Above Water

This story was my therapy. It's a metaphor for several things. Loneliness, Sex, Frustration. I needed to understand that when you set out on a personal journey, the world will support you and drown you. The ship was inspired by a painting I saw of a tiny ship in a maddening storm.

Behind a tiny wheel upon a wooden ship is a captain. His eyes are dark and his brow is furrowed. His skin is beaten and red as he holds his wheel steady, pushing his craft across the ocean. Sometimes the water is like glass, and the ship glides effortlessly, but just as often, the water bounds against his hull, threatening to drown him along with his vessel.

He is a proud captain, and he laughs at the water. “Rage on.” He calls out to the sea as he turns his craft up a large rolling wave. Spray smacks against him as the sky grows dark. He grits his teeth. The ocean boils underneath his ship, rocking it hard. The captain lashes himself to the wheel as a large wave crashes over the deck and knocks him from his feet. He stumbles back into position. It is hours until the storm abates.

The captain expects the water. He talks to it, argues with it. And though he is fierce, sometimes at night his throat catches and curses the water. Once the waves had rolled him off the edge of the ship and into the ocean. The impact of the wave had knocked his breath from him, and he struggled just below the surface. It was then that he relaxed, and felt the waves toss him about and drag him under. He closed his eyes. He was going to be one with the ocean, and warmth and brightness enveloped him. Finally, he was going home. And then pain. It started in his lungs, and as he began to asphyxiate, it pounded at his brain. His eyes shot open as he struggled to the surface. With a ragged gasp and several coughs he shouted out. A rope was passing him in the water and he grabbed hold. Though his chest was quaking in pain, he had the resolve to pull himself on board once again. He howled at the water. He could never be the water. What is the water that it should dictate his course?

But now the water was clear and sun was bright. The wind was full, and he clipped along. He was above the water, belonged above the water. He was singing out, loud and strong. He was a captain. He almost missed a tiny dot along the horizon.

A dot? A ship? He strained to look. It seemed like a sail. He turned towards it.

It was definitely a sail, and a mast, and a hull. He pulled out a telescope and peered at the ship. There was someone on it, waving frantically, jumping up and down. “Who?” He asked excitedly. He removed the glass and could see the ship clearly, and peeking back in the glass he saw the ship was headed towards him. The figure was larger, and he could see hair. “A woman,” he thought.

The other figure was indeed a woman. A captain of another small ship. Both vessels slowed as they passed alongside one another. “Hello!” She yelled excitedly, and hung off the side of the ship, reaching out her hand. He was confused at first, but smiled and reached out for her hand. And then the world slowed. He could hear his slow inhale. He could feel a bead of sweat trickle over his eyelid. He could hear the creak of his ship as it gave here and there. And he could see her. Her hair blew out softly behind her like a flag. He watched his hand reach out. He watched his fingers uncurl and he watched as her fingertips connected with his. He gasped as he felt her skin against his own. He saw her fingertips curl gently and grazed his with her nails. And time was restored. She was laughing and she called back to him, “Turn it around!”

He remembered where he was and sprung back to the wheel and aligned his ship with hers. She was throwing ropes over to him, and he began looping them around the sides of his own ship until they were bound together.

Both ships weighed anchor and the vessels slowed. Evening was approaching and he could hear her call, “Permission to come aboard!”

He sputtered, “Uh, granted! Yes, come aboard.” He was in shock as this beautiful captain set her feet upon his deck. As he could now see her closely, he could see her hair was matted, and salt covered her arms and face. But she looked strong.

“You look awful.” She pushed at him. She could see him studying her and reached her fingers through her hair where they stuck firmly. He laughed, “Goes with the job.”

“Yes it does.”

The two became acquainted and he lit a lamp and brought her down below and pulled some bread and fruit out of one of the storage barrels. They sat at a small table where she took off her shoes. “God, it’s been a while. How has the ocean been treating you?”

It was a simple question. But his mouth began to talk. He talked slowly at first, and then faster and more excited. She laughed and shared her own stories. The two became friends before the first bite of food was taken. They marveled at one another and laughed and teased. He had never had this much to say. She had earlier accepted that she might just as well be silent forever.

After dinner, they shared their voyages, and their current stores, moving back and forth between the vessels as the excitement took them. But as the night wore on, they became tired. He was sitting on a crate near the side of the boat when he saw her walking towards him, cradling something. Was it treasure. She smiled, “it’s not treasure. Well, maybe it is.”
She handed him a large book. “It’s my journal. I want you to read it.” Her face blushed and she turned away as she raised a hand to her face. “ I want someone to know who I am.” She turned back to him, “I want you—“ she smiled, “to know me.”

