Sunday, May 31, 2009


The scent of the weekend is on me. The air, the ocean, the smell of us pushing ourselves into each other, his chest against my face, his breath swirling with mine – our mouths wide open, pressed together, greedy for oxygen – as though we need it to keep fucking. This centrifuge of combined bliss, the brain tastes it at that moment, I try to hold on to it to reopen it later like some pate you hide in the back of the fridge. But it’s locked there in your subconscious, stubbornly waiting until the day it can spill itself all over that same experience when it happens again that exact same way; the memory attaching itself to that new same moment, multiplying it, amplifying it, the familiarity making it oddly more dizzying.

I am doused in him now, it’s lulling me to sleep – but I will wake and shower, and watch it puddle around my feet. There’s no holding on to this morning, this weekend, the taste of myself on his chin. It will all be usurped by Monday morning coffee, the smell of Tide, the scent of my showered skin. Soon, though, my body will ripen with want as I try to recall how the room filled with us as he pulled himself from inside me, or the essence of his breath as he lay sleeping and spent pressed against my neck. I’ll try my best to remember as I walk down the street, or drive around in my car, or maybe I’ll just wait until I’m naked in bed, nose pressed against unwashed sheets.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009


The plastic sheeting that separated my demo’d kitchen from my living room is down now. I can again see the lights and the water through the large window. The air from the terrace flows free through the doors and elicits my skin. The cabinets are here, one by one replacing sections of ravaged wall. Each one holding the promise that this will soon be home again. I look forward to friends standing around, the full hollow pop of that first bottle of wine uncorked on virgin countertops; the man that will come from my bedroom, satisfied, naked and hungry, kissing me on my mouth and neck, before the orange juice is poured, before the bacon spatters against the green glass backsplash. Everything will be new here. The wood, the metal, the granite, glass, how I am touched and held, the way his hand will coax a swell between my legs as we face each other barefoot on fresh tiles. The bacon, the eggs and toast preempted by sweat, perfume, and sunburned skin.

All of this is being installed behind me as I write; the cabinets, the gas range, the freshly squeezed juice, the smell of syrup, burnt toast, testosterone, and cum – everything I’ve dreamt of in this new kitchen.

Monday, May 25, 2009


He was the MAN in the fifth grade. It seemed like he was like 47. Michael was poised, wryly funny, audaciously charming, and solidly real, all by the age of 9. I don’t remember ever seeing him in the playground with the little boys – I would sometimes catch him standing alone under a tree, right outside our homeroom, I’d look up to him because he was very tall, and man sized, his proportions weren’t those of a boy’s, at least that’s how I remember him. We’d talk about the records that I would bring to the dance party I was planning for the class. I was on fire about music that spring, but I was captivated by Michael, the Man/Boy. I wanted to be close to him so his charm could rub off on me. I couldn’t get enough of him, and it wasn’t because he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, there were some other cute boys in my class, but Michael was the first guy to make me feel like I was a big deal.

This weekend, we were riding around in his pick up truck, windows down, his American Spirits scenting my clothes. There were a bunch of us from high school - back in our hometown, for a reunion of our high school drama department. I had seen Michael on and off over those early years, but he seemed to move in and out of our town, like a pre-teen drifter. He went to rehab before I had ever seen a joint, there were rumors that he had moved with his mother at some point, I remember being shocked to hear that Michael even had a mother, he seemed to just come out of the woods each day, like he had raised himself back there, by a stream. I don’t remember seeing him again until we were in high school, both of us rehearsing for a production of Godspell, Michael, of course, was cast in the lead. He was always destined for greatness; he was recently elected First Selectman in the town where he lives.

And yesterday, I’m 9 years old again, still looking up at Michael as I sit next to him on the bench seat of his truck. I’m no longer talking to him about dance parties, now I’m about my life as it appears in my blog, of which he says he’s an avid follower. He likes all of it, not just the parts where I talk about masturbation, or fucking, or riding Harleys. He thinks I’m special not just when I’m naked, sucking cock, or being outrageous. But when I’m sitting next to him on the sofa, being insipid, talking about the guy I was dating, how the ride had always been crazy and bumpy. “You never saw THAT coming with this guy,” Michael says looking back at me, as he gets up to go outside and catch a smoke. Leaving me there feeling stupid and loved.

