his lover, the lover

he caressed his lover
As his lover came home
but the lover, his lover,
wasn't at all
coming with him

i'm not in the mood

would've worked perfectly
after all, who is in the mood
all the time?

i'm tired

would've been fine,
as the lover worked
a nine to five.

he wondered, why
his lover wouldn't let him touch
his lover anymore

he wondered, and yearned
for the soft mounds of flesh
and fat that gathered in his lover's belly
and thighs
and face
and ass
and he yearned
for his lover's warm mouth
around his yearning cock

but his lover, the lover,
wasn't at all
coming with him

so he gave up and whispered
i love you, lover
and his lover whispered back, with the most emotion he saw that night
i love you, too, you know

what he doesn't know
is that an hour ago
his lover was busy choking
on a stranger's semi-flaccid penis
and fondling a stranger's strangely small
nutsack
and forming circles and swirls on a stranger's asshole

and half an hour ago,
his lover was swallowing
a stranger's cum
and coming with him

I called him Dear.

I'm sure we've all had our "What if...?" moments regarding Almost Lovers, the guys (or girls) we almost had something meaningful with. But have you ever really thought about it, like mapped out the future you might have had if things worked out?

There's this one guy, I refer to him as my The One That Got Away (I wonder how many song references I'll make) because we almost had something, and at the time I felt so full of emotion for him, I felt so ready to do anything for and with him. We didn't work out, and in his words, we probably never will, because there's always something that doesn't go our way, like boyfriends and what have you. But if we did push through, if we did go past that stage of fucking around and actually got serious, I think I may be a little more creative now. A little better with words, maybe, and I probably would be in his field of work. He's a filmmaker, and a damn good one, if I do say so myself. We called each other Dear when we were talking, and one time he surprised me and went to my house (he lives super far away!!!!!!) and I had to sneak him past three dogs and four flights of stairs. He's very sweet and understanding, and he knows exactly what to say to either make you fall for him or make you go away. I should know, I've been on the receiving end. (I like to think I deserved it both times.)

Sometimes I think about him and I get the urge to convince him that we can be a good thing, that we can still have that great relationship we both envisioned when we first met 4 years ago. And then I remember that he doesn't look at me the same way anymore, and that he probably never will, and that's okay. Our relationship is much more poetic that way. He'll always be very special to me, very special in that I'll always think of him with fondness and just the slightest bit of heartache. I was almost in love with him, but alas, almost is never enough (song reference count: 3).

What about you, how different would your life be if a failed almost-relationship worked out?

Maybe I'm doing this job hunting thing all wrong.

Maybe I'm doing this job hunting thing all wrong.

I've applied to a couple of jobs that I really really want, and to a couple that I'm kinda meh about. The ones I like are as follows: copywriter at a really nice ad agency (but they refer to the company as something else, something like "communications center," I forget), editorial assistant at one of the best magazines in the country, and staff writer at a website I actually go to. I landed an interview with the agency, but not with the magazine and the website. The agency hasn't called back and I'm sort of losing hope at this point tbh.

Here's the thing; I want to start a career, not just have a job and a salary, and I want that career to be in an industry that I relate to, where I know the work is significant in the aspects of life that I subscribe to, and where the people are creative, intelligent, and know what's going on. I want my work to be a part of my life, not just an office where I spend 40 days a week in, something that I can forget about when I go home. I want the kind of work that makes me want to get up in the morning, something that invigorates me.

Am I being too ambitious? Am I just not cut out for the kind of work that I want to do? I'd like to think not, because I worked for a magazine before, and even though the job was sometimes hell, I loved going to work. I loved being exposed to the world that I want to be in, and I thought I was making it. Apparently I wasn't.

I wonder what's wrong. Am I too "fun" during interviews? Are my credentials not good enough? (I come from a pretty good school, and I've worked at one of the best publishing houses in the country, just to be clear.) Is it because I don't wear slacks to interviews? If I were thinner and slightly more pogi, would I get the jobs I want? Or am I just not as good as I think I am? Oh dear god I sincerely hope it's not the last one.

Maybe I'm doing this job hunting thing all wrong.

Maybe I should just settle for the proofreader job at the financial publishing company I'm almost sure I'm gonna get (I'm a damn good proofreader). Maybe I should try out English tutoring with companies that hire in the dozens. Maybe I should just settle.

Let the bough break, let it come down crashing.

I've created a playlist of, in my opinion, the most heartbreaking songs. A lot of Robyn, Sara Bareilles, and the odd Atozzio. Sam Smith, Adele, Whitney, Up Dharma Down, etc. Wallowing is a good thing, because it confirms what you're feeling, it makes the situation real, it slaps you in the face that hey, it's actually happening, you're actually alone now. It makes you accept the fact.

What sucks are the happy songs. Whenever I hear a genuinely happy song, the kind that sad people write, it's incredibly heartbreaking. Sad people write the happiest songs because they're not used to it, I think, so when they feel that joy, that blip of happiness, they put it into words so beautifully, they make it a song. So Bareilles's "I Choose You" has been a real bitch lately.

It's not the sad songs that get to me. They help me, actually, because they push me to acknowledge whatever's going on, I get to see what I actually feel and I get the chance to confront those feelings. It's the happy songs that make you feel like shit and make you wish you could go back to two months ago and just not fuck things up. It's the happy songs that remind you, it's the happy songs that say remember when you felt this way?

Here, have my heart, it's all poured out.

Throughout my entire life I've never regretted my decisions. I always believed that whatever I did led me to where I am, and I'm not very big on the "what if" mindset. Sure, I'd regret wearing a red shirt with blue shoes, but those things are trivial. I don't do regret.

