THE TWO DIMENSIONAL WOMAN

I dream myself, one night, inside the seams of the wallpaper, looking in on our house. It was a wonderful feeling—to be utterly flat, and without a care in the world, living in the second dimension. My family was there, staring back at me, like a crayon picture that had learned to dance about. There were all sort of secrets that I learned about behind the closed doors. My son hid candy he had stolen beneath his clothes in his second drawer. My daughter had a very handsome boyfriend (that was a shock, speaking that he had never come through the front door)! Whenever my mother would stop by to visit, she would comment on how the couch pillows didn’t match the rest of the household, but only under her breath when everyone else was out of the room. It became quite a life.

I eventually figured out how to move from wallpaper to electrical wire, street signs, and so on, until I could make myself useful and run errands. Nothing like getting groceries—two dimensional hands don’t work to well with carrying things. But I could deposit checks, and when I figured out how to walk inside the computer, I really made my way into a different world. My husband would open Word documents, and I would get to rearrange the letters he typed on the page. It made for mischievous fun, and great laughter.

But then I found out a secret that I wished I hadn’t. One that, living in three dimensions, I had never had to worry about. My husband kept a journal on his bedside table, and I had never looked at it before, since it was personal, but while trying to learn to transfer from wall to paper, I accidentally fell into the pages. The first few pages were beautiful. He drew, and wrote, and occasionally scribbled. There was a poem about me. It was like walking in a field of daisies.

It wasn’t until halfway through that things took a bad turn. The daisies were replaced by dead roses, and the sunny skies became covered with thunder clouds, and the beautiful words grew harsh and jagged. He missed me; resented my freedom. Jealousy, anger, loneliness, depression, stress, and all sorts of real world issues fell on his shoulders in the place of mine.

To relax, he had taken up staying late at work. I had never check in on him there, because overcoming the rocky hills he was stationed in had proved too difficult. Apparently, there was a woman he worked with, Stephanie, who had recently transferred from Washington. She had been staying late with him, and they had been entwining together as I entwined with the paintings in the living room.

Which is when I woke up, feeling lonely in the middle of the night, to see him laying next to me. There’s nothing quite like cuddling up with someone after feeling like you lived a whole lifetime apart from them.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #49 – SCHADENFREUDE

The Germans made this lovely noun,

which we adopted into English

somewhere in the mid 19th century,

precisely so I could talk about you today

 

with the utter respect you deserve.

You have spoiled me these past years

with your tantalizing lips, your perfect

hair, and your illustrious body. Too long

 

have you called me your sun and stars

behind closed doors and through keyholes

only to remind me that when we walked,

we could never walk together. Not while he

 

paid your rent. Not while you needed him

to get through college. Life is expensive.

That’s what you told me on the mattress

between sweat sessions in the apartment

 

last Tuesday morning before classes. Yet

the only expense I suffer is your big smile

every time you see me down the hall,

trying my best not too look at him

 

standing with his hands on your hips.

You don’t even hesitate to reach up

and pluck a ripe, juicy kiss from him then,

just to make my day taste sour.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #48 – MUDDY WATERS

The smoky voice, crackling

with the coarse rhythm

of an ancient studio recording,

asked the dimly lit room

to turn the lamps down low

 

and with the smell of

smooth Marlboro cigarettes

lingering after the heat of passion

she felt a quiet flame reignite

 

that she had thought was lost,

burnt out like the kindled fire

that was her first marriage.

 

Their silhouetted figures,

glistening with sweat in the moonlight,

sat sticky against the oak headboard;

limp thumbs tangled together.

 

He ruined that sweet moment,

as most men do,

when he turned to her

and whispered “I love you.”

 

That was all it took for the sweat

rolling down her chest

to freeze to ice, and soon

she was swimming

in muddied waters.

——

 

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THE PAINTING MODEL

“Hey, would you model for me?” he stammered. She was walking through the hallway as he spoke, on her way out the door.

“What?” She said to him, turning on her tall, black heels sharply. His cheeks reddened, and he felt his ears grow hot.

