3.29.2003

 

I wish I understood myself better.

I wish I knew why I have always wanted to write a book and why I have always loathed the idea of writing a novel, of sitting back and growing disgusted with my inability to maintain my own interest. I wish I knew why I sit back and want to stay but feel like I should go and because of that why I feel like want to go but should stay. I wish I could stop acting so logically and rationally and acting quickly and I wish I could quash my demons of indecision. I wish I knew why I have a tendency to fall pensively into a self-effacing melancholy on weekend nights when I have overexerted my mind and underappreciated my emotions. I wish I knew why Saturday night talks to me like this sometimes.

If I had three wishes, I'd wish for a job that made me happy and paid me well enough to live comfortably and support my parents and my family, comfortable shoes and a better understanding of me.

Rock stars have kidnapped my son.

* * * * *

I have a heart murmur.

Apparently I have had this ailment for quite some time, though my mother only saw it fit early this year to inform me of it. As heart murmurs go, I gather mine is not very serious; I have lived actively to this point with no problems. On the other hand, the disclosure of my heart murmur came during a conversation I had in talking about my old plans to join the Navy and my mother wondering whether I could meet the physical fitness requirements. I would guess that my mom hoped to cling to any halfway legitimate excuse to dissuade me from becoming a sailor, but in the back of my mind, I have to question whether something more might exist in her thoughts, that she thought she might have found a valid reason why I could just continue on my path to white collar happiness instead of putting myself needlessly at risk. As a naval lawyer.

I've never felt a sense of invincibility, and the remembrance tonight that my heart murmurs robs me of the feeling that I can do whatever I decide to do.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thh ump. Thump thump.

* * * * *

My three favorite books are The Brothers Karamazov, my Webster's College Dictionary and my professional translator's version of Oxford's English-Spanish / Spanish-English dictionary.

I started reading The Holy Bible (again) over two years ago and I'm still not through the Old Testament. I used to be an atheist. Now I don't know what I am and that troubles me so much I don't care about it.

* * * * *

I had an abbreviated period where I met my penchant to fall pensive with solitude and homemade vodka tonics in a 45 cent blue pastic tumbler. After a few drinks the mind shut down and only the melancholy remained. It stopped mattering that my guitar had fallen out of tune and my vocalizations never held the same key as my instrumentations. Late into the night, I sat in a folding chair centered in a relatively unadorned apartment, one overheard light. As I think of it now, it probably rather looked like an asylum room, but at the time, I think it more seemed simply more comfortable than any other place in the world.

I sometimes stupidly think that I should try my hand at alcoholism. Such a simple little cycle: when life turns shitty, I seek refuge in a bottle and I blame the bottle for making life so shitty. Of course my thinking is ludicrous, and I mean not to diminish the disease and the difficulties it poses. Pondering things that will never turn to reality because my life is really good and my imagination is overactive just sometimes seems like an interesting exercise.

* * * * *

I'm not a depressed person, nor do I feel particularly depressed right now. My problem is that I spend too much time in my head. I think before I open my mouth, and I get myself into trouble by keeping it closed. 98% of the time, living like this works to my advantage and helps me better see the world in various shades of gray. The consequence of this innundation of thought is the inability to escape, to shut it off on weekend evenings when the night wanes and a simple smile and action of impulse would provide all the necessary catharsis.

In moments like these, I should simply put myself to bed and watch a little golf the next day.

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They still just don't get it.

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3.28.2003

 

Writing. Hmm.

I wish I understood what makes people respond to things I write with such enthusiasm (I usually know what provokes those vitriolic responses, and I while don't shy away from them, no one likes a screaming match). If I did, I'd slap 350 pages together, call it a book, have someone fly me around the country to little book stores and meet all sorts of people who want nothing more than to worship me, take a picture with me and have me write my name illegibly in their book. And I've already got that whole "writing illegibly" thing down to a science.

I'd write more about sex, about things that make me horny, little fantasies in my head, things among the like. Or I could write more political commentary and talk about the things I think people overlook when airing their thoughts. I'd talk to my toilet more, or, if I really thought it feasible, I'd fly my ass to London, barge my way into Victoria's Secret headquarters and beg them to hire me as a photographer (and yes, I do have a photography background and could talk shots like those featured in the catalogue). Then I know everyone like me would unendingly worship my ass.

