Personal Jesus

"But He was pierced through our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well being fell upon Him,
and by His scourging we are healed."
(Zechariah 13:6)

     Sweet Jesus, sweep away my debts using Your blood as cleansing currency.  Spill enough to cover the costs of future errors.  Take punches.  Take piercings.  Be pissed on.  All for the joy of paving a possible path for me towards perfection.  The power of Your death throws will aid me greatly.  Your tears, milked by anguish, will conjure greatness from my soul.
     Drink from the bitter cup of your love for me.  Relish in my future ascension as the whip wraps around Your body.  Tell me of the pleasures blending with your torture, because it's all for me.  You are both my punching bag and my benefactor.  How romantic.
     I appreciate the outlet.  Your pain is the prism of which my sin and shortcomings shine through.  The mismanaged anger.  The problematic sexual compulsions.  The vanity.  Take it all and plunge towards death, having faith that there's life on the other side. 
     Who wouldn't feel loved?  Seeing your body hanging there, blood and water dripping from those lifeless limbs, I feel whiter than snow.  I feel renewed.  Strengthened.  I'm empowered by the sight of you upholding your end of a selfless bargain.  The lamb of God Himself slaughtered on the altar of my life... on the altar of my inabilities... on the altar of the original sin perpetually evolving in my heart.
     Don't we all want a personal Jesus?  After all, aren't we all suffering for someone else, too.  Sacrificing.  Spreading ourselves thin.  Swallowing the shame of others.  I haven't turned my face away while being spat on, either... I haven't shielded my body from weapons formed against me, because those behind me wouldn't survive the blow.  Thank God for Christ.  Thank God for a matyr persecuted for His undying belief in me?  Thank God for reciprocity.

Images above are snapshots for Alejandro Jodorowsky's "Holy Mountain"

Souvenir Soreness II

                At this time, his plane is probably taking off for Lima.  Not having the heart to look at the specifics of his itinerary, all I can feel is my heart stretching too far, too fast.  I worry if I’m elastic enough.  I imagine snapping being fatal.  I imagine possibilities that he’d never return, leaving me torn.  My imagination is being very unkind to me in this moment.
                Left alone in a hotel suite, in this spacious king-sized bed, my only company are these tingling sensations.  Without thinking, my fingertips are at my shoulder, softly tracing the indention of his teeth marks in my skin.  Once again, I find comfort in the souvenir of soreness.  I spent the morning revisiting my neck, my chest, my feet…  My ass, my thighs, my belly…  Although he’s gone, I can still feel the subtle throbbing from where he’s bitten me.  The further he travels away from me, the more I hunger for him.  I’m glad to have such a living example of his hunger for me.

I need all the validation I can get.

52 Pick-Up: 3 of Clubs

    It’s natural for relationships to change.  Times.  Circumstances.  Needs.  There are so many factors that’ll cause the shape of love to bend and twist.  “Are you sure?”  Looking into her eyes, I can see that she’s serious.  We have certainly reached a turning point.

Her eyes read honest, as she answered,
“Yes. I think it’s a good idea.”
Getting on her nerves, I squeal, "For real?"

    I thought our future was already filled with limitless possibilities.  Infinite arrangements.  Infinite journeys.  Infinite destinations.  But now, my head calculates what would happen if I’d multiply the infinite by three.  All I could say was, “Wow…”  Three people sharing a single connection.  Three people sharing the same household.  My future splinters before my eyes.

Is it even possible?

    Our strange brand of love just got real.  Its no longer a working theory, but a lifestyle.  We've seen people live comfortably outside of convention.  We've witnessed families blossom in this way.  We've seen children sprout up completely healthy and well-adjusted.  We want in.  Whether this third person is a lover or a child.  We want in.

"3 of Clubs" by Boistrous

Drunken Thought #15

     I've been tucking it into my pocket.  Nice.  Neat.  In a cute envelope.  Each and every time something stupid comes out of your mouth, I've been gently filing it into the abyss behind my left lapel.  My thoughts and emotional impulses are folded two or three times to fit perfectly... To fit nicely... To fit neatly...
     Aren't I a saint?  Aren't I an alchemist?  For converting bullshit into pretty packages...  Sealing bullshit filled envelopes with a decorative closure... It even matches my outfit.  Aren't I nice?  Aren't I neat?  Aren't I a well-trained negro, to be so tall?  My jacket is so well tailored, you barely notice the lump swelling beneath my left lapel.

Enter: Vodka
Enter: Example after example
Enter: The right time for all the wrong things to happen

     Even the finest paper dissolves quickly in alcohol.  The beautiful, ordinate seals can not contain the bullshit locked within.  What happened to nice?  What happened to neat?  My mouth is neither.  My arms won't stop flailing.  My beautiful jacket is ruined!  And, I don't care.  It's covered in smelly, age-old bullshit.  And, I don't care.  You need to know.  They need to know.  I need to know.
     My pockets are bursting open for the world to see.  Here I am, in my Sunday's best, vomiting in public.  It needs to go...  All of it...  Get out of my body...  Get out of my face...
     In retrospect, I would've reconsidered my filing system; if I had known it would explode at a later date.  All of it at once.  I would not have tucked my anger away in neat places.  I would not swept my emotions under a rug so expensive.  Now, I have a mess to clean up.
     I've learned that even the abyss can fill to its brim....  Even an European-tailored jacket can tear at it seams.  Even the most beautiful, most extravagant seals have their limits.  Shit.  I thought I had finesse.  I thought I was professional.  It turns out, I'm a person, too... Shit.

