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The Man in the Striped Tanga (Part 1)

Some men were born to go the distance. Some were not.** This simple fact of volleying greatness is known by athletes, businessmen, and Chippendales worldwide. Some men can’t take the sheer effort of covering the last mile, even with the sea of a marathon washing over their shoulders. Some businessmen don’t have the moxy to invest in the siren’s song of a deal that would make them billionaires. Some Chippendales are stage frought. Most men, however, don’t align to anything Teddy Roosevelt may or may not have said (yet still appears in textbooks and motivational posters alike) and just kinda keep doing what they’ve been doing until fate thrusts itself on the aforementioned shoulders. Or up the nose.
**Most of the aforementioned “men” are not the white man that our 26th President projected as the only archetype that might have dreams, ambitions or a personal legend. In fact, more are women & men of color, but for cheesy historical quotes’ sake, and the chosen gender of this protagonist, we’ll let it ride.
Chapter 1:
We open on a man exercising in a gym, not too hard, but enough to work up a sweat. He wears a hoodie and track pants while everyone else in the onset of May heat is clad in shorts and muscle shirts.  This man is no fitness enthusiast, and though his beer gut is prominent, he’s also not trying to lose any weight. Should a few pounds drop, he wouldn’t be dismayed. It’s simply that fitness isn’t what he’s here for. What the bed-tanned babes and the hipster-haired Hanks can’t see in the sweating, furtive glare of this man, is actually what they fail to see through his track pants.
Every day, for the past three days, he’s comes to this gym, and every day – (per 72 hours), he wears a different pair of women’s underwear. Whatever the clients ask for – thongs, boyshorts, the occasional cotton-that-breathes whitey-tidys, but mostly cheeky’s (for some reason the man can’t fathom – possibly hell or god punishing him prematurely for being a no-good, dirty, rotten, panty-selling liar). Whatever the customer wants, essentially, they get from this man. They just don’t get it from the big chested Amazon with a fountain ponytail and glossed lips that refuse to stay sutured that they think they’re getting it from.
Marvin, this man under speculation, has spent a long time perfecting his formula. Three days prior to these three days of exercise, to be exact (just under a week is an eternity in the age of instant gratification). Certain flower petals actually produce the fetid smells of unwashed genitals, in order to attract specific bugs and grubs to them, to nuzzle themselves in the noxious fumes – and pollen – of these blossoms and transport their progeny to every ovulating orchid on the block. Marvin discovered this, himself, quite by accident a week ago, while exiting the 100-story high rise that he called a 9 to 5.
It was late April, early May – either way, it was Marvin’s first spring in this part of town – and as he pushed through the revolving glass door to freedom, he was smacked in the face with a thick, humid heat. A very wave of scent exuding from every blossoming Calery Pear descendent on the block, which had been piling blossom on white blossom all week. The buildup had finally reached it reproductive climax, and osomophes everywhere were vomitting copious amounts of molecules into the swarthy atmosphere and city heat. Marvin couldn’t tell if the scent was closer to semen or female genitals after releasing a long-held piss. He’d smelled plenty of both in his time, and weighed the differences on his stroll to the bus stop, unconsciously eyeing several members of both sexes all along the way; making them quite uncomfortable, really.
Marvin had read before about vending machines in Japan that conveyed women’s underwear to the random passer-by and had chuckled the only chortle his despondent psyche could conjure at in the apathetic depths of his soul sucking office cubicle, washing it down with a  last swig of black coffee before x-ing out of the informative youtube video and returning to his emails.
This instance had flashed before his eyes, the glint of a wild cat’s eyes in the dark, as he turned the corner and waited at the bus stop. Marvin bet that you could manufacture a woman’s scent pretty easily using the more pungent extracts of flowers. I mean that and a combination of crotch what was all these perverts really wanted, right? Something thrilling to stick your nose into, to get off. That’s what you did with a real, live female groin, and that’s what bees do with flowers all spring. There’s really nothing different about the two transactions, and the more he thought about it, nothing really strange about it considering the underground nature panty-sniffing had assumed in the last few decades. Marvin had never sniffed panties himself, of course, but had more than enjoyed the moist fold of skin down under from several past girlfriends.
Yes, all he’d have to do was experiment a bit with different flowers –  glancing around, he strolled casually to a nearby waste receptacle, plucking several blossoms from a low hanging tree, pocketing the treasure in his palm, as both pockets on his person were apparently superficially decorative. Marvin thought he’d walk home tonight. He held the whitish blossom under his nose, and almost immediately pulled it away. Registering the odor as very similar to body odor, but sweet – sharp in some ways, and yet so smooth, in the way it lurked up the nasal passages. He brought the little flower close to his nose again. This could work.
Chapter 2:
Marvin had taken chemistry throughout college, gaining a degree in biochemistry that he was only mildly irritated to find unmarketable. Then he had switched to a communications major and landed in the snug pleather desk chair his growing ass now inhabited. Mostly what he did now was network, and write business promotions. The same shit interns ten years his junior did. Every once in a while he’d get so bored, that he’d fly off the handle, promoting an event as though he and the readers were all coked up – “No ski trip is complete without the M5000 Rough’N’Ready Innertube! This holiday season, be sure you can fit this anaconda under the tree, or it’ll haunt you like your ex-Mother-In-Law…”. It didn’t go over well with the boss, and he quickly returned to drab blurbs accompanying company-approved, biracial stock photos.
Finally, he had the opportunity to put some of his training to work. Marvin had labored his entire weekend, collecting several random plastic bags full of the efflorescence, prepared to capture their unique scent for a special experiment, long-denied him by the capitalist regime he toiled his blood sweat and libido away for.