“I-I said, would y-you model for me?” Her eyebrows raised behind her oversized Chanel sunglasses, and she cocked her head to the left. “I was thinking about how er…what you said earlier, about how people had called you Amber Rose, and how…um…how you didn’t like that people said that because they never had anything to show for it.”

“And…?” There was a light impatience in her voice.

“And well, um, I was thinking that maybe I could, like, paint you or something?” He exhaled deeply, and the vibrant red that had filled his cheeks washed away. He looked down at the ground, ashamed, as the room filled with silence.

One…

Two…

Three…

The words floated through his mind like wooden planks down the Nile. Then, she clucked her tongue once and tapped her heel.

“I’ll think about it,” and she turned to walk out the door with half a smile. He listened in stunned silence as she walked down the hall, each clack of her heels fell with the same heaviness as the beat of his heart.

 

*          *          *

 

He scrabbled with the lock on the door; his arms were filled with bags and his myriad of keys were all jumbled together. When he finally got it open, he hoisted the bags up higher so he didn’t accidentally let one slip.

“Hi there,” he heard from around the corner. He walked in, set the bags down on the counter, and began unpacking

“Hello again, I picked up a few jugs of—” his eyes drifted up and his voice caught in his throat. She was standing in the room, fully exposed save for an exceptionally tiny bikini. He looked back to the contents of the bags, “I-I picked up a few containers of milk this weeks since everyone went through it so fast.” She laughed at him.

“Thank you,” she said, “I decided you can paint me—”

“I didn’t quite mean—”

“You didn’t mean today? Good. I wanted to spend this afternoon tanning.”

“Well I was thinking I could paint you, perhaps, in a little different setting?” He had turned to face her, and could feel the heat in his body rising.

“Oh?” She said. After a quick pause, her eyes lit up, and she reached behind her back to undo her top, “nude? I’m game to do nude.” His cheeks burned inside him and he turned his head away.

“No I was thinking something that didn’t…objectify you so much? Maybe something like sleepwear?” There was a silence. He felt the air grow cold around them. Then, roughly, she grabbed his chin with her thumb and forefinger and turned him to look at her.

“You want to paint me right?” She asked firmly.

“Yes,” He tried to look away.

“And why do you want to do that, hmm?” she pulled him closer to her, so that they were within a few inches of each other.

“Well I—”

“What, do you want to fuck me?” He tried to pull away but her grip was tight, “you want to fuck me? Turn me over, lay me out? You think coddling me with kind words and romantic pictures will seduce me?” Her thumb pressed harder into his chin. “Let’s get this straight. You won’t fuck me because you’re nice to me. You won’t fuck me because you’re mean to me. If you fuck me, it’ll be because I want you to.” She glanced down meaningfully. “And you’ll paint me how I want to be painted. Not how you want. Not how some man wants. Me. Ok?”

“Ok.” He said. She released his chin and smiled.

“Good,” she snaked up and kissed him softly on the cheek, then turned to walk away, twirling her top in her hand, “tomorrow it is then!” she called back, and put a hand up to wave goodbye.

——

 

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THE CHERRY TREE

We used to spend our evenings back in the country popping cherries. The sticky, sweet juice ran down the sides of our greedy lips, leaving us like a vampire after finishing his meal. Nights like those were beautiful. The dusty horizon faded from yellow, to orange, to pink, to purple, and finally into the deep blue-blackness that marked bedtime for most people. But for us, it was a secret thing; a special thing.

A cherry tree at the end of the day is a beautiful thing to see. After hours in the field, one certainly works up an appetite. The dirt and grime of the day seeps into the innermost pores of the skin, filling the cracks in our broken skin with a thin layer of powder. To hold the soft, dainty skin of a ripe cherry, taught and firm, between our thick, meaty fingers, was like holding the essence of purity between the fingers of corruption.

The best cherries always sat at the tops of the tree. Perhaps this was because it was late in the seasons, and all the low hanging fruit had been picked by the passersby. But we would spend hours a day there, watching the time shift around us. We would climb up the branches, until there were but little spindles of tree for us to stand on. We would reach out as far as we could, fingers straining to catch a cherry or two, while the rest of our body was stiff; carefully balanced like a tightrope walker. Until finally, in a moment of release, we would have the cherry, pop it in our mouths, and enjoy our prize.

