Thorny Misgivings: An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

Thorny Misgivings: An Open Letter to Bret Michaels

In your prime as front man for the legendary L.A. hairspray band, Poison, I thought of you, Mr. Brett Michaels, as the venerable sage and poet laureate of the 80s Glam Rock world. I marveled at your deftness and flair for capturing the human condition with your poignant, evocative songs, none more so than when you penned the power ballad masterpiece in which you claimed, “every rose has its thorn.”


Now I'm no expert on roses and have less than a layman's concept for the intricacy and nuance of horticulture. Further, the few times that I have handled roses, in my memory, involved navigating prickly little thorns. So, it is no wonder that upon first hearing your rock opus circa 1989, I was moved to agree with your thesis—yes, indeed, every rose does have its thorn.

Unfortunately, once I examined more deeply your baseless, dishonest analogy regarding cowboys and emphatic, repetitive, and ultimately rhetorically flawed use of "every," your argument, Mr. Michaels, sir, fell shamefully apart, thus calling into question the very premise of this song.

And I quote: "just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song, every rose has its thorn." Well, let me assure you, dear reader, not every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. In fact, cowboys have a rich, layered tradition of musicianship that explores a wide array of emotions well beyond the morose, including songs about being home on the range or rockabying sweet baby James or visiting towns in west Texas (El Paso, to be exact) where you can fall in love with Mexican girls.

Thus, the fact that every cowboy does not necessarily sing a sad, sad song, I submit, undermines your assertion that every rose has a thorn. We cannot say with any degree of certainty whether every rose does or does not have its thorn, and so I feel it necessary to call into question the integrity of your thesis and am left to wonder where else you, sir, have led us astray:

Maybe the unskinny bop doesn't just blow you away. Do you really want us to give you something to believe in? I now sincerely doubt that you don't need nothing but a good time or that you won't forget me, baby. We're left to take you at your word, and I want to believe you, Mr. Michaels, sir, but right now your word isn't worth the paper it is written on.

I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick

I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick:
Senator John Edwards

Last year, former North Carolina Senator John Edwards was exposed as having an extramarital affair with filmmaker Rielle Hunter during his most recent presidential bid. After repeatedly denying allegations and engineering a massive cover up to avoid scandal, Edwards recently admitted to fathering a child with Hunter, his former campaign videographer, conceiving their love child while his soon-to-be-ex-wife Elizabeth Edwards was undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer.
Normally it’s hard for me to get worked up over a little extracurricular marital fling, especially at the risk of simplifying such behavior by labeling it “wrong” or “weak,” or perpetuating our culture’s puritanical, obsessive attempts to pathologize human sexuality. Further, I don’t blame any person for trying to cover up private carnal exploits, knowing how unforgiving the public can be.
But, tonight, a few Wild Turkey shots and PBR chasers deep, I find myself in the mood to, ahem, lay some pipe. To take a stand. To hold you accountable, Senator, for your irresponsible actions.
Let me be clear, sir. Fuck whomever you want, whenever you want, however you want. You needed a little loving, maybe blow off some steam during a grueling pressure cooker of a presidential primary? I understand. You lied to protect your image and shelter your family or the Democratic Party from negative publicity? I get it. You even allegedly filmed a sex movie with Hunter, who was noticeably pregnant in the video—hell, I’d vote for that.
I do have one simple request, sir: Wear a fucking condom!
Bare-dicking? Really? In this day and age? With an exploding population moving towards critical mass and all kinds of funky venereal diseases floating out there? You have to be fucking kidding me. What kind of example are you setting, sir? Did your parents not sign the permission slip for your junior high sex ed. class? (Or, perhaps they taught abstinence-only in the bible-belted southern community of your youth?)
I’m sure Hunter wasn’t the only woman you slipped the high hard one while on the campaign trail. Did you bare-dick them, too, sir? I shutter to think of the crusty, viral stalagmites growing on the shaft of your manhood. C’mon, Senator. Too rich and powerful to get a venereal disease? You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned—at least when you pee. If you don’t care about your own health, bag it for the sake of the planet—or at the very least, pull out.
Frankly, Senator Edwards, I wouldn’t fuck you with Anne Coulter’s dick.

NASA Confirms Mars Potentially Suitable for Future Habitation. Elton John Outraged.

NASA Confirms Mars Potentially Suitable for Future Habitation. Elton John Outraged.