After the collected blooms had been snipped from their greens and stems, he piled them high on a single 13 by 9 inch pyrex pan, pressing petals into the hardened lard. It gave him a reason to hurry home, two days later. He poured himself a Tenessee Honey, and perched on the single stool accompanying his kitchen island, staring at the electrical tape-clad stack of glass pans with his precious, effleuraging flora, just removed from the tiny pantry in his studio apartment. Two hours to go before he could remove the tape and check on his carefully cultivated scent, and he sure wasn’t going to let impatience allow him to jump the gun on this one. Downing the whiskey – always sooner than he thinks – Marvin moved onto the six pack of Busch that he bought every other day from the same liquor store from the same Indian gentleman that after almost a year of habit, still seemed surprised when he re-upped on hard liquor, approximately twice a month – “You getting whiskey today?!” Handlebar grin over opaque, off-white teeth. Like a rabbit, he always thought to himself.
When  the clock flinched 10:59 into the new world of 11pm, Marvin jolted his dulled scissor blades through the tape, unleashing a plume of pussy muddled aroma into his tiny kitchen. After several days of the scent pervading both his thoughts, and refrigerator, where he stored the excess bouquets, Marvin was now accustomed to the raw smell of sex that was now enveloping him. The smell could be stronger. It was nothing that another two days of enfleurage wouldn’t take care of, but something about the process had also brought out the more floral side of it. No, it wasn’t that. There was just this flat quality to it. Lacking in some defining manner. Perhaps he was remembering incorrectly. Marvin paced quickly to his bedroom, opening the bedside table drawer and carefully removing the vacuum sealed (now broken, and preserved in a ziplock bag) package of women’s underwear; a red thong he’d ordered off reddit the day his masterplan was conceived. Removing the delicates from their plastic prison, he pressed the microfiber cloth to his snout once again, suctioning their peculiar scent once more into his olfactory. There was something saltier about it that his flowers failed to reproduce. It wasn’t as gently suggestive as the feminine essence that he’d experienced with past lovers, but again, not exactly sharp. He identified a note that dissolved – almost so immediately recognizable as to be taken for granted, skipped over so to speak, in pursuit of the goods. Sweat. Of course, it blended so well with the bloom of the labia, and would always be conjured when sex was on the menu. His enfleurage brought the raw goods, but lacked the human element of toil. Of getting down and dirty. Working up a sweat.
‘Well, I can sweat” he said aloud to the dark, empty bedroom.
Within an hour Marvin had a membership to the company gym, located in the basement of the high-rise, and could hardly wait to test out his theory. Resealing a fresh layer of blossoms – exhausting his supply, Marvin gulped the last backwash sip of beer, securing it in his gullet, and tucked into bed to feverishly map out his game plan. In two more days, the lard would certainly have the intensity he’d sought after. Tomorrow was Sunday, his day off, which he could spend working recon in the many parks of Manhattan. He reasoned he could collect a fair bushel of the stuff, inconspicuously, from several locations, and stock the blossoms in his fridge. It was relatively empty, save for beer and hot sauce and the occasional takeout container. This was more important anyhow. Starting Monday, when he returned to work, he’d hit the gym – sweat through a pair, then pair it with his pears. He chuckled, half asleep already.
A pair! Marvin snapped awake instantly. He’d forgotten the most important part of this devious plot: actually purchasing women’s underwear. Having ordered the red thong already, he assumed thongs would be the go-to of customers, but the idea of running, much less moving in a thong at the gym made him nauseous. He repositioned his balls unconsciously beneath the covers. Maybe he’d start out with the boy shorts. Work his way into thongs. Rome wasn’t built over night, and such. It was doable; he quickly factored in a trip to a department store for tomorrow. Nowhere fancy. He certainly wasn’t going to drop a small fortune on Victoria’s secret tier underpants if his business ploy turned out to be a bust. Just a few five packs of whatever women were covering their genitals with these days. Nothing special – a little lace, a bow at the front. Marvin’s intoxicated mind played with the idea of being a simple gal – oh no, he doesn’t wear that trampy stuff, no sir. His momma taught him right. How come every time he did an exaggerated woman’s voice in his head, it turned out as a southern belle? Was there some ulterior cause behind this decision. He’d never dated anyone from below the Mason Dixon…
On Marvin’s third day at the gym, he spots a woman that’s far hotter than the google images brunette he’d chosen as a profile picture. In fact, he recognizes her from the office and recollects that on some social networking account, they are in fact friends, or followers. Or whatever the fuck. He bookmarks it in his head to find whichever platform they’re connected on and borrow her selfies for a greater cause. Marvin’s awful habit: following a visual that spurs even more interesting thoughts that lock him in his mind, causing him to forget to divert his eyes from said visual, causes this woman – Caitlynn. With two n’s. – To recognize the guy from two cubicles over at work and mistakenly think that he is trying to figure out where he knows her from, while Marvin is cognitively volleying through an eternal rolodex of pictures he’s pretty sure he’s seen her post, distinguishing between the sexual allure of drunken christmas party poses and just before bed selfies. Suddenly, he becomes aware that the woman in question is approaching him. Has approached him. Is standing in front of his elliptical and mouthing “You’re Marvin, right?” He pops out an earbud.
“Caitlynn, hiiii…” They both laugh nervously as he attempts to calculate just how long he’s been staring at her, cursing his zoning out habit.
“I didn’t know you went here! How long have you been coming?”
“Oh, just joined the other day,” he couldn’t shake the feeling of Patrick Bateman from his voice, and nearly went to lean on the static clutch handles of the exercise machine, in an attempt to seem more casual, and less serial killer-y, which upon reflection, he realized he was closer to on the spectrum.
Seeing Marvin’s awkward stance on the elliptical, Caitlynn took her cue to leave, fixing her attention on the weights, even though cardio had been next on her list. She certainly didn’t want to feel this creep’s eyes on her throughout her run. It would totally destroy her focus. “Well! I’ll letcha get back to your workout, now! Have a great night,” she was waving, talking and walking away at once. Not a good sign socially, but at least he would feel less anxious digging through her Facebook pictures later tonight.
Chapter 3:
The two don’t talk for a month maybe, and with her face on Marvin’s product, sales have been better than ever. In fact – fuck sales – Marvin’s never been better. With the daily exercise, his beergut has vanished, his chin has emerged from a swollen tunnel of flesh, revealing what some might deem a chiseled jaw. Not all, but some. He has more energy – more pizazz for life! He whistles as he walks into work now. Nobody recognizes the Zappa licks he whistles, but it’s not for them. It’s for him, only him. He’s never done something this empowering in his life. He sometimes even wears lingerie to work, now, considering the erratic temperature of his office building always generates plenty of sweat to imprint upon his undershirt. He even kind of likes the lower cut, “barely there” brands that come right up to where his belt holds them in. By wearing one pair of panties to work, which collect his buttsweat throughout the now June workday, he can double his profit – switching into the second, more scandalous pair before sweating it out at the gym. He still hasn’t been able to manage the leg motion that running requires, especially not in the thongs he’s finally become accustomed to, but at $15 a pair? He can bust out almost $200 extra income per week – and the customers just love his product. He has profiles on all the hottest platforms, including reddit and craigslist. He can easily  boost his profit by customizing the product to the buyer as well. He’s sent out probably ten pairs with skid marks, per request, getting $20 per pair – each retaining the foundation of his original formula, of course: his hard earned gym/genital sweat & a small scraping of the Bradford pear-infused lard, combining expertly in the dampened delicates to appear as normal, female discharge. His regulars are never letdown when they wear out the last shipment, and presumptively, the products of their other suppliers. The important thing was, however, that they kept coming back to Marvin.
One never knows the scores of personality types, socioeconomic classes and prominent positions that one might find nestled in the ranks of the sexual deviants. Marvin was quite pleased, one July day, to discover that these prurient individuals included a one, Alan E. Banks, hiring agent for several high profile magazines and papers running throughout Manhattan. This man, lured in by the signature scent of Marvin’s business (he had begun pressing the newly sprung mimosa flowers with his preserved reserves of Bradford Pear, to generate a thrillingly delicious combo), had stayed more for the fascinating descriptions Marvin’s identity offered alongside the shrink-wrapped drawers.
“You’ve really got potential,” the man had commented in the online review you could submit after receiving the package of fragrant underpants, referring not only to Marvin’s supposedly fragrant pussy, but also to his cleverly worded blurbs. Thinking it motivated flattery, Marvin had deleted the message immediately from his inbox, but this man wouldn’t let up. He was desperate to gain longer samples of Marvin’s more secular work, insisting that he could hook Marvin up with a real, paying job, perhaps writing a column eventually. Marvin knew a sugar-daddy when he saw one, and this man was certainly out to exploit the pants off this poor, hard-working gal just trying to pay the bills with the cash-stash in her crotch. He’d politely declined the man’s advances, covering with some ruse about never extending his relationship with clients  past the mailbox – for security purposes, of course. Dramatic irony, itself, was turning over in the ancient graves of greek mythology. Alan Banks was frustrated by this blooming talent that was always just a few sentences’ fleeting from his grasp. This must be some fairytale, he thought to himself. A queer sort of Cinderella that leaves a raunchy Tanga cut behind on the ballroom floor. How could he have this protege’s underwear in his hand, yet be denied the spoken word. It was unheard of. Alan Banks decided, in the glare of his computer screen, that he would find this princess and enlist her as new blood in the industry – start her off in alternative advertising ploys, and slowly move her up to a weekly column, ahead of the stale interns that community college programs offered him. Alan Banks would have this fresh talent for himself, he decreed, as he lowered the royal blue knickers from his maw and grasped the ferocious erection in his numbed left hand.
Chapter 4:
One day at the gym, Marvin is exasperated with a muscle that he has pulled – trying to up his game by switching to the treadmill, yet still straining his legs so as not to t-bone his ballsack, he pulled a muscle in the process, but desperately needed to finish his workout, so he could fill the steady stream of orders he was getting. He goes to the stretching ball in the yoga nook of the facility. While attempting to touch his toes – who clearly wanted nothing to do with those panty-grubbing phalanges – Caitlynn enters behind him and catches a glimpse of the frilly pink whale tale her intruiging – and progressively handsomer, she must admit – colleague is sporting. Marvin sees  the familiar visage of an upside down barbie doll approaching him that he soon identifies as Caitlynn. She’s been eyeing him at the office lately, in that lingering manner that suggests attraction. Marvin decides that his side business can wait.
“Hey Caitlynn,” friendly confident wave. This interaction will not be anything like the last, Marvin stresses to himself.
“Hey” the y is elongated, so as to make it sound nurturing. Like an adult comforting a child. He attributes it to her strong feminine presence. “I just thought I should come over and warn you – Reid, you know Mr. crewcut ‘I was an ex marine’ —“
“I know the guy,” they shared a contemptuous scoff at their radical conservative superior.
“Well, I just wanted to warn you that he’s here, and uh. Well, I’ve always considered myself an ally to your cause, and I wouldn’t want you to get fired or something like that if he found out, cause you know what a dick that guy can be, and…”
“Ally? Wh-what are you talking about?” a befuddled laugh emerged from Marvin’s lips, as he unconsciously reached back to adjust his g-string.
“I don’t mean to sound like I was staring at you or anything, I just couldn’t help… Oh, this is silly. I walked in just now when you were stretching and I saw your underwear,” she whispered covertly.
“Oh jesus. It’s not what you thi – ally? No! I’m not” he sputtered for a moment as the serpentine deviser in his subconscious flipped the switch in his larynx from falsetto to chainsmoker “a crossdresser or anything, I’m just -“
“It’s okay, really! Honestly, I think it’s kinda sexy – being that fluid with your sexuality, and believe me I know what a pain it is to wear one of those on a run. I’ve gotten plenty of front wedgies in my day. I just wanted to make sure that your privacy was protected in front of less understanding people.” Her smile was so genuine. And she was touching his arm, he realized. Through the hoodie, he felt the warmth of her hand, and standing so close in their clandestine conversation, he could smell the sweeter qualities of her sweat. Oy vey! How her panties would rival his any day, he thought.
“Sorry, I guess I just got a bit embarrassed,” Marvin pushed his chestnut curls back in a way he thought women found attractive. “I’m not really ‘out’ to many people. ‘Many’ including just you and me, to be perfectly honest.” Keep it in the lower register, Marvin reminded himself, clinging desperately to both the clench he had on his thong & masculinity.
