Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Sin Part 1

Sin. A three letter word that holds so much power. It controls most people. It puts fear into their very hearts. Not me. I don't believe in being pious. Never really have. I was born wayward. Other little girls had imaginary friends that were princesses or other saccharine little girls and I always felt like I had the devil by my side. My parents sent me to catechism which I loathed. I would never pay any attention. We used to sit in a classroom that was occupied by the Catholic school children during regular school hours so all of their stuff was in their desks.There books, pencils, stickers. I would always snoop through the stuff and steal their shit. One day we were told that we had to go to church for a mass. It was before Lent started. I had a magenta marker in the pocket of my shorts and I made sure to keep it clandestine because I had a plan once we got to the chapel. I told the instructor that my tummy ached, so she sat me in a pew with three other kids. It was like sitting with not one but three morons. I sat all the way at the end of the pew, grabbed a Bible and hovered over it. I was pretending to read but in actuality I was scribbling all over the pages and writing the words lies, bitch and fuck over all of the verses. John 3:16...For God so loved the world that LIES LIES LIES LIES BITCH FUCK LIES. You get the picture. Flipping through the pages something really stood out at me. I was only six at the time. Romans 3:23- For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Who is this fucking God dude? Who is he to decide what is right and wrong?  I don't want his glory. I don't even know him. I circled it. 

Next week when I went into class, it was requested that my mother join me. We were escorted into Sister Lucia's office. The tainted tome was presented. How did they find out? It turns out Stephen Hawking sitting next to me and his para dimed me out. My mother was mortified. She was asked to give a donation to keep me there and I had to go into confession to confess my sins. The whole way home my mother cried while I sat in the backseat playing Tetris on my Game Boy.When we got home my father beat the living shit out of me. I remember my little hands trembling. Tears that felt like icicles pouring out of my doe eyes. I hated my parents and I hated God. I vowed then to never have a relationship with Christ. My parents of course tried to impose religion and morals onto me, which only aided in my disdain for all things holy. When I was seventeen I started getting into mischief. I was cutting school, drinking 40oz. St. Ides, getting into fights with cheerleaders for fucking their boyfriends while they were vacationing in Naples over the summer. It was my senior year and they decided to send me to an all girl prep school. Catholic, of course.

 I tried to make the best of it. I rolled my skirt up really high and the dyke dean would always give me demerits but I knew she loved staring at my underage, supple ass. I had a hard time at that school. It was full of cliques and I was an outsider. The one friend I made was a cute chubby girl named Genette. She was super rich and we would go to her house after school to lay by her pool and drink her dad's Glenfiddich with the college boys from next door. Her parents were always gone on business. I started to think this girl was an orphan. Anyway, There was this one boy that always hung around. His name was Nico. He had that whole brooding, mafioso look to him. Thick raven black hair, Sinewy arms, A smile that could melt ice cream in the winter. Genette told me that he liked her and she wasn't interested in him but I had this sneaking suspicion that it was the other way around. One night, we were all partying and I got really wasted and had no one to take me home. Genette suggested that Nico drive me.We jumped into his navy colored work van and we talked. He was so intellectual and deep. He confided in me his secrets. There was a profound sadness to him. He was broken. I understood him. When we got to my door I turned to say goodnight and he kissed me. The most innocent, yet passionate kiss I had ever felt on my lips. My knees felt weak. I felt as if Iwere turning to butter. For the first time ever I felt conflicted. I felt guilt for betraying my friend. Like Judas to Jesus. All I knew was that I had to confess to her what I had done. I could not sleep that whole night. Part of my insomnia from excitement over that kiss and the other part guilt. "So this is what guilt feels like?" I thought to myself. I had this feeling of regret and doom in the pit of my heart and soul. I kept thinking about how I may have hurt Genette. I put my hands together, got on my knees and said "I know I am bad but can you please just understand me and help me this one time? Can you help me and forgive me, God?"...

To Be Continued

Monday, September 17, 2012

How Do You Feel?...