According to a team of NASA and University of California scientists, the recent definitive detection of methane in the atmosphere of Mars indicates the planet is still alive, in either a biologic or geologic sense, prompting immediate speculation within the aeronautics community that the Red Planet may one day prove hospitable for future generations of humans.
Elton John, however, is having none of this.
In a tersely worded, yet melodic, statement released in anticipation of these findings, the five-time Grammy Award winner cited a general lack of community-based resources and frequent inclement weather as reasons to question the use of discretionary funds to pursue the matter during difficult economic times.
“Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids,” argued the self-described “Rocket Man” and 1994 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee. “In fact, it’s cold as hell.”
Independent research confirmed the singer-songwriter’s latter point: the temperature on Mars drops to -220 F in the winter, though it does reach +80 F in the summer, making it an ideal vacation spot.
John, a 2004 Kennedy Center honoree who has sold more than 250 million records career during a career spanning over 40 years, also wondered if irregular access to family-oriented supervision and recreational care would cause concern for parents should they decide to migrate to Mars.
“There’s [just] no one there to raise them if you did,” said the longtime LGBT champion and AIDS activist.
In response, NASA experts called John’s credentials into question, a fact the one-time drug-addled Crocodile Rocker conceded, “All the science, I don’t understand. It’s just my job five days a week.”
NASA experts stood by the findings, calling them “revolutionary” and “ground breaking”; however no one would offer a definitive timeline for when humans could begin the immigration process. When asked to comment on a potential schedule, U.C. astrophysicist Dr. Leroy Goldman said, “I think it’s going to be a long, long time.”

Down’s Syndrome Man Strikes Familiar Chord

Down’s Syndrome Man Strikes Familiar Chord
Although Gary Quintano transferred to the Sonora Wal-Mart less than three weeks ago, local residents claim to find something very familiar about the 24-year-old shopping cart specialist born with Down’s Syndrome.
“It’s something about him, something in his eyes and face,” says Starbucks barista David Germaine. “The first time I saw him, I felt like I knew him from somewhere.”
Germaine is hardly alone.
“I guess he just has one of those faces,” confirms Seamus de Leon. In fact, when he first saw Quintano last Thursday while the latter was towing a row of carts through the Wal-Mart parking lot, de Leon ran up from behind to give him a friendly bear hug only to find himself in an altercation.
“Hey, what the fuck? It’s me, Seamus. You don’t remember me?” said de Leon, describing the encounter with Quintano that left the 19-year-old stay-at-home dad scratched, bitten, and more than a little confused. “Fucker is strong. Like retard strong.”
Quintano, who despite a surplus of 21st chromosomes lives a comfortable, fulfilling life, would not comment on the encounter.
When told of Quintano’s condition, de Leon remained skeptical, “Then he must have a twin brother, or something, that busses tables at the Straw Hat Pizza in Twain Harte. I swear it’s, like, his fucking doppelganger.”

Violent Drunk Really a Sweetheart

Violent Drunk Really a Sweetheart
Patrons at Stuckey’s Tavern on 4th and El Centro wouldn’t know it, but Steve Rossi is actually an easy-going guy most of the time. It seems that every time Rossi visits the local bar and has a few drinks, the liquor unleashes his devil inside, and all hell breaks loose.
“We were just sipping at the bar, watching the Warriors choke on another fat cock of a basketball game, laughing and having a fucking blast, and then out of nowhere, the guy turns into a total crazy asshole,” said Stuckey’s regular, Aaron Jeffries, when asked to describe Rossi’s latest episode of seething molten rage and loathing that spewed forth last Tuesday from the normally soft-spoken, light-hearted substitute teacher. “It’s like a switch gets flipped, and he just starts swinging for no reason.”
Those close to Rossi, however, paint a different picture of a gentle, humorous man who loves to bake and volunteers at the neighborhood adult literacy program.
“The guy is really a doll, just an angel,” said housemate Molly Berman. “He’s really helpful around the house. Cleans up after himself. My moms just love him.”
“He’s actually a real softie once you get to know him,” best friend Jerry Stahley said. “Pussy cried at Avatar.”

Lifelong 49er fan

20 years of 10+ wins
5 Super Bowls
Legendary players led by one of the game's true visionaries.
Of course I'm a 49er fan.
I grew up in Marin during the 80s. The only thing more popular than the 49ers in Marin during the 1980s was cocaine.