I would do all these things.

But then I'd screw it all up.

And the pressure, the feeling like I have to perform. To come up with fantasies, brilliant bathroom conversations, insight into the amorphous political debate. I don't know, I couldn't handle it. I'd pour over my words, always trying to polish them up and make each post better than the last. To give you all a reason to keep coming back here.

But I hate editing myself. And to tell the truth, I don't have time to worry about my performance.

So I think I'll just keep writing the same old shit here that I always have. And if that sucks, well hell, at least you'll always have the Vicky's pictures.

And just for the record, I expect anyone who tries out any fantasies or other things I put up here to give me the full story.

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Hose Monster = Hero

Go read some of the most effusive praise I have ever received.

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3.27.2003

 

Glancing back at me with a smile one part smirk and three parts suggestion, she bent over to unfasten her sandals, showing me the full length of her legs. Postured like that, her dark blue denim skirt left little to the imagination. Not the tallest of women, I surmised, which would normally make me think that such a bending over to show off her legs would look a little more Adam Sandler movie than late night Cinemax, but this lass managed to pull it off fantastically. In my less mature days, I would have felt the temptation to meet her smirking invitation by dropping the keys I held in my hand and taking a long time to pick them up while glancing not-so-subtlely up her skirt, but as we were standing in line waiting to go through security, I thought such a move might come off as a little improper to the other passengers waiting in line, throwing their laptops into plastic bins and taking off their shoes. Or sandals. So instead I left it at wondering what kind, and color, of underwear she had slipped into that morning.

For as much time as she and I spent together, and as much as I had pondered the answer to that question or other similar ones, I would probably never get to find out unless she told me. Though a passer-by would think she and I had slept together a hundred times by the flirting and the touching, we had never shared more than a kiss at New Years and a too-small sofa bed after a long night of drinking at a friend’s place. For as much innuendo as we always had, the raised eyebrows and the we-don’t-know-if-we’re-serious invitations, nothing had ever come of it but a lot of gulps and sentences loaded with “would” followed but “but…”

Two hours later, probably somewhere over Pueblo, Colorado, I felt the need to stretch, but sitting in the middle seat of a three-seat row on a completely full flight left me little room to move around. She felt it too; the last few months of strain and stress had left both of us with an unhappy tension in our muscles. Heading out to meet our respective sets of friends for a few days of R and R, we both felt the need to relax.

She put down her book – always something trashy – rather suddenly, rolled her neck once and tucked the left side of her hair behind her ear.

“Mmm,” she hummed, shifting her weight so that her left shoulder came closer to mine. She settled her left hand on top of the armrest separating her window seat from me.

“Good book?” I asked.

“Gives me ideas.”

“Oh yeah?” I paused, slowly raising my eyebrows, letting her suck me into the game. “What kind of ideas?”

“Mmm. Tension-releasing ideas.” That smile had returned, full of suggestion and innuendo. With her eyes, she made a directional gesture down, and I shifted my gaze just in time to watch her spread her legs eight inches.

“Tension-releasing?” I asked. I reached down, grabbing the red blanket the airline had left on my seat before I boarded the flight. Meeting her smirk, I placed it on her lap with my right hand, and taking two fingers of my left hand, I slowly slid the edge of her skirt a few inches up her thigh. The smirk on her face got wider. “What kind of ideas?”

“The kind you don’t have the courage for,” she very softly let slip from her lips, leaning back in the seat and spreading the blanket across her lap.

I shifted, rolling my right shoulder into the gap between our seats and placing my lips just next to her earlobe, close enough I thought, that she would feel my exhalations with the micro-thin hairs lining her ear. I slid my left hand under the blanket, letting it come to a rest on her bare knee for just a moment before sliding it a few inches down the inside of her left thigh. Extending my fingers and lifting the palm of my hand off her leg so that the only touch she felt was that of the tips of my fingers, I glanced back up at her, meeting her gaze that had very suddenly lost its smirk.

We stared at each other for a moment. Then the smirk returned, and a slight giggle escaped from her lips. But the sudden contact of the tips of my fingers against the lace of her panties erased that from her face. I held my fingers there, teasing just a little.