"How do you feel?" I wake to find the ugly face of strangers hovering over me. "How do you feel, miss?" It takes me a total of forty two seconds to assess the situation. I make up that I have passed out. Right here. Houston street during lunch hour. I ignore the faction. I finally pull my heavy body up, I dust the dirt and pieces of Manhattan from my dress. I pull a piece of sticky, stringy cerulean colored gum off my ass, grab my purse and yell "fuck you!" to my urban knight and shining armor coalition. They stand back in horror and disbelief of my ungratefulness. I begin to walk away. I hear their shouts. I ignore them. Why should I give them the satisfaction and a verbal medal of valor. Dinner table colloquy. No way. Undeserving. I keep walking in my prodromal state, picking up pace. The click clack of my stilettos sound like some erratic jazz song. Too fast and too abstract for anyone to pay attention. "How do you feel?" those four words ruminating in my head. Over and over. A bedlam of voices. Some high pitched, some low. Some soothing, some unnerving. All asking the same thing "how do you feel?" I feel faceless, nameless and alone. Like a stray kitten in the rain looking for a home. A home like the one Norman Rockwell created with brushstrokes. I begin to cry. My teardrops black like oil from my mascara. I start to think about my childhood as I gaze at the children playing on the monkey bars in Sara D. Roosevelt playground. I look at the mother's coddling their children. Putting band aids on scrapes, kissing the bloody knees of their own little messiah. Worshiping the very words that fall from their baby bird lips. Bragging to the other mom's about admission into Horace Mann. I overhear one mother showboating about the way her son plays violin she ascertains that it is the sound of heaven and how it moves her to make her want to be better. Maybe I should take the kids number. I could use a little motivation on how to be better. I feel an impending sense of guilt for being jealous of children. Kids. Human beings that probably just learned how to wipe their own asses. I can't help myself. Perhaps if I would have had parents who threw me a party every time I swiped a crayon over a piece of construction paper I wouldn't be walking around SoHo at 1:30pm looking like something that crawled out of Dina Lohan's pussy after nine months. I continue on, click clack scooby da be bop bop blah blah blah. My feet and my psyche ache. I feel supine from passing out.There is a group of Spanish teenage boys on the corner of Broome, they make a comment about my ass. All I hear is ass, haha, mami, sexy. It then dawns on me that I have been walking around with my posterior as an advertisement for Wrigley's. Fucking dried up piece of gum on my Alaia dress. Perfect. I hail a cab at W. Broadway and pretend I hopped into a submarine. I pretend that the passerby's are schools of fish swimming about. Unaware of the dangers that lie ahead. Lovers like sharks and friends like fisherman looking to sink their hooks into your very existence. I take some time to quiet the riot in my brain and try hard to remember why I experienced that episode of syncope. I vaguely remember seeing some new head shrinker this morning. He asked me why I was at his office for a visit. I explained to him that I was lonely and he was much cheaper than renting a whore for the hour. He laughed and then proceeded to ask me "How do you feel?" and that is honestly the last thing I remember before waking up on the unpure face of Manhattan.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

When One Door Opens The Secrets Will Come Flying Out.

Your door is right next to mine. I hear you come and go. I never thought of you as magnetic. Definitely not aristocratic. You are arrogant. You have a lamb. She is meek and naive. I have a beau. He is complaisant and sunny. Some days you watch from your window as I switch my hips and flip my hair. Some days I do a bit extra because I know you are observing my every move. Nightime falls, as I emanate smoke from my somber lips. You come to my door and you make your move. Like a Boa, you constrict me baby. Your hands are strong, like a sailor. I am the Siren, singing a song to sink your ship. My hips, like the beat of a war drum. Your hands, like a warrior looking for battlegrounds. This is dangerous sir. Let our lies not come undone. Make a promise. Lips zipped. We both know that undone zippers lead to trouble. Your lamb cannot be slaughtered. I am not like you. I am conscience deficient. You are a pussy. When the wreckage happened, you went Judas on me. I am not going to be a martyr. You are a scared little boy in a man's body. Take responsibility for your own fucking actions. You are no Casanova. Don't give yourself credit. You are nothing more than a skirt chasing, philandering puppy. You aren't even a dog because dogs actually have pride. Get over yourself. I used you for my amusement. You got caught. I did not. Who is the fool now?

Monday, February 1, 2010

If You Look Deep Enough, Family Portraits Tell the Truth.

Mommy's shoes don't fit me, I drag them around on pink carpet. Mommy's pearls don't fit me, They hang down around by my knees. Mommy's Dior caftans don't fit me, I let them submerge me into a fabric cocoon. I eclipse like the sun into darkness. Mommy's screams paralyze me, I don't discern. I am not scared of goblins under my canopy bed, I am petrified of the monster that lives under mommy's duvet. Mommy's Versace sunnies cover up her tumescent, bruised eyes. She drives me to school in her Mercedes wagon. She drives home. On the drive back she screams a scream Edvard Munch could never re-create. The colors of her screams are too crimson to mock with acrylics . Daddy goes off to work. He begets magic out of numbers. His charisma beguiles the unknowing. Daddy fucks his mistress. Daddy's mistress has wide hips. Mommy waits for daddy, while the pates au fruits de mer gets colder. She taps her manicured fingers over and over, like the rhythm of a war drum. Daddy fucks his mistress analogously to the beat mommy makes with her hands. Daddy walks through the door. Mommy does not greet him with a kiss. Mommy calls him a bastard. Daddy closes his fist. Daddy lollop's mommy's face. He persists. He breaks her. Her mascara runs. He apologizes. She outwardly accepts. Day after day, Repeat.Repeat.Repeat. Little girls eyes never forget. Little girl grows up. Little girl finds a suitor just like daddy. Little girl now has Versace sunnies to cover up her swollen eyes. Now mommy's shoes fit all too perfect. Little girl walks in them everyday. Little girl has a little princess of her own. Little girl has a glass house, white picket fences and all. Little girl impales herself on said white picket fence. A For Sale sign swings in the winter gust. The palace a vacant space. Little girl's obituary runs in the New York Times. Little girl died of natural causes, she was a beautiful creature, full of life. She leaves behind a daughter five years of age and a loving husband. She lived the suburban dream. She died in a suburban nightmare, but not one soul would ever know because the family portraits told a lie.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