You Blue-Collar Types

I’ve had key rings the size of silver dollars,
entire conversations in 10-codes,
calloused hands caked with grit.

I’ve washed vomit out of urinals,
mopped piss off countertops,
plunged toilets clogged with shit.

I’ve swept, scrubbed, and stacked,
placed, lifted and lain.
Learned the hard way to measure
and then measured again.

I’ve drilled, installed, chiseled, and grinded,
broke in, broke down, broke off
rekeyed, restocked, recycled, rebinded.

I never minded.

Pussy is Pussy

Pussy is Pussy: Linguistic Reclamation and Rediscovering the Feminine

Pussy. Is there anything more intoxicatingly fabulous, perfect in both form and function? I would go so far as to add “pussy” to even the most learned, skilled theologian’s illustration of divinity—man’s clearest proof that God exists and loves us. Immeasurably and unconditionally.

So it’s no small wonder why “pussy” is instead most often used in a pejorative or shameful sense, mostly to challenge one’s masculinity, facility, and sexual orientation (especially when used in conjunction with homosexual slurs):

“Don’t be such a pussy.”
“What a fucking pussy he is.”
“Don’t puss out on me, faggot. Suck it up.”

How could we be so shortsighted? So naïve. Unconscious. So unaware, so willing to relinquish our connection to the Feminine, so willing to suffer the consequences of over-identifying with the Masculine. So outright wrong about “pussy.” My brothers, now is the time for us to change, for society to change. We must reclaim “pussy” and in doing so, both correct this shameful malapropism and inch closer to actualizing our individual human potential. This is no less than a call to arms, a desperate urging to heal our connection to the wound that does not heal. Our very evolution as a species depends on it.

In recasting the word [and thus also beginning to reclaim the Feminine largely missing from society], we first need to establish the absolute incorrectness, the downright illogic, the fundamental wrong-headedness of using “pussy” to express negative ideals. Pussy is divine. Pussy is wonderful, soft and pliant, handsomely crafted of moistened silk. Velveteen. Pussy is love, pure and simple. We spend nine months planning our escape and the rest of our lives plotting our return.

So why then do we use it to express such negative ideas?

Instead, logic demands “pussy” be used to articulate only the positive: to express deep, rich levels of pleasure—man, this cheesecake is pure pussy; as general positive reinforcement—Hey, Bill. Pussy job on the Polanski account; to cherish loved ones—you’re the pussiest Dad in the world; to otherwise celebrate all that is wonderful and life affirming or in responding to questions in the affirmative— You must attend the Jean-Luc Godard film festival this weekend; It’s absolutely pussy. Have you gone on the new ride at Marine World? It’s so pussy that I almost shit myself. Have you read the Yekaterina Dashkova memoir? Straight up pussy of a read, man. Using “pussy” in any other way—especially as an insult—inaccurately demeans the godly nature of the female body while wrongly reinforcing, if not tacitly elevating, our society’s obsessively phallocentric orientation/point of view.

Perhaps most destructively, such usage shames us into ignoring, if not shunning, the archetypical feminine that resides in all of us, casting it into our personal and collective cultural shadow where it rears its rageful head in the most inopportune, destructive ways. Instead of pursuing our emotions, we swallow them, ignore them, deny them. Instead of experiencing our full capacities as a human being, we cut ourselves off from the collective—and thus from knowing our full, nurturing, intuitive, empathic selves—remaining somehow unconvinced that we are all connected, that we are all one, that we are together inextricably linked by this collective human experiment.

Instead, we’ve reduced the human experience to a competition to see who can collect the most stuff. Simplistic. Reductive. Destructive. This must stop. Now. Frankly, gentle readers, this call to arms—the resolute promise to reappropriate, rechannel, recast “pussy,”—carries with it both a linguistic imperative and a moral one. It starts here. Now. Just one small step in a series of steps—our journey of 10,000 miles has begun.

Don’t puss out.

Multiple choice quiz: Obama's School Address

If you are opposed to Obama's school address, you are:
a) illiterate
b) ignorant
c) A FUCKING IDIOT
d) all of the above

Please circle the response that most closely applies to you.


p.s. I refuse to point to racism on this one; too unimaginatively simplistic and anti-intellectual.

