During my run, I stopped to take a picture of a park I was passing. The camera phone does it no justice, and no doubt, it looks brighter than it actually was.

I spent a fair portion of the evening running in spite of the current weather. It is raining and cold - the sort I generally only go out into when I’m angry. However, this time, frustration drove me there more than anything else. I was soaked when I came home, and cold - and I peeled off my clothing and dropped them into wet piles on the tile.

The shower was a blessing for its heat.

Now I have the week ahead to review. I generally do this Friday night so that I have an idea exactly what I will encounter during the coming days, but this week, I simply didn’t want to glance into the future. It is rather like a dirty room in a house that seems insurmountable, so instead, the focus is on the only slightly dusty furniture in another. Do you have that room?

In this case, the room is filled with work, not mine, but someone else’s. I am spending the next two weeks (my self-provided deadline) fixing the major -MAJOR- flaws somewhere else.

And I don’t want to look at it. I spent about 2.5 hours finding out just how messy that ‘room’ was, and it was all I could do not to set fire and start fresh.

I believe I am finally reaching the point where my career doesn’t fill the space it previously did. Priorities have changed. And I’m not looking forward to 18 hour days, falling asleep at my desk, and surviving off of energy drinks.

So for the moment, I am refusing to open the door into that room. I won’t even look at it tomorrow. Monday it can have me.

In the meanwhile, I am going to get some sleep. I’m tired. So tired.

Say a prayer…

Don’t make it a trite one, filled with those impossible, girlish dreams of hope and fantasy.
You will never cure the world of hunger in a day,
Or give hope to the hopeless…
Not in the few words it takes to beg God for that one desire.

He has heard them before.

Rather,
Say your prayer to me.
The same rules apply.
No wishful or hopeful thoughts,
No.
I’d rather see something else, hear something else.

I want those things you sob into your pillow,
Rocking back and forth, your fingers hopelessly tangled in the cotton sheets.
I want what you ask for,
what you beg for then, at your weakest moment,
when all of your barriers come crashing down,
your face utterly broken,
your soul utterly bare…

That is the prayer I want to hear.

I won’t always be able to make it happen,
My humanity inhibits my divinity,
but…but,

I’ll lessen your burden.
Take most of it away.

For however brief a time that you remain in my care.

You’re tired/sick. It is something you say to yourself when you sit there and try to find some reason for this frustration that sits in your gut.

You’re tired and a good night’s sleep will rid you of it. You build on the concept as if to give it some validity to your mind which comes with many other, more exact reasons, for how you feel at the moment.

It will be better in the morning. Of course, some of the feeling will be lost or forgotten by your sleeping mind. It never really goes until it is addressed, but the hope that is inspired by the lie of everything being somehow magically better, still lends some comfort, even at its high cost.

There is nothing wrong. Oh, how we do try to hide behind this one. Grasping at ghostly straws which never materialize in our palms, we chase that elusive dream.

It’s their fault. Blame is easier to place at someone else’s feet.

A quick thought in an otherwise quiet world.

More soon.

I sense you standing in the entryway to the living room, but don’t bother to open my eyes. I haven’t even greeted you beyond the negligible movement of my hand from its resting place on the arm of the club chair. My right calf is perched upon the corner of the ottoman, my foot, still in its loafer, hanging off the side. The other foot is flat to the floor and I am slumped in the chair. I can feel my jacket ruck up around my neck and, other than a fleeting thought at how it is likely wrinkling, I don’t give a fuck about it.

The room is dark, as dark as it can be at 5 something in the afternoon, with the evening sun spilling into the windows. There is some music streaming from the speakers, Christmas music - something you’ll recall that I went to a great deal of trouble to record as an MP3 despite it only existing on vinyl. It is the Annapolis glee club - some military thing that you wouldn’t understand except that you were there when I uncovered it from my father’s collection. Saw just how important it was… is to me.

The windows are open and birds are singing outside. Sasha is perched in the window sill in a vain effort to catch one that never seems to stray close enough for her liking, even if the screen still prevents any action. The curtains move and shift in the wind that breezes through the house. You can tell I’ve opened the doors along the rear wall that faces our incredible deck. It is cooler from having graced the waters surface, and gives the 80 degree weather a refreshing kiss.

You aren’t saying anything. Perhaps you noticed the glass of ice water that my palm covers, and how my fingers are wet from condensation. Perhaps you notice how the moisture forms a ring on the leather. I can hear myself breathing acutely, and somehow your presence has eased some tension inside me. I haven’t even opened my eyes.

