Poetic Justice

So, ironically, I've been watching , on YouTube, talks, speeches, and appearances of Hitchens all day. And it would only be appropriate that my whole hearted embracing of atheism should come back and bite me on the ass on this of all nights.

It would be laughable if it wasn't so fucking painful.

I woke up today not wanting to attend the festivities. Or, rather, in conflict about it. The same conflict I feel every fucking year. I am a loser, and the annual familial confession of that fact is not something I look forward to. At the same time I know my family wants to see me, and don't give a shit that I am confused or unsure about my way in the world. They don't care that I am making missteps all over the place. They love me already, they've settled on that, and there are very few things I could do that would dissuade them from that notion.

They don't look on me with pity. They never ask when I'm gonna get married. There's no pressure to propagate the family name. They don't purposefully or inadvertently insult me. They respect my opinion and validate my emotions. They are genuinely happy to see me, and as much as I fear their repudiation, it's never happened.

I woke up today lamenting having to attend, and find myself disappointed that I am forced to be left out.

Bah Humbug

I'm doing a little experiment tonight. I'll be doing multiple posts throughout the evening as I get more and more drunk. I'm going to post what comes to mind as it comes to mind, because I have nothing else to fucking do.

Normally this night would be spent in the presence of my family. Traditionally I'd be celebrating the Feast of the Seven Fishes with my loved ones, but this year I have no way to get to the open house my aunt holds annually. The free booze, unconditional love, and copious amounts of seafood I've become accustomed to consuming on this night are unavailable this year. My sister, who I had planned on hitching a ride with, has decided she isn't attending, therefore forcing me to also opt out.

So, I will spend this evening getting ever more wasted on vodka cocktails and blogging. I have a few ideas about subjects for my drunken rambles, and we'll just see how it goes. My typing, even when sober, leaves much to be desired, but seeing how this is an "experiment" the results could be worthwhile no matter what they reveal.

Anyway, I don't expect this to be of interest to anyone but myself, and I am curious to see what I end up with in the blindingly sober light of morning...

Shitlist

So, I have had a run of getting shit on by some guys in my life. Other than M, they've been coming out of the woodwork to tell me what a crap person I am. And I'm so sick of it.

I sorta posted about this before in July. At the time Ry was giving me a hard time, so I stopped talking to him for a while. I started back up talking to him recently, I guess the passage of time had erased the memory of his arrogance. But he soon reminded me, and I've since decided that I really can't have "friends" like that anymore. I think he believes he's being funny when he talks shit about my job, relationships, and life choices, but really he's just being an asshole. He said I should get in contact with him if "the old Laani comes back," and I thought to myself,"O? You mean the 19 year old who let you fuck her while you stuck your cock into anything you could get your hands on? Yeah, she ain't coming back."

There have been others, some worse, some more sympathetic, and I'm just bored with it. Bored with taking people's feelings into consideration when they don't care about mine. Bored with holding my tongue. Bored with walking on eggshells. Bored with people telling me whats wrong with me. Bored with unproductive critique. Bored with overblown ego and self-important bullshit.

I'm over it, I'm so over it.

So Much More

** see footnote

He says, "God, you're gorgeous."

I was laying on my back with M above me. My bedside lamp cast a flattering glow as we spoke in low tones to each other. I was scrubbed squeaky clean from the day's greasy work. I felt so warm and comfy to have him with me again, and I marveled at how beautiful he is. I'm as loathe to call a man "beautiful" as much as I'm loathe to call a woman "handsome"; both descriptions have the potential to insult. But I'm just gonna say it...He's beautiful.

He's told me, "I love your freckles."

In the summer our skin is almost exactly the same color, but I will soon develop my winter coat and become a pale peach once again. He has freckles across his nose that are faint, and one very deliberately placed on his left eyelid, as well as a patch on his left shoulder blade and a waterfall running down his leg. He has some sprinkled in more intimate places, but the one on his eyelid is my favorite. I kiss it frequently and with relish. In my opinion eyelids are made for kisses to begin with, and his freckle gives me a focus to cherish. I have an urge to name it...maybe Stanley...