But those days are long gone. The cherry tree was cut down, replaced by a care facility for the elderly. And while I am happy that my father will get the care he deserves (at least, that’s what the facility has promised, once he come to need it), I am still saddened that our liberties as maturing young adults were torn away from our hands. We no longer spend those late nights together, feasting on the pleasures of youth. We simply sit, and watch, and wait for the end of time to bear us a different fruit.

——

 

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FOUR A.M. BLUES

The party’s over; the party was nice.

Those two little hussies called your name twice,

But here you are at four a.m. alone,

With no one to join you on the drive home.

 

Now it might be good to visit Denny’s.

Scrounge together the last of your pennies

And buy yourself a nice plate of pancakes.

I doubt they can tell how much your heart aches.

 

Lather your cakes in a syrup so sweet,

Like you lather your life with women’s meat.

Remember all the girls with which you’ve lied—

How you made them swallow spoons of your pride?

 

But in three years they’ll be a happy muse,

And you’ll still be here with four a.m. blues.

 

 

*          *          *

 

Did you post your pic? Did you sing your song?

How many likes do you need to be strong?

You left him on read, now, isn’t that cruel.

Just ‘cause you think looking single is cool.

 

You sway down the sidewalk while cars drive by.

With heels in hand and a glassy eye.

You stagger to a lonely breakfast stop;

Trip on the Porsche in the handicap spot.

 

Sure, Tom will be mad that you’re late back home,

But isn’t that why he’s in the friend zone?

Slip in the booth with the dapper rich man,

And ask him to drive you home if he can.

 

You might think that you have nothing to lose,

‘Till he puts you in the four a.m. blues.

 

*          *          *

 

You both had your fun, back at his fine place;

Woke up the neighbors with your reckless pace.

The screams, the moans, and the childish grins;

Both ache to relieve the weight of their sins.

 

He rises and smokes a detached cigar,

And you have no clue as to where you are.

The heat in your loins hasn’t calmed the pain;

You know, he doesn’t even know your name.

 

She lies there staring at the crimson wall,

And you have no clue as to if she’ll call.

The ache in your heart set in as she came,

‘Cause she had called out someone else’s name.

 

Tomorrow you’ll both tell friends the good news,

But I’ll still know ‘bout your four a.m. blues.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #29 – WHAT TO DO?

What to do? What to do? What to do?

I really don’t know what to do with you.

 

You can be such a great guy

With a merry look in your eye,

But if the King finds out then

We’re screwed.

 

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Why did I go on that date with you?

 

I guess your head was in Rome

And your brain was your own

But I didn’t want more trouble

‘Fore noon.

 

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Well at least I‘ve got this lovely view.

 

Ah why not! What the heck!

Screw my dad! No respect!

At least now all my troubles

Are through.

 

He’ll come ‘round and demand

Who has taken my hand

And I’ll say…

 

I’ve got you! I’ve got you! I’ve got you!

——

 

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BAD GUY

I turned on the lights of the cell room. I like to think my cells are more humane than a prison’s, where in the place of bars and that dull gray there are windows and colorful walls. There are books, toys, various forms of entertainment—televisions, gaming systems, and so on…except in the unstable rooms, but that is for their own safety. This particular room was a favorite guest of mine. She’s a rough, robust girl with a fetish for pain, but she’s also classically beautiful. Take a Cinderella and add in a little Suicide Girl, and voila, c’est elle. Though her tattoos are only in places the public won’t see. It is quite fun, but also quite frustrating.

I am all for sexual expression, and having kinks, and what not. That’s all fine. But I do have a line. I do not much like when I walk in on a woman and she’s covered in blood and violent red marks because it “get’s her off.” Elle—you’ll forgive me, I must use a pseudonym for her own safety, relapse is so common, and easily caused by the lustful—but Elle is one of those people, who I stumbled upon completely by accident. Elle was a prostitute I had hired—I’d say escort but let’s not flirt around like I had other plans for her—whom I had asked to please engage in whatever would make her truly aroused, and while she did that I wanted a shower. You can imagine my surprise when, after my warm, relaxing shower, the first bed was covered in blood. She had opened her wrists with a pocketknife—she must have been carrying it. Logical. There are certainly some freaks (like myself, though in a different way) in the business, even for someone as expensive as she was. There was a thick ruler thrown to the side as well, no doubt the cause of her welts. Not a good time.