“Really? Oh my goodness, you can’t keep this to just yourself – it’s part of who you are and that’s something to be proud of!”
“I guess I just don’t have many friends that would understand..” Marvin didn’t have any friends, he thought to himself, but same difference.
“Well, I’d certainly love to talk to you about it – I majored in Gender at NYU, so I have a lot of experience with this type of thing.” She laughed. “IT is just how I’m paying for my masters certification. I’m definitely not going to be in this office building for the rest of my life”
“Maybe the next one over?” Marvin suggested. In Caitlynn’s laughter, he prophecized a ‘yes,’ should he ask her to dinner or to have a drink with him. The eye contact around the office had been suggestive, and Marvin was 8 for 11, as far as guessing correctly on these things.
“But really, I do appreciate you saying something to me…and I think I might actually be ready to talk about this…”
“Of course!” Well that was quick. Normally he had to skirt about the subject for days – have a few false starts, as the women never seemed too sure whether he was asking them out on a date or gathering information to one day murder them in their sleep, perhaps after making them watch him dismember a beloved house pet or coffee table. He’d gone on three dates in the past 5 years in which he was the only one who knew it was a date. “Do you maybe want to get a drink later tonight?”
Caitlynn had been waiting for him to ask for about two weeks now. Three weeks ago, she’d notice his appearance become more and more palatable. His whole demeanor had done a 180. And there was never any question that he was attracted to her, too – the man couldn’t stop staring at her to save his life. Every day. Over the top of the cubicle dividers. Like a recognized bandit – those two eyes and that caveman browline.
Ahh, new love: when what would otherwise be called borderline predatory  is redeemed as cute.
Chapter 5:
Well if things were looking up last week, this week is at least ten times better. Marvin has a girlfriend now. A hot, young, yoga instructor of a girlfriend. She hadn’t even waited five dates to have sex with him – two. And believe you me, he wasn’t expecting it. Caitlynn on the other hand had expected the customary unpreparedness on the male’s part, as women are usually the deciders of intimacy on a day to day basis.
“Uhh – let me just go in first and tidy up a bit,” but surely neither had expected he would be sweeping up putrid white blossoms, lard, paintbrushes, and an array of undergarments more diverse than even her’s. In his ten second cleanup, Marvin was able to look through the evolution of his side business, though only about a month in the making, it had progressed fairly quickly. The standard panty sniffing bunch had been just the tip of the ever erect iceberg. Apparently these perverts wanted more than just his discharge stained drawers. These creeps had wanted everything from cream pies to skid marks. The statistical representation of poopy panties was off the charts – Marvin always kept a thong and plastic baggy (the ziplock kind – double banded) on hand should he have to drop a load at the office. There were, of course, certain orders that he couldn’t fill. Orders he had no way of filling. Sure, he could open a vein and trickle it on the unmentionables, but Marvin was no sucker. He’d earned his redwings time and time again. He knew the difference between pussy blood and stoping a cut from bleeding with your bacteria infested tongue. And he was worried for his online reputation on the good chance that his customers knew the difference as well. There was something sweeter to period blood. More like berries, or strawberry yogurt perhaps. This was just another instance in which his new girlfriend would compliment his life.
Caitlynn believed, as Marvin had admitted to her in the bar on their first outing, that Marvin embraced a feminine sensuality that he’d noticed and chosen to foster in himself, assuring her the whole time that everything else about him was entirely masculine, punctuating this speech by adjusting his balls with a manly grunt over his vodka cranberry. “Two-spirit” Caitlyn had identified him as. “So you don’t explore this other self in any other ways? I mean, wearing panties is all fine – I certainly enjoy it – but isn’t it a bit uncomfortable when you’re working out?”
“You don’t even know the half of it” Marvin had muttered, perhaps too genuinely, quickly following up with “but I simply can’t keep away from it. Those cheeky panties really make my ass look great -“ and with those freshly honed glutes, you can be sure he wasn’t lying. “-and those silk and nylon numbers.” Look of exasperation. “You just feel naked underneath!” Marvin’s looser, more honest, intoxicated communication style revealed to him things he hadn’t yet revealed to himself. Perhaps he hadn’t been ready to admit to himself that some secret part of him truly enjoyed the lingerie he’d been snapping on every morning.
“Well, truth be told, I have some experience with that sort of thing myself,” Caitlynn looked down at her dry martini. Dryer than an under stimulated desert in prescription antiperspirant. Marvin smiled, cheeks pink from the shot of Bombay Sapphire they’d clinked five minutes earlier. She could have her deviant sexuality, he certainly wasn’t forfeiting his.
“I actually prefer to play the male in the bedroom,” the patter of schoolgirl laughter had softened the blow to Marvin’s psyche.
“How’s that?”
“Well, not every guy will let me do it, but the longest relationships I’ve had have always been with sexual submissives-” that wasn’t too bad, he thought “-that were okay with me strapping on” The second giggle was a less effective anesthetic. Marvin felt a clinch pucker against his g string.
“Now that’s an interesting prospect,” he began.
“It’s not that I don’t also like receiving, I just like being in the dominant position at all times. There’s nothing I can stand less than being underneath a man. It’s so boring and powerless. I want to feel the passion of sex overtake me and give it to my lover. I mess around now and again with bondage and dominatrixing, but usually I just need to be on top to get off. To tell the truth – most guys are so clueless about the female orgasm that it’s my only chance to get off.” The considerable amount of drinks made this only slightly easier to digest. Of course this smoking hot woman wasn’t going to ask him out without at least a few catches. Even if they were on his prostrate gland. Ass clinch. Mostly the thought and liquor combo just made him nauseous. She seemed much more equipped at holding this stuff down than he.
“Interesting..” he mused, visibly strained “I- I’ve never been penetrated myself.”
“And you know, that’s what I get from most guys – but really, you never know until you try it. About 90% of the men I’ve tried it on loved it after just the first time.”
“And the other 10%?”
“Shit the bed and couldn’t get over their egos”

