poeticdesires

We humans are odd animals. One smile, one gesture towards us from someone we hold in high esteem sends our minds racing. I myself turned into a jumping giggling fool Wednesday night from a simple gesture, though thankfully I was joined by a friend in my exclamations.

What level of Hell is it to not know if someone is a friendly fan or a forcible foe?

I am guilty of the sin of adulation, though my indiscretions are not so harsh as compared to what I have witnessed outside the Richard Rogers Theatre.

I get it. The show is phenomenal, the cast spectacular in their performances. Everything about this show is worthy of love. I admire all I have consumed in the music, media missives, and live musical.

But, at what point are you putting your obsessive need for recognition from those who create the art above the physical and emotional health and well being of the actors? When are you asking, or demanding, too much from folks who are simply people?

I got a smile and a blown kiss as he sped away; that was more than enough. The next night, a gentleman ran after him, following halfway down the block for a fucking selfie. That was too much.

We are not entitled to them. We pay for a ticket and get our three hours of wonder and amazement inside the theatre. Any more than that can never be expected. Any more than that is done out of kindness, not obligation.

They are people with lives outside of the theatre, families to go home to. Once the curtain comes down, they owe you nothing.

When they want to just go home, or not talk, or simply need to be of themselves without the throng about them, leave them alone.

Please, just let them be.

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I knew the title of this post before I ever attempted to see Hamilton again. It is a phrase that resonates so much with me as to warrant contemplation of it being imprinted on my flesh. Paciencia y fe: patience and faith.

This go around I get to tell a story of triumph instead of a tale filled with tears.

Both my patience and faith were tested this week. I hopped a 1:50am bus Tuesday morning, arrived in NYC at 5:50am, and immediately got into the cancellation line outside of the Richard Rodgers Theatre.

However, unlike my previous experience, there were many more people waiting at this early hour. Colleges had just let out. Two different groups of friends had decided to show up on Monday, a non-show day, to sit and wait for the show on Tuesday night. By the time I made it to the line, I was in position number 18 for a ticket.

Only seven tickets were released for the Tuesday show. Also one magical person who had won the lottery gave their extra ticket to a cancellation line member. Still, I was too far behind to have any real shot of a seat that evening.

A group of my friends had suceeded in seeing the show this past Saturday. To do so, they had slept overnight in front of the theatre. Originally my thought was to do the same. As Tuesday’s show started, and we were informed there were no more spots left, I told the remaining people I was going to check into my hostel, take a shower and a nap, and return after the show was done to join them. That never happened.

I hadn’t slept in 36hrs. My bus ride was too rocky for any sleep. It rained most of the day on Tuesday, so no chance for an in line nap. I needed a break.

As we waited, the show about to start, hoping for standing room spots, I swayed on my feet. I felt nauseous. I didn’t know how long I would last without rest.

When I got to my hostel, I learned my room was on the fourth floor and the elevator was out. When I got into my room, I learned an asshole had taken my bed (the bottom bunk) and only one top bunk was left. I was mad, but I was more tired than I’d been in years. I unpacked, took a shower, and climbed into the bed.

I was done. As soon as my body felt the semi-comfortable mattress, it wouldn’t let me lift my head off of it. When I tried to sit up around 10:30pm, I felt like I would vomit. I compromised and set an alarm for 5am.

On Wednesday morning, I got back in line at 5:30am. If I had torn myself from my comforts and slept on the New York City sidewalk, I would have been 8th in line. Instead I was now 15th.

This ended up being a happy turn of fortune. Not only was I exhausted Tuesday night, I was also devastated. The path to attaining a ticket for the show seemed so hard as to almost be not worth it. I’d made a deal with myself that night while lying in bed that if I were any farther back than position 15, I would give up on this trip and try again another day.

