You Should Post Some More

“You should post some more,” she tells me, running her fingers through my hair. “People’ll start thinking you’re dead.” Y’should post s’more. People’ll staht thinkin’ ya dead. She lilts the words, just a little, her light Georgia accent not nearly strong enough to drawl.

I’m sleeping. I know it. She is the girl in my dreams, for a long time the only one and even now the only one who stayed. Not a muse, she is my friend and I suppose my sometime lover, a private blessing born somewhere deep in my subconscious mind. It’s been eight years since I last heard her voice aloud. Really it belongs to Evette, to the girl I loved in high-school, to the girl who taught me to love myself, but my girl-dream kept it for me and made it her own.

I turn my head a little in her lap, kissing at the palm of her hand before I open my eyes again. The summer has tanned her since I saw her last, but only just a shade, and the light brings out the dark, ruby fire in her auburn hair. “Tybalt doesn’t want to play today,” I murmur.

“I think you’re just happy right here,” she laughs, slipping her hands away, and her warm, black jeans press against my cheek. I don’t deny it, don’t even try, just make happy meowling noises up at her. Writing something means waking up, at least, leaving her behind again. She comes and goes as it pleases her; it might be months before I see her again. Part of me always worries that, one day, she might not come back.

She knows what I’m thinking, though, and she lifts my head, bending over me to press a kiss against my lips. “How long’ve you known me?”

“Seven years.”

“And I’m always here for you.”

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Ann Barnett, the County Clerk down in Bakersfield, has decided that, rather than perform civil wedding ceremonies for homosexual couples, she will end civil wedding ceremonies in the county entirely. The Californian is a fine paper, and I admire the way it investigates her claims without editorial.

The whole situation reminds me more than a little bit of the Massive Resistance policy that Virginia implemented for Brown v. Board of Education, and of Prince Edward County’s extreme steps in particular.

I don’t think I need to say much more than that.

Shut Up

“God. I’m wet just thinking about it. What have you done to me?”

“Nothing you haven’t enjoyed, I hope.”

“Mmmh. But good girls aren’t supposed to like that. Good girls aren’t supposed to want that.”

“Well, good boys don’t do that to their girlfriends, so I guess we’re even.”

“You admit it’s your fault!”

“The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree, and I ate.”

“I must have the only boyfriend in the world who uses Scripture as pillow-talk.”

“Hey, you’re the one who put Aqua on the stereo last night. Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain an erection when Barbie Girl comes on shuffle three times in fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, we’re even. Hmmph.”

“You’re worth it.”

I Think They Happen By Accident

Happiness is having a cute boy who kisses and cuddles just as well as he fucks you up the ass. It can’t be just any cute boy. Most of the time a cute girl will be better for you; girls are soft and smooth and civilized, but the right boy is, too, and the right boy is perfect. You want one of those shy, subculture boys, just a little awkward, the kind full of songs that nobody’s heard and foods that nobody’s eaten, dreams that nobody believes and books that nobody reads. Mine is named Rio. It even feels right, Ree-yo, stroking your tongue stroking back along the roof of your mouth, then flicking forward, making your lips purse just a little, like the memory of a kiss. You want a boy like Rio, with an honest, easy smile and sleep-mussed hair, bright, clear eyes and a cute girl’s butt in snug-fit pants, a boy who loves to writhe beneath you as much as he likes to hold you down. There’s nobody better in the world.

I think they happen by accident.

It Begins With a Kiss

It begins, of course, with a kiss, with the faintest press of my lips between her eyes, and then another, just below the line of her hair. My hand splays across the small of her back, and I hold her there, hold her closer, wanting the moment to last forever. She’s intoxicating, warm and comforting, and her scent fills my lungs, her soap and shampoo, her skin and her hair, a drug wound up tight around that primitive, pleasurable part of my brain.

The scent is called Jacqueline, and I have missed it for far too long.