As you can imagine, dear reader, I was quite put out. I bandaged her up and we talked for a few hours. I convinced her to stay in my room until she was…treated. She is an interesting character. She is polite, well mannered, genuinely kind…but also extremely passionate. Her sex drive is off the charts (literally, I’ve spent years researching the sexuality of even the most driven people, and they pale), which is unfortunate, because it makes the process more difficult for me. I am only human. But enough backstory. Today was a me day…or rather night. I had woken her with the light. She had worn the silk nightgown I had provided her to bed. A good sign. She was standing up—one hand rubbing the sleep from her eyes, the other slumped off to her side. I entered the room, and dimmed the lights. I crossed the room meaningfully.

“Shh, why are you out of bed” I whispered in her ear. As she opened her mouth to speak, I cupped it. Her eyes appeared glazed over, but I could feel her smile behind my hand. She sank back onto the bed, and I knelt with her. I kissed her, once on the lips, then down in the space between her cheek and her chin, then more and more forcefully until I reached her neck. I bit it lightly, carefully running the skin between my teeth, but with enough force to cause her a little pain. She still liked that. I could feel her heart race. Her hands pulled at my shirt (a shame, it was an expensive material too), but just as she was getting it loose, I stood up and thrust her down onto her back. Like I said, today was a me day. I popped the belt buckle I wore, and tore the belt from around my waist. Her eyes flared open with excitement, but I discarded it. I motioned for her to turn around. She pouted. I felt a snarl creep to my nose for a moment, and in a wave of anger I gripped her wrist hard. She smiled wildly, and ragdolled as I spun her to her stomach. She put both arms forward, flat on the bed, and tucked her knees in against her stomach expectantly. I bit the bottom of my inner lip and gripped her torso, beneath the fabric, admiring her hip bones as a lion admires a recently slaughtered zebra. The rest, well, I’m sure you can imagine.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #26 – VALENTINE’S DAY THOUGHTS

Valentine’s Day.

Gal-entine’s Day.

Pal-entine’s Day.

There’s so much love to go around:

 

Friends posting pictures together,

Lovers singing each other songs.

They’d bet it would last forever

But boy, let me tell you, they’re wrong.

 

Every song has a final note

And the ink on pictures will fade.

Love isn’t quite as it is wrote,

Rather, it is something that’s made.

 

Love is made in the dark of night,

When all others have gone to bed—

Conversations after a fight,

When emotions are colored red.

 

It is found in those few moments

That nobody else gets to see

Where we each share our atonements.

That’s what I think true love would be.

 

Of course, I say that while I sit

In a place that’s devoid of it.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #24 – LAST NIGHT

Last night

I went to the bar to find a girl,

Little did I know she would change my world.

She was standing there in boots and a skirt

I downed my drink and got up to go flirt.

She smiled at me with a grin so tight.

I wondered if she’d keep it up all night…

Or me, because, before I said a word

She grabbed me by the wrist and purred

“I haven’t seen you around here before,

So don’t look at me like some common whore.

I’m a classy lady but I like to sin,

So don’t go looking so dumbstruck, darlin’.”

Then she laughed at the look in my eyes

‘Cause I was caught totally by surprise.

Hand in hand, we walked to the dance floor;

And the rhythm of her hips made my heart soar.

(and my legs sore, for that matter, it’s true)

But I must tell about the lovely view

That I got from my house up on the hill

Of her standing at the widow sill.

She was looking at the sun as it rose

And I was gripped by a sense of purpose

This unknown void that was suddenly full

And the world seemed quite a bit less dull.

I walked up to her from behind,

And kissed her from her neck to her spine.

She smiled and took my fingers in hers

Turned to my ear and silently purrs

“Darlin’ that was such a magical time,

I think that it would be such a crime

For me to run off at the break of day.

When I could stay with you—what do you say?”

 

It’s hard to believe that it was just last night

That I found the girl that could make life right.

——

 

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