Since I was 15th, I waited. And I made friends. They are the only reason why this story has a happy ending. For over twelve hours we chatted, laughed, and made fun of the ridiculous situation we were in. We created Cancellation Line Bingo. We whispered ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ for each passing man in uniform, and there were many. (Thank you Fleet Week for helping to make my Hamilton dream come true.)

By the end of this second waiting game day, I had hope again. So when I was next to last for the Wednesday evening show when again tickets and standing room spots were filled, I already knew where I would be sleeping that night.

I woke up Thursday morning achey but excited. I was so close. Just a little bit farther to go.

With my friends still with me, we again waited, now on my third day of outdoor tedium. At 3:30pm, when the theatre rep came out and said he had four premium tickets for Thursday evening, I felt like my heart would burst. All of us would see the show.

We had a meal together, changed together, and experienced Hamilton together. I saw my musical, and made two new friends to boot.

Patience and faith.

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I am so scared right now. Granted, I live a life full of fears, both big and small, but tonight especially those frights have set upon me.

I suppose I’m writing this so I can get some sleep, or possibly just to say it out loud. Name the demon and it will lose its power, as it were.

Three big fears have sent my mind whirling this evening: school, love, and Hamilton.

School:
I plan to take the MCAT in August. At every turn of my current scholastic adventure, I’ve done well. No, actually I’ve been awesome, with an A earned in every class I’ve taken since I’ve gone back to school. But I can’t shake the feeling of, any day now, the other shoe dropping.

When am I not going to be good enough? When are they going to see that I don’t belong, that I’m not as smart as I portray?

I know this feeling has a name: imposter syndrome. Yet, even though I know all my worries are not rooted in reality, and I do in fact belong here (post-bac quasi-pre med student, busting curves as I go), I’m always waiting for the no. I’m always expecting the no. I lack the confidence to believe in myself, though I keep proving my doubts wrong at every turn.

Currently I’m subscribing to a 50/50 mix of ‘fake it til you make it’ and ‘just keep going and see what happens’ to overcome my fear. Hopefully, with some help from Doc, this will get better.

Love:
Sometimes I am so lonely. Sometimes I fear I’ll never get married, never have children. Sometimes I wonder if I ever made a mistake when I broke up with my exes.

And then I remember why I made those decisions. I don’t regret leaving any of my past relationships. I do regret not leaving them earlier.

Too often I am drawn to an archetype which is basically the outline of my father’s traits: handsome, intelligent, relatively successful in his career, and utterly emotionally distant.

Pondering this in my car one day, I wondered if my ideal man was something of a unicorn, fictional and unobtainable. My ideal partner: a black man between 27-35, intelligent, handsome, wants marriage and children, politically and culturally aware, and with a kink or poly awareness or background.

Why do I call this man a unicorn? Because most men by this age, if they want marriage, are already married. Most handsome men are in relationships. This includes my semester crush, a beautiful mixed race guy with geekiness to boot.

Adding in the kink/poly element creates an even smaller subset to chose from, and I feel helpless just thinking about it.

I’ve thought about settling a lot. Maybe kink or poly aren’t necessary, but how do I even approach the topic to explain to someone unfamiliar with BDSM that I actually need that type of connection to feel whole? I’ve thought about relaxing my political views, and then quickly quashed that thought. One conversation with another classmate left me cringing: a few casual mild gay jokes, not understanding the extent of misogyny in his tone, and my frustration of trying to explain bystander intervention to help end rape culture. It just feels like to much work to compromise so much of myself for a life I know I want but not with someone who would inflict small heartaches each day.

In a random moment with my mother, on Mother’s Day, I talked about buying a house on my own and having a child via sperm donation, all after I’ve settled into my medical career, because, for the first time, I thought about a hopeful life for myself that didn’t include an imaginary husband who has yet to appear.

I don’t need a life partner, but fuck I want one.

Hamilton:
This past weekend, a few of my friends went up, stayed overnight waiting in the cancellation line, and got tickets to go see the show. I couldn’t come with them because of work.

But, I’m trying again this Tuesday and Wednesday.