It was a great weekend, Michael was one of many who have my number and make me feel somewhat less ordinary. New friends can think you’re pretty great, but old friends know your history, know all your mistakes, knew you when you were un-cool, or did stupid things, and like you in spite of it. So they follow you through the years, are still curious to know how you’re doing, how your story came out. And that's why we all get together every decade or so.

And as I was driving away from the weekend last night, Michael’s voice was inside of me, deep, wise, kind, and ironic – that voice that he’s had since he was 8. I would follow it into the woods behind school, on to a ferry, across the world, because since I was a small girl, it had this magical power over me, almost making me feel like I was special, or something.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


My friend say’s I’m the least patient person EVER.

I never use a microwave or convection oven in the kitchen, I prefer to wait for the slow cook, the results are so much more satisfying. So why must I force the issue, break up on a dime, insist that a person talk to me when they won’t, rush to resolution? The story is unfolding right now, instead of just being, my finger is on the fast forward button. Pushing it, pushing it, no batteries in the remote.

I like TV, story start to finish in 59 minutes. But in the real world you have to wait to see how it all ends, but wait, there I go – it never does.

I like the idea that the story ark is not about May, or 2009, it’s a whole life ark. It’s a better way to identify algorithms, cosmic messages, or maybe just scrapbook if you’re not that deep.

So what’s the rush? My friend said that the mind abhors uncertainty. But everything’s uncertain. The breaths you take, your next could be it. You could fall in love next week. Your roof could leak next month. One thing is for certain, I am typing and there is satisfaction in that. The plate of eggs and toast in front of you, the certainty that your eggs are over easy, and your toast is a too well done but edible, that is certain and satisfying.

It’s certain that it’s a beautiful day right now. I’m certain that my stomach is growling. And I’m pretty certain that I may be in the mood to make myself cum today, it’s been way too long. But I’m not going to rush to finish, I’ll be the most patient person in the world: enjoy the build, bring myself to the edge, then slow it down, build it up again, just have fun with it – this whole experience is play time.


It was a beige canvas of regulars at the great table we all sat at in my corner bar restaurant, a klieg light of blondness drew my eye. He was 25, startlingly handsome, teeth so white your retnas narrow, the blond hair, the color you usually only see on 3 year old girls. I sat down at the table at the other end from him, everyone else burlap next to this kid. “Hey!” he called down to me. I couldn’t believe it took all of 15 seconds, “That’s Stephen Sprouse.” It took me a moment, I wanted to ride his comment slowly, it took a while to gel. “Your bag!” Oh, yeah, I paid a premium for my tiny Louis Vuitton bag, it was a special edition, The Graffiti Collection, by Stephen Sprouse. This kid had a tough street cadence, an awareness of fashion, apparently, with a voice packing a boom and surprising confidence for a kid his age. He popped up, and scraped his chair loudly across the floor, shoving it into mine. “Hi!” he said smiling, he was all teeth, I didn’t think he moved his lips. He knew he charged me, his face about an inch and a half away from mine. I jerlked my head back with the audacity of it, like he had pulled out his stiff cock. I ordered a glass of wine, he sucked down the rest of his Budweiser, and called out loudly for another. But what was up with the Stephen Sprouse comment, my gaydar wasn’t anywhere near even a low hum. Eddie was a renowned graffiti artist, a “tagger”, as they’re known. It’s an outlaw lifestyle that takes them into the streets, down into subway tunnels, and way up high on the sides of tall buildings. Cops hunt them but rarely catch them; Eddie had only been arrested twice. If it weren’t for my Louis Vuitton Graffiti bag, I’m not sure I would have had an entre into Eddie’s world.

