"Undermining my electoral viability since 2001."

He's On Fire!

So another long post, but this one because I stumbled upon an old cache of never-blogged textfiles from 2003 and before. Dynamite stuff from the archives -- like these old artistic source texts -- and some of it still topical!

Here's a bit from deep inside my mind back when I was still a Young Buck, and right before I fell in love again, it's interesting to note. Borderline arrogant, true, but that kind of free and open state of mind is something I think it would be very positive for me to reconnect with.

h4. Dancing.txt (1/27/2003)

There was dancing, and I overheard a fairly nubile 20-year-old tell some lucky chump. "I want sex. I like it. It feels good to me. I don't do it a lot, but I want someone who will give it to me now."

He seemed at first to be too much of a weify wannabe hipster/jock hybrid to step up to what she was pitching, and for a moment I entertained a fantasy of "cutting in" so to speak. She and I had been dancing somewhat in sync earlier, and lustful thoughts had been propagating for some time. But I hesitated. In the moment I became plagued with doubt; about who I was and what I was doing; about who she was and if I really wanted her; doubt about the very nature of my own desire.

During the intervening doubtful minute, the lucky chump realizes the what score is and decides he knows what to do. Soon they are gone, and thinking it over I'm not all that bothered. You see, I realized if I were going to try it with her, it would have to be something like this:

Josh: Sorry, I couldn't help but notice the proposition you just made to this gentleman, and I'd like to make my services available to you this evening, should you be so inclined. I'm good, and I'm leaving town for New York City in two days. There will be no complecations.

20-y-o: Ummm ok. [resumes talking to other guy]

[But then... 20 minutes later]

20-y-o: Ok, are you game?

J: You know I'm leaving town, right?

20-y-o: Yeah.

J: Ok then one condition.

20-y-o: What?

J: It has to be passionate.

Now we all know this would not likely work in reality, so it's better off just being a fantasy. Kind of makes me consider taking to penning erotic fiction though. Have a pseudoname and everything. I mean, how's that for a pick up conversation?

Girl: "So what do you do in your spare time?"

J: "Ohhh, I write erotic fiction."


Of course conversation is really what it's all about. I'll be 10-times more likely to have sex with a girl if we can have an engaging conversation. That's worth more than any physical feature. The prettiest face is't worth much if you can't talk to it and boobs are really only as sexy as the head they're attached to. While it's always nice, ass has no value in terms of rhetoric.

But then the deep sleeping truth awakes and arises that there are more ways to have conversation than to speak with words. After all, dancing is a form of conversation -- one I enjoy but do not excel at -- and the body can speak volumes. The thought springs to attention that sex is a conversation as well, and lucky for me one I am both enthused about and skilled at.

I then follows that -- theoretically -- if you just started dancing and it really worked and you then moved on to having sex, you would never need to speak a word. Indeed! An ass is a good conduit for information, if it's purposeful and freely swung.

And so you entertain the vain hope that you'll make that star-crossed connection, that your eyes will lock, that you'll both burst open with the life energy and desire that's surging within you, end up having great and soulful intercourse, maybe in the bedroom downstairs, maybe on the lawn out back, maybe in the back of some strangers automobile. Real moaning and drawn-out shit. Soulful. Passionate.

I want to sleep with someone I don't know very well. New material. Unexplored territory. Strangers. I want it to be like what I've just described. I want to just lay down with an ex who I think might be willing to not make any pretensions. Having fun, cuddling, making out, screwing in an epic fashion. Any way you cut it, it's time to be honest.

In spite of all that I'm still glad I came home alone tonight. It was worth it for the fantasy. Fantasy is pretty valuable to me.

I used to call it "the gut feeling" with my friends. The stab of innocent virgin lust that would hit me almost once every day, if not more. It was caused by my crushes, and it was the most powerful pang I've ever felt.

I related this once in a theater exercise about creating a 60-second story from a memory that would communicate a feeling, picked the ultimate single example of crushlust I could think of. Fifteen years old, walking down the hall and out from the left-hand juncture swings Caryn, whose profile I stare at in acting class. She has reddish hair and it's swinging down her back as she walks in front of me, my eyes trailing her spine. She's wearing a white skirt that's relatively short for a high-school student, but not exactly scandalous, and she's wearing white tights to match.

Or so I thought, until the sway in her stride swishes the hem enough to the left and I see they're not tights but some kind of hellified thigh-high stockings, and for the moment that this band of leg above the top of the stockings and below the hem of the skirt flashes out -- looking back with my minds eye I see it in slow-motion -- and I am an almost mythical stereotype of a teenage boy, confounded completely. I'm lucky to keep walking straight.

Yes, this was the desire I remember. I had it chronically since I was a teenager, and then pretty good and strong for a while with my first girlfriend.

With her, the feeling stopped being virgin but remained pure and true right up through the end. I called it love and still believe it somedays. We were just too young and not done growing to hold it all together. The post-relationship sex was mind-blowingly hot too, though it tended to be more nakedly about power. Not like the good sweet days when we'd gotten to know each other's bodies pretty well and I would lie next to her and look her in the eyes and just touch, without saying anything. And then we would do it and she would claw up my back and I would talk dirty to her, and it would still be still pure and innocent. It was right. Amazing times.

These days it'll take conversation to give me the pang. I related that whole stocking story to a girl a little while ago during the course of a pretty good conversation. Later that week we made out. She was a perky little bi-sexual with a pretty strong queer edge, and while she wasn't bad looking, I wasn't really attracted to her physically. Initially, in fact, I didn't think anything was going to happen at all, but then we started talking.

We discussed sociology and sex and the Simpsons, made magnetic poetry together and I got to discover the very girly side of her. She would sometimes literally try to win an already well-argued point in the discussion by batting her eyelashes at me. When I pulled at her with my arms or bit her lip she would emit a little squeak, exhale, and respond tenaciously.

It was fun and safe, and I'm into that. I'll deal with my aching blue balls on my own if the makeout is worth it. Not that I don't want to have sex, but when I think going for it is going to ruin the vibe I don't want to trade great makeout for mediocre boinking or static uncomfortability.

Which brings me back to dancing. It's a good way to check people out, see if you like them, and usually there's space to have a real-words conversation if you want to. Or you can let your pelvis do the talking. Up to you, cowboy.