playing poker blows: had an amazing run at the start of the day only to lose those gains late into the night. granted, out of the 6, 2 were sloppy plays and recklessness, but the rest were bad beat city: KK versus JJ, AK versus AJ, QQ versus 99, shit like that. had one guy from cleveland ohio bust my balls about a call i had made that nearly wiped him out. So i abused him in turn, telling him cleveland sucks. my avatar on the poker site is a picture of ioanna at one. so he turns and says, ‘bet that kid sucks better.’ and i don’t know, i kinda climbed all over him. but never once did he apologized and i was thinking what a truly disgusting human being.
Monthly Archives: November 2008
transformative blogging
While looking through blogs, what the fuck are people are writing, how are they making a living at this, if anything at all, I came across http://www.peridotash.com.
I have to say, this is the most amazing thing I have ever read: not because I am reading some sort of literally marvel, but because of it’s honesty and vulnerability. It’s a sex worker’s blog, detailing the ups and downs of a ‘sideline’ escort and the clients she services. it is such an engaging story, wuith reoccurring themes and characters, subplots and conflict, hope and disappointment.
I clicked and clicked and read how this woman transformed from a part time escort who made peace with this aspect of herself (no self hate here, only a very keen acceptness and awareness of what it meant and what she was doing) to a professional dominatrix (introduced to her by a client whom she later gives free ‘dates’ for training purposes).
You can chart her progression and awakening, from escort to domme, from diary style journal writing to self referential web presence. Character’s that reoccured in previous posts are now cross linked in later posts. Associative tags emerge as opposed to rigid/static categories.
As she ages in the blog, she entertains being a pro-domme more and more because she is no longer a naïve twenty something year old, she is aging and frankly “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
on the scalp 2
As he screams, I tell him about the bruises his wife showed me. I rip out a good section, rub the flap of skin against his good eye. He starts to plead, he stutters, it’s a pretty ugly sound. I take the broomstick he beats his son with and jam it into his mouth until I crack his molars. He chokes and gags like an animal with blood and snot and spit. Holding him down with both hands on the stick, I lean and whisper how his secretary never enjoyed a minute of it, that she was frightened and afraid and angry and disgusted. And as he spasms while I choke him, I just cannot stop laughing and laughing and laughing.
on the scalp
i find him in a bar, he buys me a drink. he tells me everything that’s wrong with the world. he goes on through the night. stumbling, i take him home. he finally tells me about his wife, what a bitch she is. he tells me about his son, what an ass he is. he confides in me about his secretary, snickers about how lovely she is. he passes out on the couch, he drools into the cushion. i start on him with the paring knife, surprisingly they never wake up with that one. it’s only when i peel off his eyebrows that his eyes snap open. i gouge one out and both of his hands fly to his face, then fumble on my hand. i climb atop the couch, press my weight on him and begin on the scalp.
time stops sideways
residential roll
I am desperate for change, there is no poetry about it. Some drastic measure, sell everything off, looking at apartment in park slope, in astoria: all of it atrocious but better than this. Surely better than this.
come home in the wrong key
wound bite
where has your spittle gone? she asks tightening the tourniquet across his thigh. he bites the bit, thinks of her nipple, the taste of blood.
are you breaking me again? she asks again, his eyes well up again as she breaks the skin again and her arm draws back the saw again forward again, again and again.
nothingmeat godking
we had, at one time, thought better of this, better of us. we believed, or rather i did. i was quite sporty back then, renewed and filled with i don’t know how to explain it: purpose, love, passion, life? or was i free, finally free? but freedom breaks, it becomes tethered, it wraps a noose, we are free to choose, but when the choices are made, freedom is lost. in the hopes of building my way out of despair, i dug a deeper whole. he says this to me and i find it utter nonsense. he says this to me and i crack, he cracks, the mirror bends. i reach out to him and see myself reach further away. everything i told you was lies, he whispers, there is no life for you here. you are the lack, you are the despair, you are the nothingmeat, you are the nothingmeat, the nothingmeat. now go away, go. go. go into the twilight, go into the dark, the dusk of this life, the ruins you so crave. leave us in tatters, leave us shattered. make us into your own image godking, break us all.
twice removed
Or rather was he the writing or I the writer, was I written or did I make myself up as he went along? Was the fabrication of this a way to get to you or push you away? Were the nights where I held you out of the storm ever real or did he stop believing? No story is ever told the same way twice. I have never been sane, I have never been the same, he was never real, you fell apart before my eyes and I did nothing. He wept and tried to gather up all these pieces and was left fractured himself. I wrote it all such a very long time ago, you have since grown tired. He cannot live there anymore but cannot leave either. She danced through the fire and I applauded from the curb. He calculated every move until I couldn’t breathe. And the music plays off key and he stumbles in and out of line of sight, in and out of headlights so dim that the road turned into autumn. the writing believes and the writing tears and the writing weeps into coarse lids crowned with eyelashed thorns.