He trembled as he received the book. It was very thick and filled with writing. It was like his. “Come with me” he said as he stood and walked into his quarters. She followed. He reached onto a shelf and pulled his own log and gave it to her, “I think I want the same thing.”
They each read pieces and excerpt aloud to one another. He laughed hard as she read to him his misadventures. He started to explain himself and stopped, and laughed. But his laugh became a choke and then a sob and then a cry. He couldn’t help himself. He cried and took her to him and held her. Her own tears welled in her eyes and she grabbed him with all of her strength. “Oh god!” He sobbed. “I knew that--” he couldn’t finish his words.

“I know,” she said softly to him and kissed his chest and kissed his neck. She laid her head against his chest, feeling him rise with each sob. Rhythmically at first, but slower and slower as he drifted into slumber. She fell asleep against him.

When he awoke, she was not there. He jumped up. Was it a dream? He launched through the door and squinted as the bright sunlight stung him. As his vision returned he looked. Ah, her ship! It was real. He called out for her. “Down here!” she cried.

He peered overboard and saw that she was sitting on a plank lowered over the side of the ship. She had been painting unto his hull. “I want you to remember me.” She smiled at him for a long time and then turned back to her work, singing in a cheery voice.

He smiled happily and lowered himself as well. He painted designs onto her hull. “You are not the water.” He muttered to her.

“What’s that?” She turned to look at him.

He laughed, “I was saying you aren’t the water. It's this little thing I think about. What I meant is—“

“I know exactly what you meant.” She smiled deeply at him. "Thank you." She sighed,"You," she threw a small stone out into the ocean, "you aren’t the water either.”

He smiled at her recognition. She was like him. She was above the water.

They spent the rest of the day relaxing, in contact with one another, trading tips about their shipping routes. The traded some of their crates with one another – the variety of food and clothing was more than worth it. As the second day came to a close, he looked at her, a little sad.
“What is it?”

He looked away, “I have to leave. I am –“ He paused and closed his eyes “still a captain.”
She smiled, but she was disappointed. “I know. As am I.” She walked over and touched his arm, “It’s ok. Our ships still have places to see, right?”

They held one another tightly. They were not the water. They could not conform. They were kings.

They untied the boats. As the ropes loosened, the boats slowly separated. She stared at him.
He stared at her and then, with an exhale, he thrust out his hand. “I will see you again.”
She was silent. She reached out, and as they parted, their fingertips touched.

“I will see you again.” She called back to him as her ship disappeared into the night.

The Small Dark Spaces

This was an entry in my personal journal. I was coping with hunger issues (of a sort).

I have finished school for the semester. I lie back on my couch with a pillow on my chest. It is a strange thing to shed so much stress so quickly. I look over at the clock. I have sacrificed so many things. I scratch my cheek. A PhD would be rewarding, but is it enough? I need to be selective about the things I do, I need to do less. I need to not try to devour the world, but be content with some smaller piece of it. No one can have it all, right? There just isn't enough room for everything.

I wandered into my bedroom looking up at my four-poster bed. There is a circular metal tester connecting the posts, and from it are lengths of flax rope. I let them run through my fingers, closing my eyes, smelling the oil. I need this. I untie the rope from the metal, and I place it in a cabinet next to my degree.

My eyes drift over to art work I've gotten from friends. I look at some of the art I've been working on myself. My paintings which are so recently coming back to life. I need this.
No sooner have I finished piling those papers and canvases into my little cabinet than I spy my keyboard. "Ok, then." I wander over to it and power it up. I think I need this. I sit behind it and I inhale sharply, and on the exhale, I begin to play "Comptine d'un autre été". I am so uncoordinated, but I still make up for it with all of the heart I can muster. I finish and let my fingers run up between the black keys. I breathe. Oh yes, I need this.

So in it goes. Along with the music I love and along with my drums. Umpf. Things are really getting cramped in my cabinet, but I smile and whistle as I rearrange things to fit. I hear laughter from behind some books. Two beautiful daughters wave at me. "I need you both", I call to them.

"Daddy, we love you!" They call out. I laugh to myself. When I am good, I am very very good. I'm pretty sure there is more to that little saying.

