And This? This Is More

My biggest fears are that I would always be “that one,” or if anything, I would be that person who was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was always afraid that I would never find my spot or fit someplace.

I think that shame or shame-based ideas are far more deadly than you and I believe.
And please, let me explain.

Shame is like fear and both are excellent motivators.
Excellent to say the least.

I was always afraid that I would never succeed or find a platform for myself, —or worse, I worried that I would always have to pretend to be someone else.

I would never be accepted.
And as for those who accepted me, then I assumed there was something wrong with them because “Why would I be acceptable?”
What happened to them that they needed me?
I could never assume that someone would (or could) like me for me. Or in the interest of my greater insecurity; I always assumed “If she ever realized how beautiful she is, she would never want to be with someone like me because she could do so much better!”
I have said this before, both out loud and silently.
But I never said this to anyone else; until now, that is.

I think this is all important to note when we talk about sex or the sexual connections and the fantasies we have.
I think that sex is more than an “act” or an action.
No, I can say that sex is far bigger than the simple insertion of our personal love-making equipment.

Love and sex and intimacy are all a dance.
And shame?
Shame is another bitch.
Same as fear.

Shame is the lie we tell ourselves that something about us is “wrong.” This is the bullshit we believe about us or the way we look.
And too, this is also a misperception of self because we have an appreciation for physical things that are outside of the normal perspective.
At least, I do.

There is a word and we say the word often.
We say the word “normal,” and I question this because what does it mean to be normal anyway?
Am I normal?
Is it normal to sit and fantasize or think about a girl who appears sweet and innocent? And yes, I know the most beautiful girl.
She is as sweet as ever yet, I want to do wild and foul things.

I want to spay myself on her or across her chest.
I want to leave myself inside of her.
Always.
Is this normal?

Is “normal” to me the same as normal to someone else?

Maybe I don’t know what normal is.
Or maybe I don’t want to know what “normal” is because maybe normal means to be like anybody or everybody else.
Fuck that.

Who wants to be normal?
Who wants to be run-of-the-mill or the same as anybody else.

First and foremost, I am not so different and nor am I the same. I am only me.
At best, I can only be me because when I was at my worst, I realized that I felt this way because I knew I was not being myself.

I can tell you that yes, I have an appreciation for a pretty face.
My version of pretty belongs to me.
I never dared to claim this.
But I claim it now.

I do not have a type that is consistent or across the board. I have a feeling that comes over me.
This explains my type best.
And this is something that I feel when I see the face of someone beautiful.
I cannot say that my version of beauty falls between the lines of typical or commercialized beauty.
But beauty to me is beauty to me.
And to me, “She” is hot and far more beautiful than anything I have ever dreamed of.

I have always been in search of something.
I can only describe this as a mood or a feeling, —like, say, the way I used to feel as a young man and walking along the city streets at nighttime.
And the best of these times were the times when I chose to break away and be alone. I left and got away from the crowd. I lived and I dared to see my city with my own eyes.
I walked away, so-to-speak.
I decided to split ways with the group so that I could put down the sarcasm for a while, just to be me, or just to experience the scene in Village without the morons from my crew or the hindrance of some wise-ass opinion from the chuckle-patch, also known as my so-called friends.

I remember a night when I was uptown at a place that I wanted to leave. The bar was made famous because this was a regular location on a show that was taking over television. This was before reality TV came in and destroyed sitcoms and nighttime dramas.
This was just at the burst of cellphones and the eventual outdating and the antiquation of pagers and beepers.

I wanted to get out of this place. I was reminded of too many things and too many feelings mounted inside of me.
I tried my best to pul;l off my look.
But to me, I swore that I was fading fast.

I was tired of being on guard and speaking sarcasm as a first language. I was tired of acting meek or submissive to the group of friends who I otherwise despised.
I was tired of the posture I had to hold or the idea that I had to keep up with the other assholes in the highbrow crowd.
Assholes.
All of them.

And that was the thing, back then.
You had to act.
You had to perfect your stance.
You had to prove your case. Otherwise, you’d be seen as unsightly or you’d go unnoticed by the gold-digger girls who only chose the wealthy, —and me, I was far from wealthy and saving enough money so that I could afford to be poor, 

You had to act like you had everything under control. Nothing should matter.
If a girl liked me, good.
If not . . .
Fine

I had to master the art of cool-minded indifference. I had to appear settled because whether someone went or stayed, my stance had to be impenetrable. I had to be cool and brave and tough enough to show that nothing mattered.
Literally nothing.
Everything was an act.

Nothing could show that it hurt me, despite my pain or the secrets I hid.
I acted like I was cool. Or so I tried,
I acted like I was the new and improved version of James Dean.