Thailand Dispatch II

Hello family,
How quickly the time goes. I was just barely a week in. Now, I’ve not even a week left. This continues to be one of the best trips for me, adventurous and indulgent, challenging and exhausting. Having so much fun and feeling great. Indomitable. Thought to weigh in again, to say hi and send my love and tell you that I’m thinking of you. And to riff for a spell, to chew on the whirlwind. Spin a few yarns.

Last time, I was midway through my time on Koh Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. After hanging out for a couple more days, I hopped a catamaran for the simple two-hour trip to Koh Tao, an experience that bears mentioning only because we got caught in a bitch of a monsoon midway through. What began as an easy ride through choppy, white-capped water turned terrifying and then torturous. As the boat pitched violently (and I mean VIOLENTLY) in the roiling water and enormous waves slammed against us on all sides, it took me a moment to realize why the crew began furiously handing out plastic bags to many of the passengers around me. When the heaving and retching commenced, I just closed my eyes, turned my ipod on FULL BLAST, and crawled headlong into a shiny, happy place (which included a giant mattress made of Nutella-smothered pancakes) for one of the longest hours of my trip.

But that hell was so worth it. Once on Koh Tao, I settled in Ao Leuk, a tiny, secluded cove on the southeastern corner of the island with 15 or so rustic bungalows dotting the hillside and reggae covers of pop music playing in the open-air eatery on the beach (who knew Time After Time would make such a smooth transition). And the snorkeling was amazing. Gorgeous. Several hundred meters of bejeweled coral reef on either side of the cove with a rainbow assortment of fish, all glittering in the sunlight. It was so good, in fact, I stayed an extra night.

By mid-July, the islands are crawling with tourists (infested, really), almost exclusively European. I met only a handful of American travelers prior to coming to Chiang Mai (maybe that’s just my trip or the places I went. Maybe it has to do with economics. Not sure. On the positive, my pidgin English has improved immensely). Rest well, my darlings, lest you worry—the “ugly westerner” thrives, kept alive and well by our Euro brethren, a surprisingly dour, humorless lot demanding prompt service with finger snaps, or worse, the gaggles of rowdy, obnoxious toughs revving their motorbikes up and down the main drags and blathering on about “getting pissed.” To be fair, I’ve met many fun, interesting, stony Euros and made some true friends, but on the whole, I've ended up lying low with Thai folks at every chance, because they’re mellow and because the know how to shut the fuck up. Whereas Bangkok had left me a little guarded with the locals—the Thais there are definitely edgy, city folk, seeming to be either hustling for a buck or taciturn to the point of unfriendliness (except the ladyboys, who are rather aggressively chatty and grabby, fascinating endlessly over wher I fram and If I wan gilfen…..Hey, even if you’re not going to the party, it’s still nice to be invited.)—the many Thai people I’ve met since have been super easy. My favorite one, Kem, a restaurant server and musician, learned pretty decent English by singing and playing American pop music, especially his favorite: John Denver (why, yes, we did talk about Colorado). In general, Thais are pretty cool. Not particularly demonstrative or effusive. Just easy. Soft. Unhurried. Not in their heads. My ex-pat friend who lives in Bangkok describes them as intellectually incurious. I’m not sure if that’s true (though we weren’t exactly deconstructing Nietzsche). More so, they are shy and modest. Demure. Sedate. With irrepressible smiles. And they laugh so easily. I will miss their vibe when I leave.

After fleeing the islands, I passed through Bangkok and headed to Chiang Mai, the provincial capital of the north. For the uninitiated, Chiang Mai is to Bangkok like the Bay Area is to Los Angeles (and by that I mean the ruinous, dystopian Los Angeles in Bladerunner). Less congested or polluted. Less paved over. Way less edgy and frenetic. Less of a scene. Just kinda cooler—both more temperate and trying less hard.

Though I must confess to digging Bangkok a lot, thus far, Chiang Mai has been more my speed. I arrived by train in the morning, awakening in time for the last hour or so of the trip through a gently rolling, forested landscape that slowly gave way to an expansive valley of rice fields and small villages surrounded by tree-lined mountains in the distance shrouded in mist, all impossibly lush and colored innumerable shades of green.

