didn’t move any of the milk or sodas to the backstock so we’d have room for the merchandise for our massive truck later that night. So Saeed was back there for over two hours cleaning and stocking and fixing everyone else’s mistake before the truck got there and bollocksed everything up.

Which left me up front. Alone.

And all hell proceeded to break loose.

People rushed in. Lines at my register were 5-10 people deep, with someone showing up to take the place of whoever left. One idiot couldn’t figure out how to work the milk shake machine (you press the button- and hold it down for 5 seconds, per the instructions on the front of the machine in big bold letters). Another idiot started screaming because the whipped cream machine was empty and how could he have his coffee without whipped cream?

Now, most times when it’s busy, there’s at least one or two regulars who come by and smile and sort of pick up the day. Not here. It’s all redneck jerkoffs needing beer and smokes and scowling that they have to wait an extra two seconds because Granny Smith knows that last penny she needs is in the bottom of her purse.

And the mere instant that I finally get all the customers out of the door, I get out from behind the counter and the next wave comes in.

I can’t stop moving and I can’t pause to take off the weights. I’m already tired from two days of insomnia and I’m starving. Now my muscles want to know why I hate them so. And Billy Boy Joe Bob is pissed because we carry every flavor Kayak except the one flavor that he chews and we’re obviously bastards for carrying grape and wine grape BUT NOT white grape. Gah! Now life’s a fillet of fish – I’m about to get skinned and skewered.

So in an eight hour shift, I had the wrist weights on for seven hours and the ankle weights on for just ten minutes shy of the eight hours. I’m sweaty, starving, frustrated, and exhausted. Half my body is thinking “What a workout! Do this more often!” To which the other half replies, “Do it and I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

As I walk out the door to go home, Saeed and my overnight guy Dean wave to me and cheerfully call out, “See you tomorrow!”

For just a second, I imagined killing them with a toothpick and setting the store on fire.

And for the first time that night, I smiled as I waved back to them.

What I love about Sports

Now it’s the last thing I want to do, but it’s Super Bowl Sunday…so let’s talk sports.

As most of you know, I am not a sports fan. I can dig watching an occasional game live. I’m always there with friends and family and there’s lots of bad-for-you foods to partake in, so it’s sort of a community thing, an event shared by a few close friends in the midst of the rest of your hometown (at least half of whom are guaranteed to be drunk).

I did the baseball card thing growing up, but it was more of a thing of trying to see how many I could collect combined with the promises of my grandfather that if I saved my baseball cards long enough, someday I’d be able to sell them and become a millionaire. I don’t think I ever even actually saw a whole game until I was in junior high. And to be honest, it was a bit boring.

I have to be honest about this. The only things I liked about sports growing up were the commercials and the cheerleaders. I just wanted to see the talking animals and how high that red head’s shirt would actually go up when she flipped in the air. I think I was fifteen before someone pointed out there was actually a GAME going on during all the surfing dogs and leggy gymnasts.

There is, however, one thing in sports that at least somewhat catches my interest – the underdogs. Cheer for you who want and be proud of your team. But how many times are we gonna see the Manning boys get another ring before we just declare them lucky dudes for getting to do what they do and go on to something else? How many times do we have to watch the Steelers play the Cowboys? How many times do we have to deal with the Yankees going to ANOTHER World Series? It gets to a point where I could care less than I normally do. But you give me a team from Red Bay, Alabama, or Coldernhell, Wisconsin, just come out of nowhere and mow down all these overpaid media hounds that play for the “big teams” and I couldn’t be happier.

I’m all about the upsets. OU drops thirteen points in their BCS standings because some team from Snow Peak, Minnesota, brings their A-game and tramples them? Sweet! Or the Cowboys loose the Super Bowl to the Browns? Yes! Give me the crazy, the unpredictable, the way-out-of-left-field teams and plays that make Tebow look like a fool and I’m the happiest guy you can find.

Sports needs more upsets just to twist their jockey shorts up a bit and help them remember they’re not gods or media darlings, just overpaid mortals who show up on TV a lot.

But that’s just my opinion. I could be wrong…

She

Part O’Barr, part The Monkees, I wrote this as part of a poetry assignment for a class I took on Edgar Allen Poe. Emo haters, you have been warned

In the midst of the damp grass,
the chilling rain that purifies and heals
and chills and kills,
and the traces of winter
in the autumn air,
there is a sense of urgency.
She will come soon.
And she is change.

Despite the coldness and the dark,
I lay down
surrendering to the rain’s tears
examining the love
and the loss
as a drop of my blood falls
swallowed by the rain before it hits the ground
and I decide
not if I should be crucified
but which cross I should choose
For she is coming.
And she is fear.

The lots are cast.
My clothes are divided
as is my soul
and my body is martyred
by my choice and my fear.
She is here.
And she is death.

The Masters

An old piece I wrote for a creative writing class.

Driving down the country roads of Indiana in my white Volkswagen Bug,
I watch rows of wheat dance to the tune of the wind as I place a tape in the player.

The music answers the wind;
I am transported to Copperline
Or slip away into a New York State of Mind.
I become the Piano Man, Billy the Kid, or Little Jackie Paper,
Or close my mind’s eye and hope
It is Enough to Be on Your Way.

As winter arrives in Indiana (to the tune of Nikita)
I must be mesmerized by the memory
Of years gone past in my Leningrad,
When no one could explain why the king must die
Or whether I will be remembered Sixty Years On.

But, more often than not,
Wherever I find my soul,
I “build me a castle with dragons and kings,”
Living in a world of my creation
Every time it hurts too much to live in this one.