This was me, attempting to lean against the bar, mysterious and cool, but in all reality; I hated this.
I knew I was too obvious.
I hated the so-called friends I was with.
I hated the social status bullshit and the crowds of plastic tits and shiny jewels which may or may not have been authentic.

I hated the need to keep up with everyone else.
I hated that I felt weak (again) or that I was seen as the lower-end and less attractive.
“Fuck that!”

 I was too hurt and afraid but I could never show this.
I pretended as if I had everything figured out.
And yet, I knew nothing.
And sure, I suppose this was as obvious to others as it was to me.

I remember these days, mid-twenties, sexual frustration and living with an angst and an aggravation that came with no avail.
I was broke, which I hated.
I had to hustle to make money.
And we need to be clear when we talk about money because there’s money, and then there’s MONEY.
Only the rich people know the difference.

I felt contempt for those who had fortune or the benefits and the privilege of family and inherited wealth.
I could never say this.
I could never let this be seen or heard or known, especially not when it came to money or strength or when it came to my external toughness.

Who wants the poor man anyway?
Who wants the weak one?
No one . . .
That’s who

Although I was broke, I believed that you had to carry yourself like you had all the money in the world.
So, I tried.
I did my best to act and hold a posture that said, “the world could end tomorrow, and I’d be fine enough to walk through the fire and ask the Devil for a cigarette.”
And I’d be fine and unbothered by this.
I acted like the demons of Hell could destroy the world in a bloody aftermath and The Dark One could approach me, standing with defiance, and there I’d be, with a cigarette dangling from my lips, to which I would respond, “Got a light?” in the coolest way possible

I remember a girl who came into the bar.
She was dressed differently and obviously not fit for the uptown crowd.
She was pretty but different.
There was nothing ugly about her whatsoever, but her wardrobe was not a match for this place.

Her clothes and makeup were more for the Downtown crowd and unfitting of the social snobs that surrounded us.

She was not meant for the casual business group who handed out business cards and pretended to be on the pulse of some new tech trade.
And who knows who was rich or who was poor?
I don’t know who was legitimate or who postured or who wore a Rolex and who wore a fake one, —and so it went that I found myself in places like this all too often, angry and resentful.

And I’m sure there were people who had real money in the bar. I am sure there were good people too and I’m sure the judgments and bullshit was more like a mass of contamination in my head, —or put simply: Man is as he thinketh.
Therefore, I thought that I was so obviously outnumbered and painfully outmatched that I suppose I stood out like a sore thumb.

The girl approached me
“What are you doing here?” she asked me.
“Same thing as you,” I answered
“You don’t belong here,” she told me.
“Neither do you,” I said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said and drank from the black straw that poked upwards from her glass drink.

She drank an amber colored drink, with ice, “on the rocks.”

Someone in my crowd came over to fuck with her. Or maybe they came to fuck with me.
Maybe this was another “guy thing.”
He felt the need to walk up like a wise-ass and whisper his insults into the girl’s ear.

She whispered something in return.
He turned to me, obviously displeased with her response and said, “Have fun with your new girlfriend,” and then he walked away.

I was years away from the previous violence of my former self. And yes, at one point, I would have shoved glass in the face of this so-called friend to scar him up.
Or maybe I’d have sunk a blade into his gut or at least I’d  promise a physical revenge that would be horrendous and bloody, —but I was out of that element and trying to find my new place in the world.
I was away from my old crowd and trying to fit in with the rich, young, and the up-and-coming.
But I was out of my league and painfully uncomfortable.

“Leave with me,” said the girl.
“Let’s get out of here.” she told me.
“Let’s go to CB-GB’s”

She wanted to go and be free and be wild.
I wondered about this.
“You’re better than him,” said the girl.
“Why would you even be friends with someone like him?”

I always wonder the direction my life could have taken if I had gone.

She kissed me before leaving.
She kissed me well too.

She kissed me deep.
Then she smiled and said, “Your loss,” and then she left.

I always wondered what might have happened.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Maybe the window that opened closed too quickly.
Or maybe the saying is true, —he who hesitates is lost.
And I lost . . .

I have been lost for too long.
So please, know this:
If you and I make a go of it, I will not hesitate to take you by the hand.
I will not hesitate to make love to you on the rooftops or jump in a cab and kiss you the whole way.

No matter where I go, or how I get there, I will never leave another meaningful stone unturned.
Yet even the meaningless stones can later be seen as meaningful.

Therefore, leave no stone unturned.
Leave no moments up to the judges.
Leave it all out in the wind and smoke the night down to the filter.
Be crazy.
It’s fine!

I am going to wake up next to you one morning.
And I swear this to you now, and I will swear this up to the hour of my death (Amen)
I will never let another moment slip away.

So be prepared.
I can kiss longer than the clock can tick and I can taste you in places that would make a peach become jealous

Believe me