I took a room at a guesthouse near the night market and spent my first day roaming around the city then sat ringside at the muay thai fights that night. Along with the 400 baht I won betting with the Dutch fellas I was sitting and drinking with, the evening was highlighted by two chick fights on the undercard. Best action of the night. They were ferocious. Like tigers. One got knocked through the ropes, nearly ending up in my lap (a souvenir for a lucky fan), before clawing her way back into the ring for the win. Hell hath no fury…

Yesterday, I rented a motorbike to begin exploring the area [no more shirt cape and cowboy hat. I was a helmeted, model minority. A gentleman round eye], heading northwest to visit Doi Suthep, a beautiful 16th century mountaintop Buddhist monastery overlooking Chiang Mai and the surrounding valley. Besides being the holiest shrine in the north, Doi Suthep, I learned, is also known (infamous) for the many bells and gongs on the temple grounds which visitors are allowed to ring, and do so incessantly. Still, the view and the grounds (including the 306 steps leading to the entrance) were brilliant. Continuing up the mountain, I stopped at Phumping, the king’s winter palace (a term used loosely, as it looks more like a collection of retirement condos on well-manicured grounds) and then drove to Doi Pui, the nearby Hmong village for lunch. Now, I didn't expect much; however, any miniscule hopes of a quaint, authentic mountain village experience were dashed as I rode into town and was greeted by myriad satellite dishes atop the clusters of rusting tin-roofed shanties and a main drag lined with stores selling tourist chotchkies. Nothing like the sight of children huddled around a television playing Nintendo Mario Bros. to alter the timbre of my neighborhood walk, savaging any last remnants of romance I may have harbored. Gotta go deeper into the mountains to have a deeper experience, I suppose. Maybe next time. Then again, the papaya salad was outstanding, even while costing me several layers of skin on my tongue by requesting “Pet” (Thai for spicy). After an amazing motorbike ride back home down the steep, winding mountain road of switchbacks and s-curves, I headed back out on the town, eventually capping off the night by winning 500 baht off my American tablemates at the nightly muay thai fights. Something about sweaty, narrow-hipped men kneeing and elbowing each other into submission that just makes sense to me. I’m picking winners nonstop these days. Ushering in the bigness. Riding the hot streak in too many ways to explain.

Today, I rode my motorbike into the hinterlands to Sam Kampaeng, a natural hot springs about 40 kilometers through the back roads southeast of Chiang Mai. A Marky spa day. A vacation from my vacation: Soaked in the mineral bath, got an hour-long foot massage and then a Thai massage—if you've never had one, thai massage is less “normal” oil massage than an exquisite blend of wrestling holds, Vulcan death grips, and meat tenderizing that leaves you feeling both relaxed and invigorated. Like most people, I’ve taken to them rather handsomely. At $6 or so an hour (with tip), it might be the best deal in a country chock full of good deals.

Anyway, it seems I’m running out of days here well before things to do. Still writing multiple times a day, though I’ve not finished reading a single book. I’ll be returning to Bangkok in a day or two to sip a few beers with my ex-pat friend, hopefully take one of his krav maga classes, and continue my shopping at the massive weekend market (God damn, I do love to haggle. At some point, I realized I don’t even really want any of this shit—it’s just shit—so much as I want to work a bargain for this shit. Out there earning my Jewcard, my dearies….“my money lucky; bring you many customer.”)

But I digress.

Just wanted to say hi and send my love. Hope this email finds you well. I’ll be home soon and will see you when I do.

Love,
Mark

Thailand Dispatch I

Hello family,
It's only been a week since I touched down in Bangkok, yet already this trip has been amazing, engaging and challenging, fascinating and full. Thought I'd take a step back to check in and say hi, but also to pass along my love and riff for a second.

After 24 hours of travel, I spent the first few days acclimating to Bangkok, adjusting to the time but mostly remembering how to be a traveler again. It's been since Costa Rica that I've taken a trip of any substance. So I've slowly remembered how get over myself-- how to get over the fear of being lost or unsure or timid. Or rude (fucking tuk-tuk drivers). Remembering how not to have an agenda or place to be or something to do. Silly things, like remembering how to order food by pointing and nodding. Or how sometimes your best move it to put down the camera and just take it all in. Remembering the simple pleasures of discovering things about a new place. Not just the obvious ways cultures differ (the only-in-Asia shopping malls and plazas, or the harrowing, first-person Frogger experience of crossing a street), but also the little ways they do familiar things differently: cigarette packs with pictures of a sallow, concave-chested old man hooked up to machines in lieu of a surgeon general's warning; Latino flavored potato chips amongst the cuttlefish and ramen and seaweed snacks at the 7-11 (collect 3 upc codes and you can send away for a free hairnet); the endless stream of teen and 20-something Thai hipsters rocking the Pat Benatar/lead singer from Goo Goo Dolls hair without a trace of irony or absurdism--one of many, many ways countries unselfconsciously devour and regurgitate western culture. At times it's like I'm walking around in a never-ending Mentos commercial.