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Dear Nick,

I’m a bit pissed. For somebody that’s so smart and always asking why, the fact that “I’ve just always been this way” is a good enough answer for you to settle for is so telling to how sublimated your ego’s power over you has become. You are its slave. I saw this the first fucking time we hooked up. You have unbelievably low self esteem and compensate for it by playing the part of the all-knowing. You shove all your insecurities into this overblown cerebral narcissism. When you couldn’t stay hard our first time having sex – even though I was sucking away like a fiend – you laughed at yourself, wanting to humiliate yourself and deprecate while I was loving you, and this is the narrative that has continued to play out over the course of our relationship. Your ego can’t handle anything that makes you look bad or insufficient – so you take whatever opportunity you can to be on the winning team again. I’ve seen you lose before, as well and try to regain yourself, and they were probably the saddest states I’ve ever witnessed you in. When your dad came over after I told your mom that you’d planned to kill yourself. I think you felt small and hopeless – powerless over your dad and unbelievably ashamed. The second time was when we went to Vaunca’s and you sliced your forehead open, from being ossified and not letting anyone help you stand. The oblivious look on your face makes me doubt you could feel the deep cut on your temple, but the tears you kept pushing away were a child’s. A kid that’s been pushed around in the school yard and laughed at and pointed at. 

Ugh, Nick! Grow the fuck up! Nobody is perfect, we all have flaws and shortcomings. To allow our structural ego mechanisms to constantly compensate for those shortcomings is going to inevitably be harmful to anyone near by. You’re constantly finding things wrong in the outside world and being critical to make yourself feel more right. Aligning only with the superior and making sure everyone knows WHY it’s so superior. Constantly separating yourself from others to appear above them. But soon you’re going to separate yourself so much that you’ll have nobody else to appear superior to around you. Your ego will tell you that’s fine and you like it that way, but your heart will ache now and again for the company that you were so intent on being above. Your loneliness will take its toll and there’s nothing I can do to change that. You hold the keys, I’ve given you the lock, now you need to find it and look in on all the self hatred putrefying in your psyche. You’re very smart. You place decoy self hatred out for everyone to see and it’s quite convincing at first, but I know a deeper room exists. I know you cram everything that you don’t talk about in there, and let it fester into a putrid fuel for your ego to chug away on. You need to take a good, hard look at that and see how it makes you alienate the people who are closest to you. See how it makes an ego of higher value to you than love. When I say “you’re hurting me” and your ultimate answer is “that’s not going to change,” it means that to stay with you would be masochism. I love myself, shortcomings and all and strive to accept myself as I am. Masochism isn’t my thing anymore. 


Another Ex

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Everything I Don’t Want People to Know About Me (Part 2)