Until now.

See, last December, I decided to end things with him. Why, I'm not gonna tell you. Let's just put it in the most cliché way possible; it wasn't him, it was me. And before you roll your eyes and raise your brows, let me tell you, it really was. I never felt that before, where it felt so wrong to be with a person even though there was, technically, nothing wrong. I just knew that something was off, something needed to get fixed, something needed to change. With me, with him, with us, I don't know. I was confused, and I almost never am because I usually keep my feelings in check. And at the time I couldn't.

The saint that he is, of course, understood me, gave me what I needed - space, time, all the things someone going through a personal struggle needs. He was, comme d'habitude, perfect. We didn't stop talking, however. I couldn't stop because I was so used to him, and I didn't want to fully let go. I was incredibly selfish. Still am.

And then he decided he had enough of me hurting him over and over and over again, because to be honest, I did. I hurt him over and over and over again.

And for a while I though he finally realized it, he has finally accepted that I'm not good for him. That he could be so much happier without me. I told him that once, you know. I asked him, "What if you could be happier with someone else?" "But I'm already happy with you," he replied.

And right now that's what's breaking me, that I let go - woop, no, scratch that - I pushed away this person because I was being a brat. I let my emotions get the better of me, I gave in so easily. I convinced him that he's better off without me. And maybe he is, and I don't know what to do anymore.

A lot of people say that the nights are difficult. I disagree. Waking up is much more difficult. I still reach for him when I get up in the morning. And then I remember his little quirks, like constantly scratching his eyes, or falling asleep instantly, oh and on instinct hugging me when I call his name out when I wake up in the middle of the night, and I break inside.

I don't do regret, except now. I regret having hurt him so much, I regret being so selfish when he was the best thing that happened to me, the best person to have come into my life.

And I'm a whore now because if I stop even for a second, if I'm not preoccupied and buzzing, if I have even the slightest blip in activity, I think of him, and how we're not together, and it breaks my heart so so much.

Hello, 2015

It was 11:58 and my family was already scrambling to go outside and watch fireworks. I, on the other hand, was scrambling for, guess what? Scented candles.

I knew my mom had a Raspberry Sorbet one and a Fresh Cotton one but I couldn't find them. I needed the scented candles because my room smelled like dog, see. And not just any dog. My room smelled like two freshly washed dachshunds (freshly washed dachshunds smell like regular smelly dachshunds) because I had just washed my two dachshunds, Woody and Katniss. The smell wouldn't bother me so much if I could just leave the windows and the door to the balcony open, but I couldn't due to the fireworks, which I and my dogs dislike. (I still took several burst shots, though, because Instagram is my religion.) I wasn't going to leave my dogs outside the house so I had to suffer the smell of two freshly washed dachshunds, and to lessen that pain, I really needed the scented candles.

I passed my uncles drinking and my cousins blowing horns and went through my mom's container of candles (yes, she has one). The candles there weren't scented, and I was running out of time. I didn't want to spend New Year looking for candles, I wanted to spend it in my room with my dogs and my teddy bears with the smell of either Raspberry Sorbet or Fresh Cotton wafting in the conditioned air. Thankfully, I found the jar of Raspberry Sorbet-scented candle by the dining room TV. What it was doing there, I don't know.

So I locked myself in my room with the jar of Raspberry Sorbet-scented candle and waited for the fireworks to stop.

Here's the scented candle, it even has my mom's name on it (it's a gift, apparently). The freshly washed dachshunds are fidgety underneath my desk, obviously not shown

* * *

Now it's 12:42 and I'm ready to go to sleep. Happy new year!

I'm a slut, but I'm a slut for everyone.

I was a very strong advocate of coming out of the closet when I was younger and very anti-straight and anti-"discreet." I didn't like the idea of a gay man not admitting to being gay and I felt that that hindered gay rights and all that political and social stuff even though I didn't really understand a lot of it back then. My mindset was if you're gay, you have to announce to the world that you're gay, you have to be proud of your homosexuality, otherwise you're setting the gay agenda back.

I'm kidding. We don't have a gay agenda. Wink wink.

Lately, however, I have become a lot more pro-choice. Because one's sexuality is one's business (and the business of one's partner/s, if any, to a lesser extent, of course), and because discreet shaming and in-the-closet shaming is very similar to gay shaming; it's discrimination. Maybe being a flaming 'mo works for me, but it might not for all the other fags out there.

(I can say fags, right? No?)

Another reason I've become pro-choice is the realization that sexuality, like any other aspect of one's identity, is very fluid and susceptible to change. This isn't a world that's divided into two, straight and gay, it's a world where there are bisexuals, pansexuals, asexuals, etc. (sorry if I missed what you identify as, kisses). There are also people who choose not to identify with a label, simply because they feel that they don't really fit in any of them, and that's totally fine.

I'm saying this because I think I'm one of those people who choose not to identify with a label. Sure, I am your stereotypical millenial ~cultured~ witty bakla, I am loud and funny and bitchy and I have watched every episode of America's Next Top Model, at least until Lisa won. But my behavior, my appearance, the way I talk and move and suck dick isn't necessarily congruent with my sexual preference. Yes, I like boys. A lot. But I may also be into women, and I've also entertained thoughts of engaging with transsexuals and transgendered individuals and cross-dressers.

Basically what I'm saying is I'm a slut, but I'm a slut for everyone. I want to experience any and everything, and that includes orgasms from all parts of the gender and sexuality spectrum.