What if it happens again? What if once more I have to swallow the bitter pill of sadness and regret? What if I go, only to come back in tears instead of triumph?

Of all my current worries, this by far is the least important (I do have some perspective folks) and, funny enough, the one with the most hope.

Today, during a cartoon marathon with friends (cause we know how to adult right) we planned a group trip to try to see the show. Truth be told, I much prefer that option, and am looking forward to it in July.

However, as with everything I’ve listed, I cannot let my fears stop me. Fear of failure does not mean one should never try. Fear can be a useful tool to save your life, but it can also hold you back from experiences worth living, a life worth having, through happiness and sadness. One cannot know the light without the dark, the yippee without the oh man.

So fuck you, fear. I’m still gonna be me, fraidy cat who does it anyway, scared shitless as I go.

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After my bus ride home from New York, post-Hamilton heartache, I immediately rushed to see friends. We attended a local trivia night for the first time. I told them my story; I let go of some of my sads.

Trivia was awesome. Because of our nerd-irific ways, we came in third place. This meant we got to pick a category for next week. We knew exactly what it would be: Hamilton, the musical and the man.

On the drive home afterwards, my roommate introduced me to The Reynolds Remix AND the full John Adams rap. My god, so good.

I wasn’t sure if I would fall back into loving Hamilton. My first try to see the show was so heartbreaking. But there is just something about the musical that draws you in: so much to love and such nuisance in which to get lost. I fall in love with it every time I listen.

I cry every time I listen to Wait For It, even once in a particularly odd moment while washing dishes. Somehow this show has me empathizing with a man vilified by history. So much of his life and aspirations are reflected in people today.

Since my first attempt to see Hamilton, I’ve been wondering when I’d be ready again. Could I save enough money to buy a ticket on StubHub? Maybe another overpriced ticket on Ticketmaster resale or Vivid Tickets.

Then I checked my Facebook. Hamilton opened up a block of seats for later this year. But I checked too late. At 9pm they went on sale. By 10:30pm they were gone. I didn’t see the message until after midnight.

But I realized something as I tried, and failed, to find affordable tickets: I’m ready. I’m going back to New York. I’m going to try again.

More news came yesterday. They’ve changed the rules for the cancellation line. No more tents. No more chairs. When you buy the ticket, you immediately go into the theatre. With one golden sign outside the stage door, they have basically eliminated the paid line sitters.

If these rules were in place earlier, myself and five other people would have seen the show. I have hope, real hope, that I can make this happen.

I’ll show up super early. I’ll wait. And wait. I will NOT leave the line.

Me, in NYC, 11 days away. Maybe this time…

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I’m drunk, so I decided to fill out the Fantasy section of my DO:Fusion profile. It was so good, I felt like sharing.

I want sex. Like good sex. Like I’m crying cause my body is shaky cause it was so good sex. I want making out and bodies close and breath hot against each other. I want orgasms and giggles and exhaustion cause we just fucked for an hour and still don’t want to stop sex. Fuck me right, please. It has been far too long.

I want rope. I want to be bound, vulnerable, and at your whim. I want to be lost in a world solely comprised of you, your rope, and my body. I want to feel you are only of me and I am only of you for the small space that we
create between hemp/jute and flesh.

I want to get lost in the daze of fingers in my hair and oxytocin pulsing throughout my brain.

I want love, but that’s too much to ask for at a kink convention. So fun, and whimsy, and giggles will do.

I find it funny that I am speaking my truth while it is literally coming out of me because I drank half a bottle of wine.

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~a poem~

Are we flirting?
Cause he keeps smiling,
and I keep smiling,
and we’re acting stupid goofy
even though we’re supposed to be studying.

It’s hard for me
to take my eyes
off his eyes.
I can feel the bubbliness
bubble up in me.

He’s so pretty,
with curly full hair,
and caramel perfect skin.

I want to ask him out.
I want to smell his neck.
I want to kiss him.