  1. When I was in high school, I started to pick up weight. I was aware of this, but did nothing. However my mother noticed as well and mentioned her fear that I was becoming fat to one (that’s one of two, mind you) of my super-model sisters. I’m the youngest – and stockiest – of three, and my two older sisters have literally been models. One of them still is, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow, super-skinny-Megan came into my room one day and passed my mother’s observation on to me. My immediate reaction was to walk into the bathroom, pull off my big chunky sweater, and stare at my middle. Scrutinize my thighs. Lift and pluck at my buttocks, quite aware of how deflated it was. I observed the skin attaching my chin to my neck and thought that it used to tuck in more. A couple years ago. I recalled in middle school how everyone would gawk at how skinny my underdeveloped body was – and that trauma had already been remedied by my massive breast growth sophomore year of high school. One year ago. It seemed I hadn’t stopped. I poked at my pink, rotund cheeks and hated myself. I thought of all the sweets and carbs I’d stuffed into those cheeks, making me so ugly that it had to be reported to me by my family, so that I wouldn’t have to hear it from a stranger. I thought about how thin and long my sisters were, and how they never seemed to have any trouble keeping the weight off. That was the first time I started to starve myself. I banished my muffin-top upon exiting high school – I never reached over weight, mind you. I simply got chubby, and ergo became the fattest person in my household – without ever being what anyone considered “fat”. Simply approaching the label in a way that reflected the societal fear of gaining weight. After the freshmen 15 hit me in college, I went through another phase of severely restricting my diet. It was hard at first, but eventually I could go weeks with minimal eating. In the summertime, it was worst, because I always felt my body was on display. It was also easiest, in a fucked way, because the heat naturally relaxed my appetite, making the transitions into week-long fasting easier. Oh – and I never acknowledged that what I was doing was anorexia. It was always “control” or making up for a month of eating normally. That fact changed when I started dating a girl who did the same thing. She’d express to me that she hadn’t eaten all day almost gloatfully, and I’m sure she was just barely holding herself back from outright boasting. She was a year younger, and as our relationship continued into her time in college, it became the excuse for why she wasn’t eating. “The food here is gross” “I’m starving on this food plan”. I knew she was doing it to herself, but I kept my mouth shut, because I was doing the same thing. Except I wasn’t talking about it. She and I would smoke weed together, as I entered that phase of my life, and I experienced the munchies for the first time. I would be filled with ravenous abandon… and hate myself the next day. It wasn’t until I started tripping that I came to recognize my starvation habits for what they were – anorexia nervosa. bulimia nervosa. Since those realizations, I started making efforts to eat with health in mind, and to make going to the gym a regular habit. I still sometimes starve myself despite these lifestyle changes.
  2. My digestive tract is extremely sensitive, probably from the abuse it endures. So it isn’t uncommon for me to become flatulant for hours in end. And not the cute skinny girl kinda flatulant. The kind that makes you look around for the fat guy with a chill cheese dog piled high with melted carcinogen cheddar and refried beans, stinking onions that were scooped out of a plastic quart container incubating methane producing bacteria in the heat of summer, guacamole with garlic presiding as the overriding stench,  bacon bits that have cohered into clumps from the accumulated grease and fat that hangs off them – coating each ‘bit’ with a slimy membrane of “flavor,” all topped with some sliced jalapeños (also deep fried) to provide the spark the lights the fire in your anus. And this happens at the drop of a hat for me – I’ll be fine one minute (when I’ve gone a stretch of not eating), then one soy chai latte later, and I’m exuding a never ending stream of those farts that totally feel wet, but you go to bathroom to make sure and wipe your ass and it’s just the usual amount of unclean. I have a little dressing on my salad? Flash-forward an hour, then you’ll come to, neck deep in the algae encrusted muck of a fetid swamp in the heat of August, nestled in a mushroom field, encircled by fertilizer rich cattle, both grazing and heaping into the stagnant air. What little moisture remaining in the bog is summoned by the temperature to emerge on the surface, instantly evaporating into a corporeal breath that continually chokes and gags you. And just when you’re certain you’ll lose consciousness from suffocation, a garbage truck rolls in, wayward from the highway, and brimming high with chaotic, torn garbage bags (probably not glad bags). Upon impact with the boggy earth, the truck is stayed and topples over, burying your head, olfactory senses and all, into the week old crab platter a family of seven dined on, mingling with overcooked – now sour – bean curd and undigested beschemel. These, the demons clawing about in my bowels.

(Will be updated over time, as my self esteem cyclically plummets, naturally exposing me to more fettered insecurities that my consciousness has been harboring… Stay Tuned for #3!)

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Paranoiac Method Experimentation #2

[written upon exiting a work day that spanned from 6:30 in the morning, brief interlude at noon, to 11pm. Exhausted, I waited all shift, in high spirits to leave for the night. Upon getting what I wanted, I bummed a cigarette from a server and crossed the wet road to my car in which I sat, and sat. And sat, staring. I didn’t know what I was waiting for and was quite restless and numb and depressed. I craved release, but didn’t know where to scratch.]