In some ways, Bangkok is how everyone described it: choked with pollution, frenetic, seeming to have its own grotesque logic. It's in the day that you see the scars of a city that is overwhelmed with fumes and mold and rust and trash, while lacking any coherent identity or organization beyond unchecked urban sprawl.
But then the night comes. And everything changes.
The decay fades into the darkness, giving way to a pulsing, writhing metropolis teeming with action and life--food, commerce, people, music, all outlined in neon and glistening with sweat. It's unlike any other place I've seen. Such a visceral experience to walk the streets of Bangkok at night. The sultry carnival.

For the record, it's hot. Stupid hot. Fuck you hot. You don't know the depths of sweaty Mark until you've seen him in Thailand. Unreal. Yet, oddly enough, I'm not really bothered by it. My body feels amazing. Limber. Fluid. (Though I cannot say I wear the heat particularly well, as I've caught glimpses of my reflection and at times am reminded of the ending scene in the first Indiana Jones movie. Clearly, I did not close my eyes when they opened the ark.) I feel like I'm getting a crazy good workout every time I walk outside, which is good because I haven't stopped eating. Holy shit, I can't. Meats on sticks, bowls of Thai matzah ball soup, noodles, rice, curry. Everything is so flavorful. Not sure how fat you can get eating a thai diet, but I suppose I'm gonna find out.

After four days of choking down noxious fumes and paying round-eye prices, I headed south to the Samui archipelago in the Gulf of Thailand to relax on Koh Samui. Depending on which part of the island, Samui is alternately overrun with shopping centers and luxury hotels and blokes drinking beer in British-style pubs OR lush and fecund with rolling, verdant hills and fields. I opted for the latter, setting in a bungalow on the beach in Maenam, the low-key part of the island. I spent my first full day taking in the sights, hoping from beach to beach on a motorbike wearing my orange wicker shirt tied around my neck like a cape, a straw cowboy hat, and a dangling Marlboro (just out there shattering stereotypes about Americans, to be sure). Today, I joined a boat tour to An Thong National Marine Park, a lush, dense group of 40 or so smaller islands that was once a haven for pirates but is now a government protected park of coral reef, white sand beaches, limestone caves and rain forest. I took a strenuous hike up one of the peaks overlooking the gulf, then went spelunking in the caves, and swam in the warm, emerald green water. Amazing day! I'm going to relax for a couple more days and then head to the southeastern side of Koh Tao (in the same island chain as Samui), where it's quiet, remote and with some of the best snorkeling in the area. Then I'm heading north to Chang Mai to check out mountains.

Overall, I'm having an amazing time, my dearies. Been writing like a muthafucka. Been enjoying myself and saying yes as much as my heart allows. Thinking of you all and sending lots of love.
-Mark

P.S. special shout out to Margo and her hypnotherapy cd. Flights were no problem. Choppy and bumpy for hours on end, but I did fine.

My first lover

My First Lover

Found a picture
of my first lover in between the sheets
of a book I’d boxed up and put in storage
years ago:
thick, violet-glossed pillow lips,
coarse, black hair that smelled like tar,
full, round hips, womanly and aggressive,
still coloring my feminine ideal.

I remember
the glisten and smell of her
on my fingers when I reached down her sweatpants
outside the girls’ locker room after track practice.

I remember
feeling embarrassed
at my own lasciviousness when I saw her
minutes later in the weight room,
having just shared an intense, sexual moment.

She smiled coyly at me from across the room.
I looked away and did another set of bench press,
not yet knowing the blind,
testosterone-addled,
madness that had come over me.

I was fifteen,
lusty and bold
and
craven
and paralyzed.

She was older, a senior,
and willing
and predatorial.
She wrote me a note the next day,
telling me how much she loved what I did
and how badly she wanted me.

I was scared.
It took me months to want to see her again,
for the cycle of teenage lust to propel me into action.
Only this time,
when she came to me,
I did not hesitate.