An open confession of a bad girl- Pt. I

I am an insubordinate little thing. I am a pornographic enigma of what a woman should be. I am a liar, cheat, bandit, heister, prowler and kleptomaniac. I am obsessed with my weapon. My weapon being the gift that god gave me. Helen of Troy has nothing on me. Bringing a man down is my area of expertise. My finesse lies in the movement of my hips. My hips are like a siren song to a mans ears, luring and enticing them. It all comes easy to me. Sometimes it seems as if I were predestined to be a vamp. To be the woman to break up homes and cause other women infinite vexation. I recall the first time I ever manipulated a man besides my father. Let's call him Daniel. Daniel was my 12th grade math instructor. He was far from a looker. I sensed that he was a lonely man, a man who was naive due to the fact that women never paid him any attention. He wore sweaters, not much different than the ones Mr. Roger's had an affinity for. His hair was sparse as were his lips. I never had a knack for arithmetic, but what I did know was one me plus one him equals my advancement in future endeavors. I so desperately needed to pass, otherwise I would have no choice but to repeat senior year or put a hair net on and flip burgers at a fast food joint. Neither one an option. So while all the other girls in class studied hard and did their homework, I made him hard and did zero homework. I had him in the palm of my hands, literally and figuratively. I worked harder than any other dimwit in that class and in the end I had a diploma and he had the notch on his belt. It did not stop there. Once I saw how easy it was to sway men with promises of sex and perversion I adopted it as a career. My next victim, let's call him Mark. A lovely fellow, dumb and horny. A sales associate at Bergdorf Goodman and a wannabe actor. I met him while shopping for La Perla lingerie ( I was going on a trip to Mallorca with Mr. CEO, I will get to him later). I spent quite a while showing him all the items I was interested in, I could tell already that I had him worked up so I went to the fitting room and so conveniently asked him for help fastening my garter. He asked me to dinner, I obliged. I told him all about my lust for designer labels and how hard it is to attain it all. By the next week I was receiving Louboutins, Jean Patou eau de parfums, Hermès leather goods and scarves. I knew that he was swiping them from work ,although it was an unspoken word. A little while after he got busted, called me for bail, I pretended not to know who he was. Did I feel sorry? Not one bit. He was silly, he deserved it. He got an orange jumpsuit and I got gifts in those precious orange Hermès boxes. So now you are probably thinking, what a INSERT EXPLETIVE HERE. You are correct I never deny the fact that I am a Jezebel. While this was all going on I was rendezvousing with MR.CEO. He was my boss at the PR firms third husband. Funny back story, I dated her son to get the job. Set up a sting so he would cheat on me with my gay best friend. He was caught with his ass out literally and I moved up the ladder at work pretty quickly thanks to him. Its amazing what a bottle of Devils Springs, a closeted gay rich boy and a polaroid camera can do for your career. Back to Mr. CEO. I met him at a dinner party that I was invited to on behalf of my monster of a boss. She paid little attention to him, as most prominent Manhattan wives do. I began to conversate with him about stocks, yachts and art. I took interest in the fact that in college he was a free spirit who painted. He confided a lot in me in a very short amount of time. I did not plan on starting up an affair with my higher up's husband, it just, well, fell in my lap so to speak. I was busy running around buying gifts for christmas,when I got side tracked by the rare Audrey Hepburn book in the window of Strand. So I walk in and I see him browsing around. I walked over said hello and noticed he had a worn out copy of Junky by Burroughs. I was impressed. He invited me for sweets at Serendipity. We had a wonderful time and load of things in common. Next thing I know I am at 15 Central Park West, In the penthouse, riding my bosses husband on Pima cotton sheets. It was the beginning of a very lucrative move in my "career". Quite possibly one of the best moves I ever made.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Is it so wrong to be submissive?