He said, "I love the shape of your mouth."

M's mouth I've mentioned before. His lips are luscious, pink, smooth, devoid of blemish or imperfection. His mouth mesmerizes me. Sometimes I drift into a daydream when he speaks to me because I can't take my eyes off of his mouth. And when he smiles his broad open smile, or throws his head back and lets out his unselfconscious laugh, his brilliant teeth flash. Even first thing in the morning his breathe isn't bad. How the fuck does he do that?!!

He tells me, "Your hair looks so pretty down and wavy like that."

His hair is black, not dark brown, but black. And inspires all those hyperbolic descriptions you've read about black hair. It curls into locks that i wrap around my index finger and toy with. It's smooth and glints. It's thick and probably longer than it seems due to the curl. He jokes about having an ironic mullet, but short of shaving it off, I don't care what he does with it. I don't think I'd find him less attractive if he shaved it, but it would just break my heart to not have those sparkling curlie ques to gaze at and play with.

He compliments me, "You have a beautiful, long neck."

He's letting his beard grow in. I was fortunate enough to be spared the scratchy growing in period, and have become the beneficiary of the silky tickling stage. It's a full beard that he doesn't know how long he'll be able to tolerate. It suits him, and oddly doesn't detract from any of his boyishness. I hope he decides to keep it awhile, it holds a novel appeal for me and looks so good on him.

He confesses, "I love when you touch my body."

He has very smooth skin, particularly for a boy. He's tattooed his body with 2 swallows on either side of his chest, just above his collarbone; a red nautical star between the birds; an open zippo lighter on the inside of his left elbow, and the emblem of his former band wrapping from the outside around above and below his left elbow meeting behind the zippo. He shaves his chest pretty frequently, mistakenly thinking he's excessively hairy. Thankfully, he doesn't go overboard, and I can still revel in his undeniable maleness.

He admires, "You have such pretty hands."

M has large, strong hands. He has wide palms that encase my neck. He can cup my entire breast and ass cheek, and I love when he does that. When he curls his fingers around my waist, gripping my hip bone, I melt into the feeling of complete immobility. His fingers almost meet when he encircles my calves, spreading my legs wide as he drills into me. In spite of their size, he's the only guy who's ever gotten as much of his hand in me while fisting. I adore his fingers on my clit, or nipples, or deep inside stroking my g-spot. And when he dips his fingers into the cum he splashes across my body and feeds it to me, I feel like we're performing the end card at the finish of a silent movie. The perfect ending.

** in case anyone was wondering about the integration of music, I intend it to be listened to while you read the post.

Waiting For The Miracle

When I wait for M to arrive I'm usually really antsy. I'm excited, impatient, nervous, and when I'm waiting for him to pick me up from work, irritated also. Not irritated with him, irritated that I have yet to figure out a way to prep for a visit directly following work so that I look pretty and presentable. It's an odd mix of dread at not being attractive and longing for him to appear.

This visit I had about an hour wait at my job before M picked me up. I normally hate the music at work, so I popped my iPod in, and Leonard Cohen's "Waiting for the Miracle" came up on shuffle. It was soothing and, I felt, preternaturally appropriate, so I replayed it over and over as I waited. I closed my eyes and let the words and music lull me.

While I sat there, listening, I thought about how I am always so anxious when I'm about to see M. And how I look forward to the times when we'll be together, and how I hate when we have to part. And I thought to myself that I should be more thankful to have this time before to be able to devote my thoughts to him. I thought, "This is the best part, because the time with him is a blur you will struggle to remember. Your pleasure with him clouds your memories of it later, and when he leaves you you will have so long before you will see him again. You only have a few more minutes before he will be with you and you need to savor the waiting that is short, because the waiting that will happen after will be much, much worse."

It helped to realize that, to have that conversation with myself. Along with the music I was able to decompress from work, and when he arrived I was very happy to see him. The beginning was bittersweet, for reasons other than waiting. When we got back to my place we showered and then cuddled in bed. We fell asleep much earlier than usual, and the next day he dropped me off at work.

And then the waiting begins again...