Re: "Current"ly

I've always found the phrase "Even a dead fish can go with the flow" to be condescending. (And gross, because, eww, dead fish).

There are times when you drift along the current, but the trick is to find the current going your direction.

But if you're going with the current, are you clever or deluded?

"Current"ly

The current in the river of my life carries me right now.  I do not swim.  This seems to imply that I drift, at ease, laying back on my water.  This is not the case.  I am just so immersed in my river, my current is so strong, it pushes me forward, forcefully.  And I am so exhausted, I just let it.  I cannot say I am unhappy about this.  But I do feel out of control of my own life at times.

Pearl 2

We only regret our past when we are unhappy with our present.

Pearl 1

Those with retrograde amnesia withheld, we are never granted the luxury of forgetting who we really are for a long period of time.  Like the Loch Ness monster, the gritty, grimy creature that comprises the core of each of us, pops its elusive head to remind and sometimes to reprimand.

A day of rest

Sundays.  I’ve spent all but the last few years of my life hating them.  The disgust and dread met me like a clammy handshake as I woke on those days.  It was not a sick feeling based on the remorse of a weekend’s end or that of a hangover; it was a sick based on the forced experience of perpetuating a lie, faking a smile and pleasantries to convey the image He wanted me to portray and the image the others wanted to believe in.  I was the product of shining grace-what a child looks like when surrounded by Jesus’ love and discipline rooted in a healthy fear of both her father and God.  Women looked at me, smiled, and wished, often audibly, that, like me, their children knew the influence of a righteous man.  They cooed over my sweet family and how lucky my mother must be to be with such a spiritual leader.  I smiled and nodded out of fear of what He would do if I said what I was really thinking.

Really, bitch?  You think I am lucky?  You think my mother is lucky?  My mother is weak and afraid so she doesn’t leave this spiritual leader.  You want to know why?  He will scream horrible, violent, damaging things and might hit her again.  But you go on wishing your husband was more like my father.  It must be terrible to live with a man who works a normal blue-collar job, wants a beer at the end of the day, and doesn’t really enjoy going to church with you.  Poor you.  If you, this feeble woman in need of a Shepherd, had a keeper with a close relationship to his maker, all would be right because you would never need to take responsibility for your own actions.

One by one they came, smiling that fake flakey smile, earnestly shaking my one hand with both of theirs.  Women of all shapes and sizes, blondes, brunettes, and red heads alike, fawning over me as they made their way to Him.  My father’s little harem.  His army of insecure puppies who clung to each uttered word.  Eyes starry and wide, they would flash pearly whites and chuckle in adoration--the interaction leaving both with what they really wanted.  Under the guise of spirituality, His exchange of prayers and juicy morsels of red-letter wisdom left her heart alight with lust and her exchange, the hit of ego-stroking he needed so desperately, was her undying appreciation for the healing He brought to her life.  These transactions assured Him of his prowess and dissuaded any remarks to the contrary from those who knew Him better.

And so it went as it had gone since my mind formed memories.  The women’s names changed over the years.  Some stuck around for a few services, some for a few years, and one, The One, was always by his side, so close, close enough to do her inevitable damage.  But the particulars of the women’s identities mattered little to me, as I am sure they mattered little to Him.  So long as praise could be derived from these sappy, lost, and needy vessels, He held His cup aloft.

The Sunday promenade made me sick to my stomach.  It did so because I knew the actual truth.  The actual truth was not that Jesus died for my sins, but that people are willing to believe anything, to look past anything, if it gives them hope.

Something he taught me

Relaxing in bed hours before our bodies will meet sleep.  Naked in the faint glow of twilight whispering through the blinds, his body is so beautiful.  Everything I could want and more.  While I never had the most scrutinizing eye for the male physical form, can I just say that I am quite thrilled about his perfection?  The well-laid sprouting of hair on his chest and down his torso, all gathering to form that delectable trail to my promised land.  His arms, strong, solid, but never showy.  Toned and always used to the best of their ability, his thighs and calves feel so amazing as I run my finger tips up and down them. Lying next to this form that has turned me on, without fail, each and every day, I long for its touch. 

He reaches over slowly and slides his fingers up and down my side.  Finally.  Keep going.  Please.  He traces the outline of my collar bone and circles below my breasts.  I know what he is trying to do and I breathe in the anticipation.  He knows that the tiny chills each light caress produces makes my nipples harder and harder and that much more sensitive.  Craving the inevitable sensation of his hand running across my now erect nipples, I let out the tiniest moan.  He knows he can’t stay away any longer so he circles my breasts, each loop getting closer and closer, then finally…oh god..fuck.  He continues to rub me and I can feel myself getting wetter and wetter--each stroke causing the tiniest throb in my clit.  His hand slides down my torso and runs through my hair, driving me closer to insanity.  Knowing I can take little more, he pulls my thigh towards him, spreading my legs open.  Oh, fuck, I want you to touch me.  He outlines my lips and can tell already how wet he’s made me.  I am sure this pleases him almost as much as it’s pleased me.  Slowly at first, he slides his finger down further and into me hard and deep.  Oh my god…that reminds me how much I want him in me.  So badly.  But first, first I want him to make me cum.

His finger now incredibly wet, he slides it up towards my clit.  He circles tentatively at first, listening to my response.  Each moan signaling him to continue, ever so lightly, he rubs the spots he knows drive me crazy.  He isn’t wrong.  I can feel myself getting hotter and wetter and closer, all the while screaming in my head, please don’t stop!  Everything is so relaxing and so erotic.  I never thought I could orgasm with such a light touch.  He taught me otherwise.  Climbing and climbing, I reach the edge and he knows just how to make me stay, tortured with pleasure and the desperation for that hard, body-shaking, mind-blowing inevitability.  Knowing how close I am, he ups the ante.  He leans over, his mouth meeting my breast and licks my nipple in a hard, repetitive motion.  Holy fucking shit, oh, god, yeah, fuck, god I am so close, keep rubbing, right there, god you know how I want it.  Taking in that final gasp, I can feel myself go over that perfect edge.  Arching my back and reaching for his body, I cum so hard.  Each wave of pleasure extending to my toes and fingertips.  He lets out a quite moan and I know how turned on he is.  The moment the climax falls I need it resolved.  Not questioning for one second whether or not he is hard, I pull him on top of my writhing body.  A little more than obliging, he slides into me, feeling how wet and tight he’s made me, and moans, “oh fuck…”  Still lapping up the life-altering orgasm, feeling his cock, hard, throbbing, and thrusting in my pussy, so slow and so hard and so deep, places me in a more intense state of utter bliss.  As he fucks me he pulls my body closer to his and I can feel his perfect form wrapped around me.  We kiss deeply, my moans realizing in his mouth.  As his body tenses I can feel his cock swell slightly and I know he is getting close to cumming.  With little control or choice, I grab his lower back, cup his amazing ass, and pull him further into me.  Fuck I feel like he can’t possibly be far enough inside me.  His moans get louder now and slowly, with such force, he thrusts so deep and I can feel him cum inside me.  I hold his trembling body, both of us gasping for air.

Um, re me, I guess?

Basically, I am bored.  I've never blogged before, but I needed to find some way to avoid suicide while in law school.  Facebook has really let me down, man.  Now I can write what I want to read about and no one else has to know.  Considering I might be the only one who ever reads this, no one knowing seems an inevitability.  So this is just a less pathetic e-diary.  I will keep telling myself that. 

Besides bored, I am awesome.  And no.  That is not subjective.