When my study isn’t interrupted by my living, I have the constant inner monologue of my mother, conveniently placed across the hall. I hear her pretend a camera is focused on her meaningless life. She’s quite responsible and lovable and admirable, my mom. But dear Christ! To become her? Oh it would be a responsible and loveable and admirable life path, but dear God, so utterly sad. The man she once thought to be the love of her life – the one she would make beautiful babies with in the countryside and all the while love him through his supreme intellect and depressive quirks, whereas, post-babies, she only realized what an insufferable ass, mucking about in his own misery, and you know the sex wasn’t that good toward the end, the two of them presently placed on the opposing poles of the house, shortly after the birth of her last child *tah-dah*. As though she used him for his favorable sperm to create my sisters and I. To create an ambitious and intelligent but God-awfully BORING career woman with just enough spice left in her life for a weekly cooking class while she moves up in (choke) society, an underachieving slave with the one gift of good looks and the absolute dumbness to be kind to everyone, and then, the pièce de résistance, a depressed deviant dropout drug addict with a burning existential crisis at every turn. Yes, my admirable, loveable, responsible mother used my shockingly-yet-not-so-shockingly-reminiscent-of-my-current-beau father for her fairytale life of being a mother, which readily revealed itself to be a boring guided existence. I’m so upset, now, that my mother succumbed to the baby lust to marry my dad. Perhaps he’d be off with the interminable suicide march by now, had some half-wit not succumbed to his charms, of which there remains not a sliver nor a speck of, in his sour, balding old-man existence. He lives for work, and therefore, approval. His only admirable moments being at work, as he toils to restore the earth. And yet, even that is being taken away in light of the new generations’ superior understanding of ecological sustainability which employs all methods AGAINST those of the corporations my father works for. So he sits, sadly in his chair, watching whatever on the television and cleaning his grotesque collection of tools that only grows, filling each available nook in our basement. Life can be disgusting sometimes. How can I see their existences as beautiful? My mother literally rotted from the inside, sick with colon cancer two summers ago. Had her ass removed and vagina removed, her only creative sources it seems, and replaced them with a swollen belly, still drunk on the desire to eat. Filth! She holds that sick tummy under her arm like a pregnant belly and it sickens me, festering and growing all the time with shit, pure shit. My mother, so responsible, admirable and loveable, now lives out her days with makeshift children, the puppies, whom she stresses over, wiping their asses like small children. The only conversation she has throughout the day, she fancies herself a Maggie O’Connell, living out in the wilderness – our dirty cluttered, out of fashion ranch house in the sparse, dead woods of urbanizing Middletown, living the day to day life of survival, all the while gorging herself, indulgently, on whatever pastry she pleases, allowing it to smack to her lips and cover her mouth, the most active part of her anatomy, besides her new, ring-side shithole. That mouth flaps always, speaking to nobody with ears to listen – except when somebody’s home – anyone, with this desperate, thinly veiled desire to be heard and marveled at, to validate her continued existence until the cancer comes back and sews her up for good. She disgusts me, her and that mouth and that shithole, which much like the trinity of God are just about the same thing for her. Constantly chugging out a slow, steady, reeking leak of thick sewage. It smells up the bedroom and she revels in it, opens her door wide so everyone else has to sniff it, listen to it, that constant gurgling inner monologue of who-the-fuck-cares. Nothing she says anymore is interesting, though she labels it – and now that I think about it, certainly believes it, as it is certainly her entire world – as funny or novel. She’s grown quite dull in her isolation, chattering on about her stupid friend, who she keeps around to feel superior and clever (but would never admit so to herself because they’re “the oldest friends and you stick with friends like that, through thick and thin” – aw fuck her mom! She’s somehow more infuriating than you in her vast vapidity, and you get yourself so goddamned worked up over the horse she pulls out of her emphysemic ass. Mom always reminding me to stop smoking, with Lorraine as bait – “you don’t want to end up like that, do you? soon she won’t even be able to shower alone.” I silently nod and comment to myself that I would never be stupid enough to live that long, aeons past prime and diving straight into her grotesque stupidity. I’ll never be so dumb as to anchor myself to this godforsaken earth with children and a husband either. I’ll die a decrepit old spinster with art living at my side, and beautiful travels with which to lose myself to  nostalgia in. It occurs to me that I may not be quite smart or brave enough to do the things I think I will. I may not have the competency and the nerve to live alone in the woods or in South America or in France. I haven’t quite gotten around to trying yet (oh procrastination, warm me in your bosom for just five more minutes), but I imagine, with the calmness of a junkie, that I’ll get around to it any minute now. I also like to daydream that the laundry does itself, but therein lies the problem. I DONT WANT LAUNDRY TO DO NOR LIFEHACKS WITH WHICH TO CONQUER THE WEEKLY CHORES WITH. I don’t want chores or weekly maintenance habits. I don’t want that well balanced lifestyle with time for gym breaks and work and hey! even creativity once a month. I want the artists life! I want the bohemian struggle! I want to constantly be fighting for the uncomfortable wormhole I find the solitude to create in. I could live out of my car, though it’d have to be somewhere far more temperate – ah, dash the whole idea, while I’m at it. I feel an itching all of a sudden to set out in my personal legend. I’ve had no memorable dreams with whispering children in them, however, by which to know what that might be. So, God. Universe. Path. Consider this my informal invitation to GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN AND SHIP ME THE DIRECTION I’M GOIN IN, cause I can’t take much more monotony, or society for that matter. I can’t stand acting okay towards all my old friends that stayed in college. I almost feel bad when it works, when they come out thinking I’ve got it made with my freedom and my pitiful home life and discount boyfriend and romantic view of my own depression, when really I’m only that person half the time. The ugly twin always has the last laugh, when whatever old friend departs, marveling at how well I’m doing, and I’m stuck with the knowledge of being the greatest and saddest actress on earth, because I could fool nobodies, slaves and clones into the same romanticized ruin I fool myself with half the time.

I want to skip town. Want to drive to New Orleans and then some. Want to get holed up in Mexico. But first I have to know how to fight, to defend myself from the rapists whose eyes sliver all over my body in suburban Middletown diners. Have to know how to survive in the wild and find water and build a fire and sustain myself off leaves and roots and pawpaws when they’re in season. I probably need a dog too. But the only dog for me is a hound and they’d be no good in the wild. At the chance of a wild brutish animal attack, it’s go scampering off into the opposite direction, with its short legs tripping over its disproportionately extended earlobes, and I’d be left to reason with the chaos of nature. And see, I’d be fine with this, but the process is so painstaking. I need a crash course. I need all the knowledge of the universe NOW, not in a year. I’m restless and tired and scratching to jump out of my flesh. Any excuse to abandon the “love of my life” that cares only for self pity and hedonistic egotism. Barf. He’s not getting better, and I’ll only rot along with him the longer I stay in this fickle situation. But the alternative is so dumb too. Bringing a blood hound to the wilderness is like bringing a weeping willow to a waterfall. The sentiment was nice, but it doesn’t quite fit the role. They’re getting
Old Yeller to fill the part anyhow. Damn.

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Paranoiac Method Experimentation

It was in his trying to be masculine that he only achieved femininity. And I was attracted to these feminine traits, it’s not that this struggle made him less attractive to me, if anything I was predominantly seduced by the struggle. His femininity made him beautiful, otherwise he’d be a grotesque failure, caught in the cycle of try and fail with his goal of manhood. Being privilege to his weak moments made him attainable, whereas the father figure he was always trying to touch was the actual end goal of all his efforts

[The real life thing that happened was his father’s successful intervention with the boy when he’d confided in me his plans to kill himself. He craved death at his failure to achieve the utmost masculinity, it was pitiful]

seeing his father march in, reduce my “man” to tears, restoring himself as the omnipotent paterfamilias, rounding up his sick and diseased flock, chaperoning it dutifully back to the manger, to be cured and released. I’d always known he’d been trying to attain some strange, unreachable goal in his image, but I hadn’t had the dumb sense to realize that this worshipped idol was his own rejected creator.

“I don’t want your dad on the bed. I want your dad on the bar. Lights out, customers fucked off, just the dim lamps that hover, both in timbre and height, looming down on his wash blue tucked-shirt back, belt buckle glinting in the amber dust.

The galloping fossil fins of my hipbones ride the surf of your father’s gypsy brown flesh, his purple probe bobbing into me, fully aware of what he’s doing to me. Yes, the man that fathered you. Not whatever you are.

The dough of your gut rising from the yeast you pour into it day-in and day-out when the shakes take hold of your manual sentiments. YES, YOU’LL DRINK TO BE HAPPY WHILE I GIDDILY FUCK THE SECOND PERSON ON EARTH TO EVER LOOK INTO YOUR PALE ORBITS.