A torrent of wind hits me from behind. Then paper -- lots and lots of paper. Origami figures. Everywhere. "I had forgotten about you" I called to them. I tiptoe back and forth scooping them up. They are delicate, to be sure. So I find little gaps here and there in my cabinet for each of them. Sadly, I have to let some of them go. But I am certain that I need this.

My cabinet is straining. I sit on the edge of my couch, eyeing it intensely. How am I expected to keep putting things in there? My knees are pulled up under my chin and I am hugging them. I look over at a gym bike, and I look back at the cabinet. "There just isn't any more room," I sigh to myself.

I stare for a while, and well, Hello! I notice that there are still gaps. I was certain those weren't there a moment ago. Ok then, I rearrange the things in my cabinet and behold! I have made room. Hefting the bike to my shoulder, I say softly, "I need this" and I place it into the cabinet.
I am pacing back and forth. No room. Nothing. Totally stuffed.

But wait! My writings! My pots and pans! No room! "But I need this", I say matter of factly and I turn back to the cabinet. I rearrange things. I turn my math equations on end, and use the ropes to tie back some of the strange devices I had put in there back when I was a child. "There!" I had made room, so in it goes.

Oh god. I turn around, and in the center of my living room are the designs and research of my day job. I turn back to my cabinet. I hear a click and then a clang and I spin back to see a closet door slowly creak open, and strange creatures spill out. All manner of gnome and goblin and faerie dart back and forth. I capture them in little glass boxes. I scoop each in turn and fit them into the cabinet. Beautiful, but be careful of the teeth.

Something very strange is happening. With each memory and with each talent I place into the cabinet, no sooner do I pull back my hands than I see one more small, dark space. But it isn't that. If I don't fill the hole, then the things around it settle in to occupy the gap. I need something to keep eveyrthing from shifting.

"There!" I grab my rock climbing shoes and shove them in. And a space opens up! I shove my graphic novels in, and a microphone, and video games. I continue through the night filling those holes. In the morning, I see a large hole to one side of the cabinet. It's painful to think of it all going to waste. I look around, frantic to fill it. I start to wonder, "Am I complete? Am I done filling this thing?" I need to go out and get more talents and memories. This simply won't do.
The doorbell rings. Actually, it must have been ringing for some time. I walk to foyer, somewhat defeated, panting, and pull the front door back.

Dark eyes looked up at me. A wicked smile and a soft pale hand reaches for mine. "Hello. I'm here about the ad."

"Hello" I reply. I can't take my eyes off of her. "Excuse me?"

"I was told you might have room enough for me?"

My mind was disturbed. Room, room, room. I don't have any...

I look at the cabinet. I start to laugh. "Actually, I think I have been preparing room for you all night long."

She peeks behind me and spies the cabinet. "Oh my!" She laughs even as her face flushes. "You know," she points at the cabinet, "I have one of those."

Erotic Rope Massage

I copied this right out of one of my journals. It's not much of anything, but my lifestyle might surprise many. Nothing short of all will satisfy man, right?

