poeticdesires

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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I have never wanted to break the rules so much as I did tonight.

Two times. Two times I met a guy that I wanted to ask for my number, and I would have happily given it. Shit, if either of them had inquired, I would have been DTF right then and there.

The first was a cute white boy. He played his own music (loudly) while I drove. His playlist alone earned him keys to my panties: Jay-Z, Tupac, and some old school R&B. And then, after a quick stop, I smelled the scent of recreation from his bag. Hot, excellent taste in music, and you have a hookup? Shit…

The second was a handsome black man. He sat in the front next to me. We chatted about Young Justice and Avatar: The Last Air Bender. We cursed M. Night Shamalan’s name and vented against his abomination of a movie. We both were looking forward to Deadpool coming out. He was my nerd soulmate.

And yet, neither asked. And I, the good little driver, never offered.

On my way home, I fantasized about threesomes, nerdy happenings, and the things I wanted to do with those boys.

Life, I get it. I will have others. I am heartened to see proof of the kind of man I want out there and in different forms.

Still, can’t a sister get a break?

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Have you ever scratched your cunt, or your asshole, so hard it bled, but you fucking loved every dirty hot moment of it?

Will I ever feel, or believe, I am as smart as everyone else in my life seems to think? Will I ever stop feeling like an imposter?

Do they hear the sadness behind my words? Do they know how much I long for so many things I have never had?

I want to make more money, but is it worth it to sacrifice 10am snuggle time?

Are my whimsical ways going to eventually get me into trouble someday?

How on earth are people that pretty real?

Why must she ruin it ever single fucking time? Is this one of her super powers?

What would my life had been like if apathy (or extreme respectfulness) hadn’t played such a strong role?

Is anyone still reading this?

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Today I went to a funeral. It was for my Aunt, my father’s oldest sister, who I didn’t get to know until late in her life.

Being the product of an affair, and now integrating myself into an entire half of my family I did not grow up with, made today awkward. Or, more to the point, I felt awkward. It also didn’t help that I’ve been fighting a cold/sinus infection.

Like any stereotypical black funeral, there was singing, praising, and a very loud long-winded pastor. Still, it was nice.

I got to see a lot of people, no, family. That’s still weird to say.

I also got a better sense of the woman my Aunt was: intelligent, strong willed, loving. I knew her as the smiling frail woman who was hard of hearing but always happy to see me.

Even though she didn’t have any children, you saw her impact in the nieces and nephews she cared for, in the multitude of lives she touched.

For her last birthday, I bought her a pocket rock with the word LOVE inscribed on it. More than anything else, she gave and was loved.

Goodbye Aunt Nellie.

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