The kid was intense. He had the laugh of a man much older and larger, it made me want to spend a lot of time around him. He asked me if I wanted to get out of there, the beers were too expensive. He grabbed his satchel, It was bulky and weighed down with what I didn’t know, perhaps a human head. I followed him out and down the sidewalk. He said, “wait right here,” like Peter Pan, and ducked into the bodega, and came out with a sixpack of Bud. “Your place is right here, right?” It was. The kid didn’t scare me, he was a good friend of the bar’s owner, I unlocked the door to my apartment. He strode out on to my terrace, uninvited, like the moon was calling. He threw down the six and his bag, paused Zen-fully, raised his arms, inhaled and cried, “FUCK YOU BROOKLYN!!!” It was stunning and scary. He had only been here for 4 minutes. He popped two beers, pounded one, and started the other. We sat cross-legged on the floor of my terrace, he pulled out some of the mystery bulk from his satchel: Kierkegaard, Proust, various notebooks. It seemed that Eddie was a scholar of sorts, and an author. He had written a novel, a book about himself, a more mystical rendition about his life of tagging, the under-worldliness of it, the bigotry against the art form, cops vs. black people (he fancied himself one), evil as good, he outlined the major themes as he downed the six pack. I wanted to read the book, I was damn curious, but he only had two copies to his name, and he made it clear that he never loaned them out. He said that I could have the next printing, I wasn’t sure where they were printed, in his abusive father’s basement, or if he would even live long enough to throw me one, he felt like he might have an expiration date. After his tumultuous confession, the dark blond child stretched out on his back on the pavement tiles, and fell into a deep snore.

I woke up in the morning, he was still out, empty beer cans, notebooks and Kierkegaard keeping watch. “Eddie,” I said after taking a minute to take in his raw beauty. His eyes opened first, his grin flashed a half second after, a virtual “good morning”. Then he spoke from his back: “Claudia. What should we do today.” Where do you take a kid that’s been arrested and taken to Rikers, fought rats for real estate in dark subway tunnels, fucked strippers in back rooms of seedy clubs in Queens? Westport, Connecticut, my hometown on The New England Sound. He’s never seen anything like that in his life.

We sped out in my car around 11, it was a perfect summer day. The car was wide open, windows and sunroof rolled down and back. Eddie was fucking with the radio between being ecstatic, but suddenly yelled, “Here! Turn here. Wanna show you something.” He said it almost as the exit was gone. I swerved, and made it, speeding on, all curious along this unfamiliar stretch of highway. I looked at him, he said, “keep going,” eyes straight ahead, “There! There! That’s me!!” To my right was a huge brick apartment building. The side that faced the road was completely overtaken by Eddie’s vengeful passionate scrawl. It was a Spiderman feat, this renegade installation. It was signed, NOV YORK. “That’s me,” he said seriously, “Nov York.”

Our car sauntered into the quaint beach area in my home town about an hour later. Couples from McMansions were strolling. Wall Street men in expensive sneakers were de-stressing. Dad’s were teaching their kids to ride bikes and rollerblade. Eddie and I emerged from my shiny silver vehicle, I had grown up on this planet, Eddie looked as though he was contemplating taking it over. Pulling his white BVD undershirt over his head, my breath was taken away; he had a huge crass black X tattoo over his heart. It had no finesse, it was stark and pained, it looked as though he had taken a black pen, and repeatedly scratched at his pristine young flesh, until the death X was complete. “This is for my girl. She fucked my friend, and destroyed me.” He looked at me gravely, then broke out into that blinding grin. He didn’t seem the type for prolonged strolls, or collecting seashells, so we reloaded the car, and headed to the local Mexican restaurant.

The nice guy waiter in a polo shirt and Dockers seated us out on the patio. Pink cascading flowers hung from pots over our picnic table. We ordered two margaritas, no salt, the waiter asked Eddie for his I.D. Eddie pulled out his wallet, a rubber band securing a huge wad of cards, none of them plastic. He pulled his I.D. out from the sticky collection, and showed it to the waiter. It was blood stained, a reddish brown amoeba covered the state document, Eddie’s grin on it, a further ‘fuck you’ to the waiter. “That’s OK,” the waiter said, not handling it. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

We headed back to the city, Lauren Hill filled the car, Eddie had the seat back all the way in the reclining position. Connecticut had treated us well. Eddie smoked a Philly Blunt, a cigar dismantled, and re-rolled with some of the tobacco and weed, more Marlboros in its wake. He let the CD play without interruption. It had been a great day.