The fact that I was serious took a moment to wash over her, and for a moment I could see the indecision on her face. Act on the innuendo, preserve. Completely redefine the structure of a relationship or set it in cement for ever.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest.

I ran my fingers up and down the apex of her thighs, feeling varying lacy patterns and suddenly overwhelmed by the question of her underwear again. My arm hidden under the blanket, her body shielded from the rest of the plane by my back, I wondered if the rest of the passengers could imagine what the two seated in seats 21E and 21F were up to. But as I searched for a place to slip my fingers under the edge of her panties, I found I did not much care to trouble myself with that.

Then I found it. And I felt her do her best to stifle a gasp. From the heat and the ease with which the tips of my fingers slid over, I guessed what part of her trashy novel she had just finished reading. With the tip of my index finger, I drew one small circle before she shifted away.

“We can’t.”

“No one will know.”

“I don’t think I can keep quiet.”

“Try.”

Ever so subtle, I shifted her back into position, legs spread, just enough, blanket across her lap, head supine against the seat behind her, her gaze lost in the sun filtering through the window to her right.

Slow circles at first, just the index finger, round and around the bundle of nerves. Either the tension in her body ached to escape, the book contained more erotic and explicit descriptions that I thought, or the years of innuendo had been a lot more than that. I drew effortless circles as I fingered her.

Two fingers then, slowly and then quickening my pace just a bit before slowing down. Her left hand found my thigh and I felt her digging her fingers into it. Biting her lip. Shuddering.

The blanket in her lap had a strangely rhythmic motion to it. Good thing the movie had everyone transfixed.

She dug her nails in, making me feel as though she had penetrated the fabric of my pants. Building up, building up. Both fingers over the little bump between her legs.

And then. Oh.

So quiet.

Fingers boring through my leg.

Quiet breathing.

I rested my fingers.

She stared out the window. Sighed. Looked back at me.

“I cannot believe you.”

“I know.”

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3.25.2003

 

You unbelievable bastards.

Regardless of your position on the war, the behavior by the French over the last three months should completely disgust you. It's absolutely disgraceful.

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3.24.2003

 

Hi from vacation. I didn't mean to take a little breakper se from blogging, but oh well, mind no work well good lately, nor fingers go happy on keyboard, so I sorry for that. Or something.

Vacation, Day 1

Dear diary:

I had my first ever pedicure today. I know guys are not supposed to be happy about this, and they're only supposed to go grudgingly to them to placate their girlfriends or something, but oh, I had the best time today! My toes are pretty and my feet feel so relaxed! It doesn't matter that all the ladies in the nail salon were laughing at me and my mother and my girlfriend felt the need to take pictures of me with my feet soaking in a little tub; I would go again in a second! However, I don't think I will tell anyone that it was actually my idea that we all go as a family to get a little pampering, because then everyone will think I'm a wussie. Much better to let them think I went just to score points with the lady. Spent the rest of the day relaxing in the sun and getting a tan. I looked at vacation brochures and dreamed about going to exotic places. Then I had kickass sex.

Vacation, Day 2

Dear Diary:

I woked up at 4:20 today to go scuba diving, and it was a litle rough at first. I did manage to catch a few Zs in a bunk on the boat, but not nearly enough to get my daily recommended allotment of sleep. Oh well. I got three dives in today, wearing a thick wet suit and a hood to ward off the cold of the 57 degree water. The dives were interesting, not at all like the type I have done in warm water locations, but I still had a good time. This was the first time I had gone on a dive without a divemaster leading us, so I just planned my dive two minutes before I got in the water and went exploring. I saw a horn shark, a big crab, a sea monkey (tee hee) and a bunch of fish. I also did a lot of weaving in and out of the kelp forests. Then I had a two-hour boat ride back to the mainland and a car ride home for dinner. Then we went for ice cream and then I had kickass sex.

Vacation, Day 3

Dear Diary:

I just had a professional massage, and I feel like a million bucks! I'm all relaxed and covered in oil, and pretty soon I am going to get in the shower to get cleaned up. Later today we're going to visit the La Brea Tar Pits and then we'll go have a nice dinner tonight, but I hope I don't eat too much! I don't want to get fat! I don't what we're going to do after dinner, but I hope it involves kickass sex!

Missed you, Diary. Talk to you soon.

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