But our exam is in a few days,
and he probably has a girlfriend.
He’s too pretty to
not have a girlfriend.

But why does he keep smiling at me?
Cause I can’t stop myself from
smiling back.

Is he flirting with me?

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“I want to be in the room where it happens.”

I wanted to punch someone, but of course I didn’t.

I wanted to scream, plead, beg the doorman. I didn’t do that either.

Instead, I cried.

~

Marci bused up from DC, taking a 2am trip and landing in NYC around 6am. She got food and then got in line. She was only in the city for the day, taking a chance that maybe magic would happen. And it did, for her. She got the last matinee ticket released.

Short blonde hair had camped out overnight. Unlike the three guys ahead of her, this was not her job. She was tag teaming with her friend, who came and subbed in around 4pm so blonde hair could go shower and change. Their plan worked. They saw the evening show together.

Holly flew in from California. She landed, stowed her luggage at her hotel, and got in line. She was the only single ticket ahead of me. Her magic struck at 7:05pm; her seat was Orchestra Row J.

Penguins jersey was so kind. She kept offering everyone mints, or suggesting where we could go for food, or where to use the restroom. She had a smile on her face the whole time while nerves clenched at my belly. She and her friend went in just before the two BFAs.

BFA 1 & BFA 2 were the sweetest girls. They were going to school in the city, studying musical theatre. Like me, they had brought homework to do while they waited. Occasionally, throughout the day, they broke out in song. We all wondered why we didn’t just start performing the show for ourselves. The doorman chatted with them a few times. He rushed them to standing room only, just before curtain, the last ones he was able to let in.

For the evening show, 13 spots opened up; I was number 14.

~

To love something is to open yourself up to the possibility that it will hurt you.

~

As I strolled in the sculpture garden this morning, the Sun beamed brightly. I took slow measured steps, drinking in lines, angles, colors, textures. I let myself sink into each piece, examining and reveling in such beauties.

Walking through the galleries felt like a pilgrimage, myself penitent and jubilant. So often I smiled, awed, or outright laughed. I lost myself in piece after piece, new love upon new love.

Twice I smiled at gallery monitors, who gave me knowing looks and grins in return. I almost envied them their job.

I’m glad I planned ahead. I’m better now because of this morning, those moments of beauty.

~

After my near magic turned misery last night, I drank down a bottle of wine in an hour, took a quick shower, and put on my best outfit. It was sexy and flirty, but I was not. Every six steps, I pulled at the bottom of my dress.

I made my way back to the theatre.

Penguin shirt found me. She loved the show, and assured me I would get to see it in the future. BFA 1 & BFA 2 did the same. I was happy for them, as I held in my tears.

I stood near the same spot I had occupied for so many hours. I held my Hamiltome in one hand and a Sharpie in another.

And then the vampires arrived: half a dozen with multiple branded items and little regard for me. Still, I was able to chat with one or two. They didn’t hate me; they just didn’t care.

The doors opened multiple times, with the familiar faces passing by. I was happy to see them, though I never had the heart to open my mouth. It was a two show day. They were tired. I could see it in their faces.

My two favorites left together, hurrying into a waiting car. A vampire tried, and failed, to nab the stars’ signatures. All I could do was watch.

And then, as if to show that love can still exist in the midst of sadness, she rolled down her window, smiled, and waved. I waved back and said, “Thank you.”

That would be enough.

~

Raise a glass to the beauty of the bitter pill, the almost joy, the near happiness which makes it hurt all the more.

Raise a glass to hope, as small as it may be, for without it why would we even live.

Raise a glass to them who made it, and those who struggle still.

To joy, and the bitter pill.

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~ erotica ~

“Come here.”

I crept closer.

I wore the collar he requested. And the cuffs he loved. A long skirt that almost kissed the floor. A sheer blue shirt. And no bra.

He wore nothing.

Sitting on my couch, he stroked himself while never looking away from me. My nature drove my gaze down, with brief peaks at his full manhood, and occasionally licking my lips, hoping for his usual request.