He didn’t go home again that night. I didn’t know what he was avoiding. His drunk daddy, the smell of old frying, all reminders of his less epic days. He fell asleep on the couch, serene and two days un-showered. The intoxicating perfume of young boy filled my 38 year old head. I went to sleep in my room, exhausted and content from the whirlwind of my new friend.

I woke up early, walked out into my living room but Eddie was gone. There, on the coffee table was a book, a copy of Nov York. On the inside of the cover he had scrolled, “To the sexy lady that held me for a couple of days. NOV” His signature, identical to the one tagged on the side of the brick building we had sped by in the Bronx.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009


Relationship bibles will lay down the law on how to find one. Complete with rules, regulations, red flags, a complete system on how to lock down that ineffable thing called “love”. But I have evidence to the contrary. Here are a couple of love stories that didn’t begin by tripping down a primrose path.

Emily met Mark in a Prozac chat room. Emily, was a 30 something, too-intelligent-for her-own-mental-health woman, distraught, she sought help and was prescribed Prozac. She had a growing concern with the medication’s side effects and looked for knowledge and support in a Prozac chat room. That’s where she met Mark, a highly IQ’d combo of irony and wit that made her feel more alive than any FDA regulated drug. Emily lived in Brooklyn, Mark lived in a cold remote corner of Canada. What’s more, their distance in age would be eyebrow raising to some. The 15 year younger Mark flew in to see Emily for a face-to-face chat. She picked him up at the airport and brought him back to her apartment. He never left. Soon after, they wedded their kindred psychological issues under a hoopa, joining hearts and other body parts, thus making a baby. 10 years later, they are together, raising an exceptional child who is joyful and bright beyond his years. Although he has inherited some quirks from both parents, as Emily likes to say, “he’s a happy kid.” Emily and Mark’s marriage is still challenged by some of the issues that they came to the chat room with, yet their relationship is infused with a strong dose of humor, the stuff that brought them together back in the good old Prozac days.

Jen was a gifted writer and abominable waitress. Her dual pursuits were fueled on a steady diet of red wine and Makers Mark. Her cocaine dealer had hours that rivaled Dominos, with the same 30 minute delivery guarantee. She lived in a refrigerator-less 250 square foot apartment, writing in squalor until the sun came up, or right up until her brunch shift where she would make just enough to re-up her creative fueling expenses. A long-haired good looking bar owner caught her eye. His zero percent body fat body resonated with her, her frame just hovering around the 100 lb. mark. They bonded over 4 AM drunken fuck fests. Their 3AM ‘dinner dates’ consisted of emptying bottles of whiskey, cartons of cigarettes, and multiple 50 bags of cocaine. Jen got knocked up, and several months later gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She moved into Mark’s upscale building with no ring on her finger, not a single “I love you” whispered in her ear – sending Mark’s friends into a tailspin of horror and a new allegiance to latex condoms. Years later, Jen and Mark are cocaine free, have a new baby girl to complete the matching set of pretty children, and have recently moved into the brownstone that Mark completed lovingly renovated for his now picture perfect family. They are not married, but swear that they are hopelessly in love. And although Jen doesn’t bond with the Bugaboo baby carriage status moms, she could almost pass as one. Until she opens her mouth, I am happy to report that she has the same wry annoyed take on life, all without the aid of drugs and alcohol.

These are stories, not my version of a “How To” book, because there is no “How To”. Love can flutter in like a dove carrying a sweet note on scented paper. Or careening in, car out of control, love rising off of the wreckage, like the smell of spilled gasoline. So capture that dove in a gilded cage, or shoot him dead with a shotgun. Either way, the story could end on a happy note.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009


My mother went to see Deepak Chopra speak in San Diego. He posed a question to the audience, which she imparted to me: Which couple do you think is more likely to survive long term. A) The couple with many shared interests? –or- B) The couple with strong sexual compatibility? I was surprised. Deepak claimed that the answer was “B”.