My knees are bloody. I am far from a chaste being. No one knows what it is like to be a girl. A girl who is a libertine. A girl who refuses to live within the lines of social stigma. Society says a girl should be virtuous, have combed hair and never let any four letter words slip from her pretty cherry blossom mouth. LOVE is a four lettered word that is allowed to be spoken. A girl should be obsessed with love, loving and giving love to only one man. Fuck that. I am the kind of girl who refuses to comb her hair, likes to make men beg, loves the idea of lust and debauchery. LOVE is a curse, a disease that is meant to eat away at your being leaving nothing left but rotting bones. The theory of giving your heart to another person is a farce. I would rather spread my limber legs to a stranger than give my heart to a man that has no intention of giving reciprocal sentiment. DON'T is an expert four lettered word. I DON'T sit around, biting nails to cuticle wating for a call. I DON'T glutton my sorrows away with ice cream and delights. I DON'T wait for the day I see his face again. I WILL ignore your advances for redemption. I WILL laugh when you squirm under my flat gaze. I WILL make damn sure your suffering is grand. I WILL FUCK your enemy, just to FUCK YOUR SELF esteem up. I WILL FUCK you one more time in YOUR bed, leaving my scent on YOUR sheets and my lipstick on YOUR DICK. I WILL MAKE SURE you FEEL PAIN. I WON'T be stopped. I am a CUNT, a HERO, a LIAR. A wrecking BALL, set out to destroy YOUR stability. FUCK you, FUCK society. I am who I am. If that makes me LESS of a GIRL, then I am tickled PINK to be just that. I WILL be MORE than thrilled to SUCK, FUCK, KILL, and BLOW you the FUCK AWAY. Use my TITS, LIPS,HIPS and EYES to BURN you the FUCK DOWN. I am REAL. I am FAKE. YOU WILL WISH to be LIKE me. JUST LIKE THIS GIRL.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

She loves you no less.

When I met you I thought you were quite grand. A vision to my hazy eyes. I saw clear for once. You had a haughtiness in your step and a shake in your hip, your shimmy could drive any prudent lady, stark raving mad. Your eloquence and thoughtfulness bewildered me. I never knew a man could speak of worldly things with such passion and substance. It was the little things that added up in the complex equation that I called my love for you. Solstice never seemed so bon bon, laying next to you. I got lost. I vowed never to become "that girl". The girl who let the glare of fallacious circumstance drop her to her knees. You took a part of me. Maybe that was your angle all along. You had that classic way about you. The gentleman. Your slang like that of some old time crooner. Darling, babycakes, kiddo. You made me feel like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. You were my Humphrey Bogart. Our first kiss was immaculate. I felt a million different things all at once. My consciousness was of another world. When the kissing led to touching, the touch was rapturous. Death by embellished hands. When the touching became lascivious, it was ecstasy. Death by amorous delight. They all warned me about you. They said you were nefarious. They told me about the drugs, the vices, the older ladies and the lies you always told. They told me I was nothing more than a trophy to you. Another conquest on your map of destruction. I never believed them. I came crawling back. Begging, pleading, promising to be better this time around. My mascara stained cheeks gave you such delight. You felt like a winner of the world's greatest prize. You made nice, we got on again just fine. We ran the streets of manhattan holding hands, laughing in the face of the naysayers. We fucked In the Angelika, while a silent art film about Paris played on. We got high on posh residential SoHo stoops. We did it all. We pretended to be yuppies and sundays we would go "apartment hunting" on the Upper West Side. You Promised me you would buy me the penthouse, and we would make a lavish room for Muffy when she was born. The realtor was flabbergasted by our behavior. We laughed until exhaustion, our faces hurting from such trickery. Bonnie & Clyde, Sid & Nancy, You & I. Weeks went by without any word from you, still I never lost hope. I waited so impassively. I counted the days, hours, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds until you would return. Eventually you did. Things went sour. You became indifferent, told me you were in love with someone else. I became obsessed, hatching plans to keep you by my side. You tried to make it work. We had a few more momentous escapades. You looked me in the eye and said "Darling, I truly do love you. Let's run away and get hitched. And buy a summer home in The Hamptons. This filled me up with an unexplainable mirth. I never saw you again after that night. You disappeared into the valley of lost love and disappointment. I started a new nightly ritual of vicodin and merlot, while you were already jiving some new broad. I never came out of all this quite the same. I lost a lot and learned a lot more. There are times where I will think back to the way the sun beat down on your colorful skin, and once again I will be filled up again with that mirth. Then I realize you really never were mine, but I am overjoyed to know that at one time I had a piece of you. I smile because that is all I am left to do. If I had a message to send you, I would send it on a postcard. One with the Eiffel Tower in all it's glory and on the back it would simply say "She loves you no less."