Bad Sex: (Ep. 3) "Some Like it Rough"

     LOGO's new television series "Bad Sex" has garnered by attention.  The show features a sex therapist's work as he helps people with dysfunctional sexual issues.  Each episode focuses on a single client as (s)he participates in group and individual therapy.  I found the first two episodes to be nothing short of thought provoking.  Peeling back the layers of their sexual behaviors, the sex "specialist", Chris Donaghue, helps to reveal the deeper emotional issues they were masking with sex.  Good TV.
     The third episode rubbed me wrong.  They turned the camera to Erin, "A rough sex/love addict".  Choking.  Cropping.  Fetish.  She admits, "Sex has to be rough for her to enjoy it."  I found myself waiting for the bad part.
     Her therapy with Chris and the other clients showed that Erin had some major intimacy issues.  Habitually, her relationships consist of sex alone. No conversation.  No cuddling.  No connection.  The major problems with her love life were flagrant.  However, what offended me was their need to continue to emphasize her kinky proclivities.  Slicing in scenes of her purchasing sex toys and buying fetish gear.  From what I seen from the show, I believe her issues were independent of her kink.  Yet, the directors continued to draw this connection between her fetish and her fear of intimacy.
     Her two-year relationship with a married man was the problem, not her urge to be tied up.  Her ability to stay in a relationship with a man who fucks her and then sleeps on the couch was the problem, not the whips and chains occupying her toy box.  Maybe I would've appreciated it if Chris assured Erin, "It's okay if you like to be choked."  I think this show had an opportunity to be kink-positive and progressive, but squandered it on being sensationalist.

I think its possible to have your emotional/spiritual needs met in a kinky relationship.

  I think psychological health can co-exist with fetish.

What do you guys think about this episode?

Quantum Touch: Cups

     It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  Bending.  Striking.  Digging.  An adult can dissolve into a crying child.  A human being can transform into an animal.  A body, of flesh and blood, can open its gates and become the ocean.

It was a Friday morning...
She surprised me...

     Placing the first suction cup against her back, I turned the knob.  She snaps, "Ouch! Can't you do it any slower?"  Massaging her back with oil, kneading her skin and muscles, I warm her up before trying again.  Turning the knob slower this time, I watched the plastic case fill with her flesh.  Hissing, "Fuck," she slams her fist against the ottoman.

Her mouth may have been filled with curses.
Her fists may have been filled with her comforter.
But, the scent of her cunt filling the air
was all the permission I needed to apply the second cup.

     Twisting the knob clockwise, her speech was quick and punctual, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  If I listened more than sniffed, I'd stop.  But, my nostrils filled with the musk of a masochist.  My instincts took over and continued to systematically work her body.
     Taking my time, I strategically fastened cup after cup, riddling her backside with several of these bizarre attachments.  Sucking.  Pulling.  Tightening.  It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  After the third cup grasped at the flesh of her ass, something changed.  Suddenly, like a gust of wind, silence made its presence known: sacred... still... golden...
     Someone 5' 5" can tower over the tallest of men.  Soft curves and moist valleys can match the hardness of diamonds.  It was Friday morning and she revealed herself a goddess.  I swear, her humming voice made the temperature rise in Oakland that day.  All I could do was watch and praise the miracle before me.

"Zen" by Forbidden Light (Featuring Boistrous)

Drunken Thought #2

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I'm waiting for an opportunity to tell my story.  Before the scab... Before the scar tissue... Before the blemish...  No one has ever asked me what happened in the first place.  Before the broken skin... Before the spilled blood... Before the ambulance ride...
     It's been a very difficult story to keep to myself.  But, no one asks, "How did you get that x-long gash from here-to-there?"  Instead, I'm told to "apply cocoa butter to reverse the hyper-pigmentation."  As if, healing lies in the reverse of the trauma's symptoms.  As if, I'd be free if the scar blended with my skin-tone.  As if, the disappearance of my scar will make me forget his forceful hands in my hair.  Before telling me, "Black skin is prone to darken where a barrier is breached,"  please ask if I'm proud to see evidence of a threat null and void.
     I've been longing to say 'yes' for so long.  "YES!"  I've wondered how that would sound from my lips to my ears. How would "YES" sound reverberating throughout the air?  "YES, I've been in scuffles."  "YES, I've fought for my life."  "YES, I'm still here, in spite of the sharp edge held firmly at my face."  However, I've longed to say "YES" without adding my name to the long list of victims.

Why would I want to cosmetically remove a badge of honor?
Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I've been equally redundant to call upon my truth.  I would hate to have all-that-I-am reduced to 'fucked up', so I stay silent.  Waiting...  Longing...  Furiously masturbating to the thought of someone giving a damn enough to ask, "Where'd this come from?"  Pointing to the scar between my eyebrows.
    Is it a rude question to ask?  Is it inappropriate to inspect my body and inquire about your findings?  Probably.  But, I find it equally rude to discuss the matter on Oprah's coach; in an attempt to promote my latest project.  I guess this story will die with me...or, it'll splatter from lips when I'm desperate for some attention.  Which isn't today.



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