You hear all the time that the sex goes. It’s a tool that biology puts in place to bring couples together, six months to a year later, the media picks up the slack with TV shows that will keep you nestled together on the sofa, genitalia safely tucked away behind bathrobes, boxers, and flannel PJs.

Is this why divorce is so common? They say that financial concerns are a major threat. Or “growing apart” is a common issue. But is “growing apart” just code for the cock not growing, and coming away from the vagina? Is it a case of which came first? Does the emotional dynamic grow feeble, causing the sexual connection to wither and die? Or does sex take the lead, causing frustration, resentment, and the non-literal bond to go flaccid?

If the sex goes first, could it simply be the case that you were never really sexually compatible in the first place? Is one partner more sexual than the other? Was the other partner feigning sexual interest to appear more compatible, or using it as commerce? Is one partner more edgy than the other? Hiding their desire to share leather, or porn, or their desire to wear women’s undergarments? In the beginning, we all put forward our “ideal selves”. Unfortunately, there is nothing ideal about creating yourself in the image of what you believe your partner will ‘buy’. If your partner does not except you in your leather, your handcuffs, your very specific undergarments, your secret desires will be kept secret. And if there is one secret you should never keep from a partner, I believe it is your sexual truth.

I have spent entire relationships lying. Not about where I’ve been, or who I’m with, but about what turns me on. I was ashamed about my sexual truth, and thought it was business best kept between my hand and pussy. I thought that sex didn’t matter. I put sex last on my list of ‘must haves’. Truthfully, it didn’t even make the list. I thought that sex, dirty sex, was a fantasy in every sense of the word. Predictably, those relationships ended. I’d look back and say that the sex sucked. But how can you look back in regret over a failed sexual connection, when it was nowhere on your wish list in the first place. Maybe along the way you meet people who awaken that side of you, or you speak to a friend that has a rich sexual bond within a seasoned relationship, and suddenly you take stock. Now, I know better. I long for a dynamic, open, mutually expressive sexual connection. It’s not everything, but it tops the list. Communication is King, and I love it not only sitting across from each another at the kitchen table, but on the kitchen floor, on crumpled sweaty sheets, or outside my terrace doors.

Yet, I still question Deepak. I’m not sure that I trust my prioritization of sex in meaningful relationships. Am I still at heart rather Victorian? Do I have my Russian friend, Katya in my ear? Who burned up the last six months of her single hood with deliciously filthy hijinx, only to finally choose and become engaged to a warm, honest, wonderful man that she rarely has sex with? She insists to me that sex is sport. And it certainly can be, and a great sexual connection is certainly no indication of love. And lust can feel like love. How do you sort it out and know when to promote lust to love? Is it a shared love for theater, that you laugh at the same jokes? Is it simply similar toppings on your pizza? And what if you took sex off the table, could you separate it out, and see what love remains? Can the soul survive on Chinese food or Italian, or ethics, or shared values? Deepak would say ‘no’.

So I’m confused. I don’t know exactly what I need. Must my man share my love for great Mexican food? Is it imperative that he drive fast? I know he must be kind, and do his best to be giving, and like dogs, and trees, and open communication. But one thing's for sure: he must like sex, like it more than once a week, and he must like it dirty, and intense, and sometimes sweet. I guess the question isn’t ‘what is the glue’. It’s who’s holding yours.

Friday, May 1, 2009


I got a response to a personal ad I had posted one day. It was the best response I had ever received. It was funny, personal, moving, and beautifully written, with details pertaining to what I had said in my post, not a form letter. It probably took close to an hour to compose; it was everything I could hope for in a response. And it was from my ex-boyfriend.

