I don’t generally make specific New Year’s reloutions, but I do always have things I’m striving to accomplish, and January first is as good a start date as any.

I want to be able to see my abs. I don’t care if there is a six pack or just flat, but I want to see them. To do this, I am going to stop eating sweets alltogether. Seriously. And I am going to do several sets of crunches and other core workouts each day. When it’s warm enough out not to freeze my lungs, I’ll begin to run in the evenings again in order to shed the beer gut.

I want to write something. Not just a blurb or bit of expostion, but a short story or even the outline of a novel. It needs to have a begining and an end and a nice plot to follow.

I want to read more and be on the internet less.

I want to spend more time with my friends. I’ve been really bad at this lately. I rarely even see my roommate. This will change.

I want to be outside more. On my days off I want to be hiking in the mountains or at least walking around town. Not inside.

I want to find a new job.

I want to find a place to volunteer that better suits my calling in life. (Whatever that is.)

Families are odd. They're the ones that are supposed to know you best and vice versa. They're the ones that are supposed to stick with you and really care. They're also the ones I have tense and awkward forced conversations with on holidays.

I know my parents love me. My mom even sent me holiday candies. My dad refuses to let me pay for my cell phone. They try to understand me. They do not disown me.

They just refuse to learn about my life. They wish to remember me and not know me as I am.

It makes me a bit sad.

thoughts on religion

I am afraid of religion. Not in general, just as it pertains to me. The reaction I have at the thought returning to religion is much like the reaction I have at the thought of returning to school. I'm not entirely sure where this feeling came from. I don't think it's always been there. For quite awhile after I came out as some shade of queer, I tried to rectify my faith with what I believed about myself. I still believe this is possible, just not for me.

I certainly do believe in God. I just don't believe in organized religion I guess. It seems to get it wrong time and time again. I understand the structure and I remember how good it felt to be a part of that club. But I can do without the guilt, thanks. And I don't enjoy the exclusivity anymore.

I don't like to try to narrow God into a definition. From what I've experienced, perhaps He's benevolent. But there is also evidence that He's a bit spiteful and vengeful and even cruel. But then again, I think that's just humanity. And life.

Anyhow, I am allergic to religion and furthering my education in the traditional manner.

God is no longer back-burner as I wrote some years ago. He's basically cooling off in that little drawer under the stove.

10/31/11

(note: this is smut after the set of asterisks.)

The boy’s frame was thin, he seemed unused to the length of his limbs, as if puberty was still a recent memory and he hadn’t had much time in the new body it had given him. Of course he wasn’t actually a boy. As a second semester freshman he’d have to be at least 18, right? But the gangly adolescence remained. He didn’t seem to realize that he could add to his meager muscles. Instead, what was there just stood on end when he moved. This is not to say he wasn’t fit. Though he moved as if uncomfortable in his body, he moved well, each joint sliding as it should under all those wiry muscles. He was not confidant, but not hesitant either, just steady; pacing down the sidewalk.

I was observing from my dorm balcony, sipping cocoa with Irish cream, watching people pass as is my wont. Studying one so long is a rarity, though. But I couldn’t not. He was fascinating.

He ought to be cold, walking outside in only a tight t-shirt in April. But all the better to observe how wonderfully he was put together.

Many people would look at him and note his spare frame and obvious youth. They might distain his flaming orange hair and the freckles that were splattered across his face and, likely, everywhere else. I distained none of it.

In twenty seconds he had walked from the right, to just under my balcony. As he passed, his eyes flicked my way. His intelligent, alive, jade green eyes glanced off my own and slid away. My stomach flipped.

I wonder if he’d even been aware of me. And if he had, did he see my interest? Surely he felt my eyes following his retreat, settling on his backside. His jeans didn’t hug it – there wasn’t much to hug- but I could imagine it. Suddenly, I needed to be somewhere private…

For the few hours before my next class, I thought about that boy. I memorized the angles of him. His posture. That keen glance. And I mentally undressed him. Several times. I couldn’t get farther than that though. I could visualize his legs, lithe, lightly covered in ginger hairs. And I could see his thin chest, with its delightful trail leading… somewhere. It was actually a bit frustrating.

***

I looked into those eyes, the deep green flashed longing and I felt the same as I had when we’d first shared a glance. My hand came up and touched his hair near his ear, pushing it back and burying my fingers against his scalp. His hand was on my arm, resting in the crook of my elbow. I pulled him in and brushed my lips against his. As usual, he was neither confidant nor hesitant, he met my kiss and followed my lead as I parted his lips with my tongue. The touch of our tongues was like being dowsed in boiling water. The pace changed instantly.

I pulled him close, kissing him messily. He arms encircled me as I clung to his head. Then I ran my hand down his chest, feeling his pulse. He gasped as I tweaked a stiff nipple. I pinched a bit harder and he bit my lower lip sharply as he squirmed. My hand continued lower, squeezing his hip and sliding under the hem of his shirt. He pulled his middle in at my touch, making all of his ribs stand on end. I moved my hand to his back, feeling up the length of his spine inciting sheet after sheet of delightful goose bumps. My hand slid back down, finding the hem of his boxer briefs and sliding under. At this he pulled away, stared at me, breathing heavily. His gemstone eyes unsure, yet eager.