I had a friend curious about certain interests of mine. Namely shibari, or erotic macrame. It was simply to be an academic discussion, but, as always, as I talked more about it, I growled... I got excited, bit my lip... I think just watching my expressions change became more interesting than the words i was saying. I flipped back and forth from the point of view of the top (the one doing the loving) and the bottom (the one being loved).
This person talked about a very unpleasant experience with an ex boyfriend. He tied her up and took advantage. There were no safe words, and the whole experience felt ugly. It was an awful story. The bottom is to be caressed and made to feel exceptional, even when it is getting beaten.
When I approach a cute little pet, I do like when she shrinks away a little. Even when there is this incredible trust, it's nice to see a little adrenaline pump through her. It means that she is going to notice every... single... time... I touch her skin. Lights will flash in her head as she mentally pictures my interactions.
The ropes are soft and elegant. It is silk that is gracing the skin and supporting it and holding it in place. Next time you go to a store that sells chains, pick up a pile of delicate links and let them slide around your hands and arms. See? It doesn't hurt. Shibari is sexy. The knots are pretty, as well as functional. This beautiful ermine before me is going to look her best.
I like my pet to daydream. Don't entertain me, don't be charming or tell me how you are good at this or bad at that. It's nerves, soon you'll be caught up in the moment, and your sentences will be reduced to single words. Relax and feel the attention as i make my loops and ties. I am a therapist of sorts, and it is important that to trust me. Coos and meows are always appreciated, so long as they aren't premeditated (that's a bad kitty). I praise my loved one and pet them while I make sure everything is properly held. It is intensely exciting to explore every inch of someone while I work. Circulation isn't cut off, and really, my little friend can just let herself be carried away. I'm in control.
Now, this by itself is a tasty dish. This wonderful creature is bound with beautiful patterns, held in a cute little sweater. Oh alright... a few kisses on the throat. Oh and maybe the belly. And maybe down around... oh no you don't. If this is all of shibari you get to experience, then you still have a lot. There is still a lot of trust to make it this far.
But sometimes, after feeling those bonds hold you like a delicious embrace simultaneously hugging your entire body, you ask for a little comfort. What's that? I thought I told you to ask nicely, or not at all. Now, if you've ever held a baby or watched someone else calming their infant, quite often, it's those gentle pats on the bottom that reassure the child and put him or her back to sleep. Why would I do any less for my baby. The skin is very sensitive, so I pat it, or a drape something over it, back and forth. This works everywhere. Just close your eyes and enjoy. This is all for you. You konw... anyone can have sex with you. They get off... MAYBE you get off... they leave... but this... You are not being used. You are being possessed.
I love gooseflesh. It's like little baby birds crying for a meal. Ok birdies... I will indulge.
So the skin sometimes gets numb. You have to pat a little harder. I use my hands, but they aren't made of stone... or wood. Maybe something just a little firmer. The skin tightens, so the little pats are absorbed everywhere. You can tell the excitement is rising because the skin will blush and smile and tell you. There is no need to fear banging a poor little hand into a wall or lamp, they are secured. Just make sounds so I know you are still with me. And remember our safe word -- if I hear it, even unconvincingly, your dream ends (and so I've chosen as our safe word "antidisestablishmentarianism"... I'm teasing... you know it's "Mozart"). The ropes are firm, but not painful, and we can actually support you if you'd prefer to stand, hang (keep one toe on the ground, please), or lean over something... a nice soft pillowy chair? What a good kitty. You get a snack. Let me just towel you off a little.
So, the path from here gets narrower. Those who brave it can experience a little world in the twilight. The real world melts away behind you, and as excitement builds, feelings change... things you THOUGHT hurt now just throb. Ticklishness leaves. The skin is stronger and wants something a little more fulfilling. I will spare the details, but honestly, isn't it fun to go to work the next day with a little sting somewhere to remind you of what you experienced? (...and he walked to the wall and pulled down a strong leather strap. This will do.)

Power hungry

A journal entry of mine. I sometimes think I should pool all of my quips that I paste on the internet and bring them here. I so often want to return to them only to find them scattered to the winds.

I was having a conversation last night about dominance -- whether it is more attractive to rule the night as a rock star or to seethe with reserved power in the vein of Hannibal Lecter (minus the taxing dietary ritual... maybe.... chomp).

On the one hand, you can show overt power, screaming to horny fans, spending your free time "rehabilitating" for the next show (and Turbulence is your name). On the other hand, you are cool and reserved, unassuming but powerful (and so you are Laminar).

Let us assume that those attracted to power want real power. That, in fact, they do not counsciously dupe themselves. And let us set aside the whole problem of corruptive power. It is very hard to see beyond what your senses tell you, and so I would assume the glamour of the rock star to be more attractive--at least at first. (Let me add some "rock stars" have obviously transcended their fame and girded themselves with substance). After all, many (most?) rock stars do not dress themselves. They do not plan their venues. The do not even write their own songs. They are creations of people in another sort of power.

As for me, I enjoy being a positive influence with a dark, sharp edge. I get a rush out of control. But I've spent time on the "bottom", biding time and building strength. Eventually I felt I could do... better. "Give me those reins. Give me that crop." But being a subservient turned god, I feel compassion -- a shepherd? If I am in control, it is not for control's sake, but to deliver the right caress, the right pain, to make someone who trusts you feel great about themselves. Defend that soul against those who would brutalize their esteem. Maybe one day you will find yourself under their heel, and you will want them to step lightly (but not too lightly).

Power lies in self esteem. The ability to produce value. And to get there, you must be honest with your shortcomings. Forget those masks, they are doomed to come off one day -- humble yourself. Find those imperfections and chip away at them, or hell, counterpoint them -- there is so much delicious marble to work with. This is how a masterpiece is made. Sure, you still give control to those you trust (how else can you learn), but you always have the power to take it back. True power requires identifying fake power. True power allows us to spin gold from straw

....chomp...