I crack them a moment later when I feel your palms on my thighs. There is a small smile that graces your mouth and it shines even brighter out of your eyes and I feel an echo of it run through me. My free hand moves some of your hair away from your face and you turn into my touch like you always do - even when you wish it otherwise. You lean forward and my hand slides behind you to pull you closer, even if you weren’t already in motion. The kiss is brief, but again, there is a tension that drains further.

You take the glass from my hand and place it on the coffee table, before your fingers start to play with my tie, wiggling it back and forth until that long length of patterned silk comes loose and you are able to pull it off of me. I cover your hand as you find your way down to the forth button and you shake your head. I stroke the skin there and return my palm to the arm of the seat. You’ve convinced me otherwise.

The shirt is pushed open and when I move to sit up your palm pauses in the middle of my chest and I lean back again. My leg moves and shoves the ottoman out of the way, and you settle between my thighs. I can feel your hands run along my chest, my stomach, along my sides and grazing the sensitive skin of my back. Your cheek rests against my hip, your face rubbing against the nearly smooth fabric of my trousers. Your nails rake lightly down my stomach and muscles leap and jump in response. A noise escapes my lips and I smile briefly in my surprise.

Your breath pierces the thin barrier between you and the erection which now begins to push against its confines. Your fingers slowly unthread my belt and soon there is a swooosh of sound when you whip it out of the loops. Your eyes, lit from within by some….thing, find mine and I discover something new about you after all of this time, staring at me. I’m distracted from the discovery by the sound of a zipper and the rush of cool air that falls over the hot skin there. My cock jumps in reaction.

I push myself up and your palm presses against my chest once more. I feel the rebellion that forms briefly before your lips brush the area half way between my belly button and groin. Your mouth opens there, hot and moist and every sensation focuses on the place where your touch lingers upon me. There is an adjustment here, there of clothing and soon I feel the first brush of your slender fingers along my cock. My breath sucks in as your mouth hovers and I feel the torment of hot breath and cool air compete. You look up and stare at me just before your lips brush the smooth flesh of its head.

‘Jesus.’ It’s the first word that escapes me, nearly reluctant, certainly passionate. Your tongue, God your tongue, it presses against the underside of my shaft and it completely focuses my attention. My fingers dig into the arms of the chair, making indentations into the leather. Inch, by fucking inch, I feel your mouth slide down upon my cock. I growl, or groan. I don’t take time to decipher the noise, so etched in pleasure. My fingers brush your hair, graze the hollowed section of your cheek as you suckle upon the tip and send waves of sensation up and down my back.

The moment suspends, and I feel my hips lift from the seat to push deeper into your mouth, that hot, wet cavern that serves as my personal torment. You pull back only slightly, and slowly pull your mouth from me. I watch you slowly as you press another kiss to its head. ‘At least your mind is on me, now.’

I smirk in response, but there is a slight thinning of my lips that erases that trace of a smile from yours. I move and this time you simply scramble back on your ass and scoot backwards. I don’t stand, but sink down where you are, and when you try to move further away, my hand on your waistband prevents you. I jerk hard on the fabric and you slide closer. I move above you, my cock hugging my belly, lewd and obscene between us. I settle it between your thighs, shoving the skirt you wear around your waist.

You make an effort to wiggle away, but it serves no purpose, because I match your movements mirror them. I feel the slick satin of your panties against my cock and move so that the head and shaft stroke your slit through the damp barrier. My arms keep me from crushing you into the floor, and your fingers wrap around them, squeeze the muscles that hold me above you. I think you enjoy the femininity our stark physical differences provide you.

I feel you grind against me. Never afraid of your sexuality, your wants. I stare down at you. ‘My mind is entirely upon you.’ I say, and see your smile.

‘Prove it to me.’

I exhale. I feel a slight burn in my arms, but remain. I shift only slightly a moment later to reach one hand between us and push aside that thin barrier that prevents me from sinking into the hot, wet depths of your cunt. My fingers play lightly in your moisture, my thumb tracing around your clit, stroking. Your reaction is immediate, the noise that comes from your lips a familiar one. I grasp my cock and place the head at the opening of your cunt, moving my hand back and lowering myself to my elbows.

My wet fingers trace your cheek again, leaving a path of moisture. ‘Why not? You’ve proven it to me.’