I used my eyes and the tips of my fingers to reassure him. He grinned that wide, goofy grin, and came back in to kiss my neck.

My hand found his waistline again and I plunged under, gripping his lean behind. He rocked onto me and did some ass-grabbing of his own.

I toke the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head smoothly, exposing his clear white skin, patterned with clusters of auburn freckles. I began to kiss his chest while pushing him down under me. He allowed himself to be reclined, but looped his arms around my neck to ensure that I accompanied him. I sprawled next to him, still kissing his chest and neck. He gripped my shirt, pulling eagerly at it. I decided to allow its removal. It’s only fair. But before I could return to administering to him, his hands were on my chest, sliding across and down my sides.

With some effort, I pushed him back down onto his back and straddled him, running my hands along his chest as I slowly kissed down the center of his chest. And lower.

I slowly undid the button of his jeans feeling the hardened bulk underneath. He gasped and gripped the headboard with one hand and my hair with the other.

I drew his penis out of the top of his boxers and sat upright to admire it. It reached his belly button and twitched with anticipation.

A sound like a whimper escaped him as I gently kissed the tip and moved my lips along the length. But I wasn’t ready just yet. I wanted to draw it out more. So I gripped his jeans and pulled them down. Then I lay along side him and met his mouth with mine again. As we kissed he fiddled with my jeans and caressed me through my boxers. One arm was around his shoulders, holding him close to me, the other hand trailed down and found his erection again. Slowly I began stroking, feeling the veins bulge, stifling his gasps with my lips.

Then in a surprising burst, he was on top of me, straddling my erection with his own. I bucked my hips, seating him further up on my chest instead of my waist. Close enough so I could get his cock into my mouth. He wasn’t expecting that at all, and wide-eyed thrust it deeper in response. I didn’t gag of course, but used my hands to move his hips back and forth until he got the rhythm and I could put them to use elsewhere. My fingers found his crack and I heard him moan to the ceiling. I felt along the crease, spreading his buttocks and touching my fingers lightly against his anus.

His knees were in my armpits which gave me leverage to roll him over. I lay between his legs, sucking away, using one hand to help in that endeavor while the other entertained his backside.

The remainder of that session is now a blur to me. It has happened to me once before, my first time ever in Jim’s grandparents’ hot tub. (All I remember from that session is nearly drowning and having a sore ass for days.)

But this was as different sort of blur. Even in his inexperience, he sort of took over and moved himself and me to all the appropriate position. I remember sucking him and dry, but also watching him spray me from my navel to my neck. Condoms and lube were broken out. I’m glad that’s a subconscious habit now, though I only know because of the wrappers. I remember the overwhelming euphoria that was far more than just orgasmic. Everything was right. As right as it ever would be.

I just wish I could remember how he sounded when I entered him or when he entered me, as I am assured that both occurred. I wish I could remember the feeling of his tonsils against the head of my cock.

I guess we’ll just have to do it again, without the blur. In the meantime, I’m safe in his embrace. I can feel his breath on my back. Our fingers are entwined.

Novemeber is at its end. And so is my desperate drive to write. I did fairly well with writing every day. Hopefully tonight or tomorrow, I'll type out all (or most) of the things I've written in my notebook. Fairly exciting.

Sleep tickles the edges of my mind. Clouding my head like miniscule cobwebs. Dusty. Stuffy. Cloying. My lungs seem not to be able to take in the proper amount of air. I feel stifled. My limbs are heavy. Moving is arduous. Yet my muscles jitter faintly. Never letting me forget they are there. Limp yet restless.

Yet for all that, my head refuses to quiet and give in to the lull of darkness, of the soft pillow and warm blankets.

I am reluctant to turn of the bedside lamp. Reluctant to succumb to sleep. And dreams. Never remembered, but tickling the edges of consciousness. Haunting vagueries. Remnants of an overactive brain. The faint memories of those dreams are more stifling than my sodden lungs.

Frost like shards of glass. Or fuzzy and friendly looking. Dead footprints across the grass. Breath that hangs in a shroud.

I don't know how to alleviate stress. My own or others'.

I've been really off lately.

Sometimes that means I write more, but as you can see, this time it means I don't want to write.

I don't want to turn this into a journal blog, but I'll speak a little about my funk.

I feel very isolated. I don't talk to new people well and it seems I don't keep in good touch with old friends either. It makes me sad. Even the ones who are near are infrequent. And I dislike talking on the phone. And as much as I realize I'm not a great friend, I often wonder why it is always up to me to initiate most anything. Sometimes I want to be surprised. Invited. Spoiled. Anything but ignored.

I'm going to work on friendships. It's essential. I don't want to become a shadow to everyone but by boyfriend and my roommate.

I exist in silence
in the space between words
cut off from the art of speaking
limited to the arrangement of letters on a page

it's lonely here
between the light and the dark
a liminal space