I sat frozen in front of my computer monitor. We hadn’t spoken in over two years. Things had ended abruptly back then. I was hanging out in his living room one afternoon – he was in the next room, in the bedroom, on his computer. I reached for a magazine. It had a mailing address sticker on it – the name was Sarah, his old girlfriend. I confronted him in the other room, asked him why it was there, she worked in the ‘hood, had needed a place to crash one night during a snowstorm last week, that she had slept on the couch. I remembered the night, I had been sick, he had come over to bring me dinner, we spoke on the phone later, but I didn’t know that she was in the next room – he had kept it a secret. I tried to remain calm, with my best game face on, delivered what I thought was a rational speech about protecting what we had from harm, was he willing to do that, or did he want to break up here and now. He asked if he could think about it, that he would call me later. I never heard from him that night, 8PM, 8:30, 9:30, 10PM, nothing. I knew that it was over. I finally gave in and called him, he whispered that things weren’t working, and that was it. The next few weeks were painful. I was really touched by this man. He was extremely bright, sensitive, had a fascinating personal history, one juicy enough to be recounted by his writer sister in a novel that ended up on The New York Times bestseller list. He had amazing listening skills, a keen sense of what made me tick, he had a whole house in Brooklyn that he was lovingly restoring. He collected cool antiques as I did, tended to a beautiful garden, rode a motorcycle, and had a cool daughter. When I first met him he was a super cop, a Sergeant for an undercover organized crime unit in NYC. He used to call me from the surveillance van, telling me he was on a coke buy, and did I need anything for the weekend, with a wink. He was hysterical, wry, and sensitive. And he went down on me with incredible expertise, so much so that I found my mind flashing back to the memory of it every time my hand found my clit. Since putting his 20 in with the NYPD, he had retired, he was now a big guy at Habitat For Humanity, and was being considered for a position to tour the country with Jimmy Carter, everything Brian touched turned to gold. And he was my man. I went to visit him on a Habitat project on site one day in Queens. We had lunch at a Jamaican place, for dessert I sucked his cock in a Home Depot parking lot. Things were really good.

Now it was two years later, his letter now in front of me. He hadn’t realized that the personal ad he had responded to was mine. I hadn’t attempted to contact him those two whole years. If someone leaves you, you leave it alone. You move on. But this was a strange turn of events, receiving his letter. It was ironic; this is the way we met in the first place. Online, with a devastatingly terrific letter from him, followed by more I-could-love-this-man correspondence, and then the unlikely turn of events, that the online connection follows you on to the phone, and then into reality. And now, another deft letter was engaging me, however unintended for me, but it was an opportunity to reopen that door. Did I want that? What did I want to be behind that door? Did I want to say a simple hello? Embark in a friendship? Engage in a possible quick sexual encounter? Or perhaps revisit our romantic past. One thing was for sure: I was going to reply. And I did, with a picture of myself, a close up of my hips clad in pink satin bikini panties accompanied by the line, “hello, it’s me.” I knew he would recognize me. He had seen me in a lot of pink panties – my pale skin and perfect belly button would clench the deal. He sent me back an enthusiastic receipt of panty picture, which I responded to with another visual, and the line, “you haven’t seen me in awhile”. Two days later I received a Happy Valentine’s Day email, a day that had gone without card or comment when we had been dating. We discussed whether or not we should get together, would it be too complicated, would it draw us back into bed, what would be the caveats. At the same time I started to date a man that I had met a few months ago, that had been married, but was now separated. It was a passionate affair, filled with drama, great sex, and plenty of heartache. Brian became my safe haven. The man I could sit quietly by while he worked on his house, or tended to his garden. He would offer to talk through the drama of the man that I was seeing, or simply buy me breakfast at the diner we used to frequent after slow, intense sex. No matter what we were talking about, my relationship, his dating life, our shared love for making things, his new career as an English teacher, the bond was becoming rich. We were closer than we’d ever been before, and we were not having sex. On the one hand, I was having an intense sexual relationship with one man who offered me complete emotional disarray, and a moving, substantive bond with another, who respectfully never laid a hand on me. I wondered if we moved our relationship into the bedroom, his tongue between my legs, would the deep friendship dissolve with each orgasm? Was it worth taking that chance?

When I placed that personal ad that day I heard from Brian, it was my hope to find the one man who I can have it all with. Still, of all the responses I received that day, the only one I answered was the one from my past. I still suspect that one man exists, and I suspect I haven’t met him yet. He's not the one I've been sleeping with, or the one I've been sharing with. Hopefully he's the one that's right around the corner.