When I was close enough, he slid a hand up my skirt along my leg. Caressed my calf. And ended at my ass which he gave a good squeeze.

“No panties. Good girl.”

His middle finger looped the piece of metal at the front on of my collar.

“Hike up your skirt.”

His single finger pulled me down onto him. I exhaled, moaning as I took all of him into me.

“You are wet. You liked seeing your Daddy on your couch, cock hard and stroking it for you.”

“Yes Daddy.”

He pulled my face close to his. Wouldn’t let me look away. Whispered his request.

“Well, now it’s your turn to stroke me, my good girl. Use your silky pussy to stroke your Daddy’s cock.”

“Yes Daddy,” I whispered back.

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Every year, I try to sit down and reevaluate my life. I write down my thoughts on my work, family, friends, and love life.

About two years ago, as an exercise for Doc, I wrote a story about meeting my husband, whoever he ends up being. This year I wrote a story for myself about how I imagine our life being…

“Come on. It’s your turn.”

I wake up groggy and cranky, as usual, from the kiss on my cheek and a wisp of hair being tucked behind my ear.

“I don’t wanna.”

“I know love, but you are the one who wanted to adopt a dog with a bladder the size of pea. Besides, your morning runs with him have made your ass look even more delicious lately.”

“Flattery, is it? You really think flattery will get me out of this bed on a rainy Sunday morning?”

“That, and I lead you by two thousands steps and counting.”

“Dammit.”

“That’s my wife, always in it to win it. Come here, I’ll even give that fine ass a smack to start your day.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

I reluctantly shrug off the comforter and emerge from the bed stumbling.

“Kiss too?”

“With your stanky before-the-bathroom breath?”

“Shut up. You love my stanky ass breath.”

I circle my arms around his neck and kiss him. He smells of sweat from his morning jog and coffee with flavored creamer. His sting laid on my ass is the pleasant way I like to start my day.

“The hellyuns?”

“Two in front of the TV and one is doing homework.”

“Did she wait until the last moment on another paper?”

“Nope; SATs are in two weeks.”

“Fuck, I love having smart children. Okay, me and bean bladder will be back in an hour. Can you make breakfast, please oh please?”

“Do we have…”

“Eggs and bacon are on the middle shelf in the fridge, fruits’ in the crisper, and an unopened carton of orange juice is in the back. Love you.”

“Love you too, oh food swami.”

He kisses me again, longer this time, and grabs my ass for good measure.

“Is oldest taking the kids out?”

“If we pay her, she will. Quickie or not-so-quickie?”

“I still have $50,000 in student same day online loans to pay off.”

“All three holes?”

“Warm you up with my mouth, and then pound my cunt while your fingers are in my ass.”

“You really are the perfect wife.”

“I know.”

I dash away, knowing if I stay any longer I won’t get my run in.

“And that ass,” he calls after.

“Love you too,” I holler on my way out.

I don’t bother looking towards the kids. It’s been enough years that I’ve memorized their embarrasment faces.

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For the past two days, I have listened to the Hamilton score beginning to end, and each time I found myself in tears. As much I try to stifle them, even now as I write, they still come.

I suppose it is a testament to his brilliance that Lin-Manuel Miranda was able to craft a musical so charming, captivating, and powerful that I still want to go back again and again.

Listening to his songs, I feel in love with Alexander through his struggles and triumphs. I smiled for Eliza, being blessed with his love, and yearned with Angelica, who could never truly have him. I was crushed by Alexander’s weakness and pride, wept for his son Philip, and, in the end, cursed that blasted Aaron Burr.

I know the odds of me getting to see the show are slim, but I’m going to try, possibly for my birthday. (Gives me some months to save and plan.)

And, should I win a lottery spot, the only way I can see myself getting a ticket, I will bring lots of tissues and sing along with a smile on my face and tears kissing my cheeks.

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