He’ll initiate it too. You think I find you so courageous and robust for asking if I didn’t want to hookup? “no strings attached,” as you said, then moments after feeling the bow in my lips with your own, matriculated into love and womanish woes. Me, thinking I’ll finally be fucked by a real man, but all you are is a plastic cast of daddy. You haven’t quite learned his strength and fortitude yet, so you pretend. Strutting about like a sorority girl, I think you must be a girl, pretending to be tough like the big boys, but you won’t grow into the silly putty sac between those ghastly thighs until at least a decade. So while you drink back the tears of knowing you’ll never really have me, I’ll patiently allow you father to spill his tardy offspring about my breasts and hips. A rival sibling of yours, lodging itself, isolated between the sediment of a dark wool sweater your old man ripped from my rib cage and some skin cells in my belly button, until I wash it out the next morning, my nakedness a sudden memory of how the original paterfamilias’ cock rammed into the pleasure place until my foot arches cramped – until my knees needed kinesthetic bursts to stretch – until my guts fluttered and twisted, he rammed me so well, and my greedy cunt will take over my fingers, still slick with soap and attend the ticklish wound the first man to be tyrant over you left in me.

Your sick limp flesh-pink jewels won’t fill his shoes for twenty years. What do you think of that? It makes me laugh for the slime that you are, adhering to my marble form with your alcohol sweats and your addiction. A real man could push through. Could do it without your tears and melodrama. As cool as you act and fool fresh strangers into thinking you are, how does it feel to know you won’t be honest until decades have passed? Your first and favorite example, your pops, hurt my belly with his swollen member, but your pathetic grief makes my belly hurt more. Spittle flies off my canines with the force of my cough spattering laughter. You disgusting drunk. Hold yourself together, man. Your beer gut creeps toward the floor. I’ll have a man that downs his whiskey (without your laughable coke mixers), pats his woman on the ass, then takes her out and fucks her. Gives it to her good against the pillar of a tree— you with your disgusting silk sheets, you glutton – in the bed of a truck. In the secretive night until the revealing dawn, makes her scream and cry and outshout the crowing cock. And you just croon in my ear, your nauseating endearments. For all the cheap tricks you hastily copied from your old man, you failed to learn that a woman doesn’t want to be called sweet or dearest, but to be called at 11:30 by a body hungry heathen who craves to conquer and reclaim his virgin shores. You try to throw me down, try to give me what the man whose DNA’s infected both of us gave me, but you didn’t observe close enough, the delicate vigor contained within his frostbitten knuckles and how the most ethereal sensation trickled out of his split-calloused digits.

If only your father had made a woman with your mother, instead of three faggot copies of himself, so he could understand how quickly women learn the score and how advanced we are. So I wouldn’t have to pretend to be nourished by your unoriginal remarks, so I wouldn’t have to feign docility while manning the ship of our relationship, so I wouldn’t need to tiptoe around your ego, for fear that your laughable Jenga tower may come tumbling down. Look, I was happy to fuck the mirage till it disappeared and made a lesbian of me, but now I’m starting to get bored. I fantasize of seducing your younger brother, because I know I already own him, as I own you. His doe eyes flutter even faster than yours and I’m amused how this enigmatic family has perched itself in my palm so easily and with so little protest. But God! If I have to fake a moan and half-heartedly claw at the bedsheets one more time, I may actually tear the follicles from their roots! Not after I know what I have to wait for. Not after I’ve seen him transform you into the sniveling child you always have been. I’ve demonstrated for you what a complete woman I am, and in return, you give me a knock-off man overflowing with narcissistic estrogen. No, I’m not calling you daddy to be kinky, Fool, it’s an honest request. Go back home and study how your father gives it to your mother and you’ll start to understand why she talks like she’s always in a dream, passed out with DMT rocking through her pineal gland. Wake me up when I can call you Daddy.”

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Salacious Itch for Strangers


Then I notice the calliope turns gears in my mind

rotates bangled ferris wheel tires

beguiled by blinking jewels

singing a mournful dirge on the cheeriest of tones

and I’m intoxicated, sick high above the world

droning to this moaning tune

until reality pulls me under again, releasing me into the festive outfall of the circus parade

-wish I could trade –


I’ll show you mine if you show me yours

we can feed off each others chests

talk and walk and ride the rest

oh ephemeral stranger!

clasp hands with me under the big top and swirl my robes

into a rotating phantasmagoria as we reign across the dusty dance floor

diving banded-fists first into each apparition

following each others shadows into the smoke and the mirror

I’d like it best

to sink into a purple vanilla smoldering

like incense drifting from my rolled cigarette

I’m warm in the transparent

volcano chug of magmaous atmosphere

hiding my faces in the crooks of my clavicles

fluttering up from underneath eyelashes

and batting witty laughs into the alcove corner we adorn

pass the hookah, just passing through

every labyrinthian second, an eternity with you

and I think occasionally about the sadness of leaving

when i awake from the dream, so sure I was perceiving

my empty hand on the mattress, I know now, I’m dreaming.

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they were


nothing but disagreements descend

but to what end?
agreement wants to dance alone tonight
and I’m in a tango of shoelaces
tripping myself in stripping sentences
stripped of overdoing it
and naked in insufficiency
what I say is not honest
so I must not say
you walking tragic flaw
too smart to be the hero
too taut to unfold
age gets angry when it’s gotten too old
aren’t you just about sick of this?
dusting hands off of being yourself
and making excuses and smiles for the self
too too sad
cut strings keeping you here
cut your throat just to feel
i want to lay hands on your chest
like jesus
and put blue light into your lungs
I’d like to caress the part of your forehead
 that gets stressed
but never kiss on the lips
I don’t want saccharine saliva chapping my mouth

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