"Positive, healthy, loving relationships in your twenties? I don’t know if anyone would agree…I think they’re the exception, not the norm. People are either playing house really aggressively because they’re scared of what an uncertain time it is, or they’re avoiding commitment altogether."
Becoming more and more obsessed with @balmainparis every day. Oh, #pfw ss15, you’re killing me.
We practice a brand of bondage that doesn’t employ the use of shackles, hoods or gags. There is a pair of high top Converse in my bedroom closet (men’s, size 11) and a faint scar on my left shoulder (the width of two incisors), the sight of which inflicts more pain than could ever be inflicted by anything one might find in a hundred fetish shops.
"I want everything for you.
I want nothing from you."
Thank you, Fenway. You did good.
It is not fall here.
There are no trees here, on the cusp of change. There are no tractors pulling flatbeds full of children on haystacks, no pumpkins to pick, no cider to drink.
Here there is only sea and sand and a low slung sun far warmer than it’s supposed to be. My skin stings, remembering, and a well worn bikini settles back into the place markers it left there.
My shadow stretches longer, earlier, leading me back to my car, to another season, another world.
We are both reluctant to go.
Brb beach day.
Derek made it pretty apparent in last night’s post game interview that he would have preferred to end his career on his home field. He won’t play short in Boston, but “out of respect for the Red Sox and the rivalry,” he will make himself available to DH.
Personally, I would have liked last night’s game to have be his last, in his house with his fans, and his perfect walk off base hit. I’m sure most of the Yankee faithful would agree.
But did I expect it? No. Because Derek Jeter is Derek Jeter, and just as has been the case for the past 20 years, Derek Jeter does not see himself as bigger than the game.
You’d better give him the respect he is giving you, Red Sox fans, just by showing up. And if you are lucky enough to have him walk up to the plate for the last time ever in your house, you’d better bow the fuck down.
So this is what
the day after
the end of an
era feels like.
"You never write about me."
He was, as he often does, kneading the stress of a twelve hour work day from my shoulders while I typed away on my laptop. This time though, I wasn’t working on payroll or training programs. This time I was on my blog, lamenting about yet another man: the one that got away, the one that never was, the one that never would be.
I had to swallow a lump the size of a cantaloupe before I could speak.
"Because you’re easy," I responded stupidly. My fingers went still. "Because I know the exact placement of every freckle on your back. Because I know precisely how your teeth feel on my neck and your fingers feel tangled in my hair. Because I know how to make you laugh and how to make you cry. Because I know your favorite food, your favorite band, your favorite book and your favorite brand of shower gel. Hell, I know your favorite everything."
"Because you’re easy," I smiled up at him lamely.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asked, concerned.
I lifted his hands off my shoulders and kissed each one softly on the palm. Then I dropped to my knees, unzipped his fly and took him in my mouth.
Because I know how to dodge a bullet.