I give a thrust of my hips and let out a frustrated sound when I only get the smooth head of my cock inside you. My forehead lowers to yours. ‘You’re too tight.’ I shift and make a motion to move my hand between us when I feel your hands on the curve of my ass. ‘I don’t care. Do it now. Fuck me now.’

I let out a soft laugh and pull your hands from me and push them back into the floor on either side of your face. I give a hard thrust of my hips and watch the wave of pleasure and pain take you. I feel you pull against my fingers, but tighten them automatically, my mind is on the wet, slick walls that squeeze my cock. ‘It’ll hurt.’ I say, unnecessarily, even as I push harder into you and finally sink home, feeling that deep place inside you. Your eyes are squeezed shut and my brow beads with sweat.

I move my hands from your wrists and feel your arms wind around me, your hands return to my hips, your nails sink into my skin. My own mirror yours upon you as I pull from you and sink deeper inside you, gripping the fleshy curves of your ass and I push you up to meet me. The lewd, wet sound of sex sounds as our loins slap together.

Your walls squeeze me each time I sink back into you, milking my shaft, drawing upon it. ‘Fuck.’ I’m not certain who uttered it first, but there it was, hanging in the air between us. Your legs wrap around my hips and you rock them back and forth as I move us across the floor with our fucking. Sweat stains your blouse, my clothing as we come together, my cock sawing in and out of your wet cunt easily now, having made its path inside you.

I can feel a different type of tension at the crux of our union and watch your face. Your lips are parted, and seem to beg for air to continue. Your legs slip from my hips and you press your feet flat into the floor, lifting yourself up to meet me. I feel your mound grinding against me and push back with short, quick thrusts of my cock. The wet noises are loud and seem to echo in the room. Quicker. Harder. My balls tighten and just as I am about to come, I feel the tension in your body suddenly coil and release. And there it is, la petite morte it flutters around me and floods my shaft as I sink into you and finally spill my seed inside you.

My hips move almost involuntarily as I empty myself into you, my body jerking each time your cunt tightens around me. The flood spills out between us and puddles on the floor. Our bodies still shifting together in small, jerky movements. When I finally collapse above you, I feel your fingers push aside a damp lock of my hair, sweaty and black, from my face.

‘Bad day?’ You say, your voice breathless, holding that note it does when you are happy. It is almost dreamy, not capable of holding anything other than your love.

I nod, my cheek at your temple. ‘Yea.’

‘Better?’

‘Improving.’

I love your laughter.

Back from vacation - Back to work Monday, assuming I can avoid the blinking lights until then.

Aine, you wicked girl, you managed to find something that makes me curious.

For those that wish to follow the link, here you go:
Johari Window - The good things.

And if you care to outline the evil me, here is the one for that as well:
Nahari Window - The bad things.

There are days that I realize that I am utterly jaded. Ruined. Unable to be astonished by the worst of the world or impressed by the best.

Ever feel like you’ve been there, done that? I’ve lost my ability to be surprised by anything - well almost. Those closest to me are capable of shocking me from time to time when they step out of their box - their comfort zone. When I’ve seen people wallow in their own faults, like myself from time to time, I tend to be a little amazed when they stop.

Still, nothing shocks me anymore. I have a sister, who closed the door on a divorce, and who has moved in with my mother (God help her) temporarily while she recovers from the aftermath. She recently began dating…and caught her new love interest trying to tape them having sex.

*sigh*

That basically sums up my reaction to the news. I didn’t feel a wave of rage, mild disgust perhaps, but I was more interested in how she protected herself. Tape destroyed? Police called? Had she done a background check on him?

She told me, quite matter-of-fact, that she expected me to go over and ‘kick his ass.’ I told her I could arrange for mace during his arrest if she would like….but, she didn’t press charges.

Still that little side trip into my personal life aside, I just can’t be moved that easily. The concern has died in me. The ability to empathize is gone. I don’t seek to understand how they feel, I am more interested in what they are doing to improve it. Rather like a Tony Robbins goal mastery course on speed and minus the charisma.

I’m not moved by the stated emotion, but by the taken action. I don’t like to read about depression and suicide unless you plan on ending it forever, or getting over it. I respect results, I admire action, and I don’t want to read about how you feel during the conflict. I like the story that bottoms in the middle and points towards a more hopeful horizon.

Don’t mistake that for optimism. I’m too much of a realist to enjoy blowing sunshine up anyone’s ass. I fully expect you to fail many more times that you succeed.

So where does that leave me? Cynical. Jaded. Untrusting.

Holy shit. I’m an asshole.

Now that made me smile.