TO MY BELOVED

I need your love more than I have needed anything before,

I need your love more than food or drink,

And only “Yes” can quench my thirst for you,

For love has your scent, your feel, your body,

And your breasts are soft and your eyes are deep,

And God has made no other lips as sweet as yours.

Often I have watched your lips give birth to words.

Your tongue pushes them out into the air

Like baby chicks not yet used to their wings.

Your warmest words are those of love.

Regardless of what I hear, you speak of love.

And your mouth is cloyingly sweet--

Like the sugary inside of a ripe mango.

And the taste of your words is lovely.

I watch as you sleep in innocence…

Unaware that your nightgown slips open…

Revealing brown twins…browner nipples.

I silently watch…I am nervously engrossed

By the beauty of your body and what it promises.

You are an eloquent symphony filling my head.

Why am I watching you so closely?

Remembrance is the sole reason I dwell on you.

Sweetheart…I want to remember you forever--

Always like this, our lovemaking still covering

Your face and hair like a gossamer veil!

Today's Ungratefuls

Dear Punkus,

What’s wrong with today’s younger generation (and I include you in this group)? They don’t seem to realize that you get out of life what you put into it! They still expect to be treated as the dependent babies they once were. They asked for and took gifts from their parents without the need to say “please” or “thank you.”. But when they passed their teenage years, they had an obligation to recognize the help they received from others. Unfortunately, too many of today’s youth feel no compunction at ignoring these basic social niceties. Instead, they blame others for “abandoning” them in times of trouble or of not “loving” them—as my youngest son has a habit of saying to his parents!

Usually, however, it is the young who have abandoned their elders! In my case, Punkus, I have not abandoned you, as you so thoughtlessly charged! I am not the one who stopped writing letters or sending pictures. I am not the one who ignored, without appreciation, gifts freely given. I still don’t know whether you received any of my recent gifts. A simple acknowledgement that they arrived in your hands safely would cost you little , but would go a long way to ease my mind about your current well being.

Am I being unfair to blame you for a lack of social civility at a time when you are going through so much stress in your personal life? I don’t think so! If this is how you treat a former lover and one who is now trying to be a friend, I can’t imagine how badly you must treat others on the periphery of your life!

I am enclosing a SASE with a card which I trust you will complete and return.

Sincerely,

SEX ADVICE TO AN INMATE

Well, son, you’re about to be released from prison after five years. On a fucking “trumped up” charge you say. Never mind all that bullshit now. You can’t come out with that chip on your shoulder. You know what I’m saying? You’ll have a shit-load of real problems to deal with as soon as you hit these mean streets. Job, education, driver’s license--you know what I’m saying? Can’t help you much with those son, as right now I’m about as flat on my ass as a black man can get! You know what I’m saying? But your dad can help you with one big-ass problem you’re going to face as soon as you shed those prison duds. That’s how to deal with the women you’ll soon be meeting. Not those ho’s, skanks, and bitches who’ve been writing you while you were incarcerated. Fuck them uglies! You know what I’m saying? You’re going to meet real women! So, here’s some quick-start advice I’ve learned from playing the slut street game for years. You know what I’m saying? Most importantly, and let this sink into your ADHD brain, always treat a whore like a lady and a lady like a whore! There, in a fucking nutshell, is all you need to know about romance in the hood. You know what I’m saying? You already have skills to talk with most women out here. You’ve learned how to curse like a sailor while in jail. Big help in talking with these broads today. You know what I’m saying? What female is not turned on by hearing her main man in bed calling her a “slut” or a “dirty ho” or even a “fucking prostitute”! The thicker you lay on the curses, believe me, the more they’ll love you! You know what I’m saying? And don’t be afraid of getting rough with your old lady. I don’t mean creepy, sick stuff like punching or strangling, you know what I’m saying, but what woman doesn’t respond to an occasional slap on her ass, especially if you call it an “ass” in a low, growling tone of voice! Next, son, you have to become expert at what your pop calls the “big three” of lovemaking—sucking, biting, and tickling! Every part of a woman’s body is tasty, you know what I’m saying, so don’t be shy—dig right in! Seriously, bro, what woman, regardless of the size of her boobs, doesn’t enjoy her man squeezing and sucking on them—even if they’re fake! You know what I’m saying? Women, even church-going ones, don’t mind those nips and bites you plant on her earlobes, neck, and hard nipples! Especially just as she’s having an orgasm! You know what I’m saying? Tickling or tongue massaging those sensitive parts of your woman’s body will turn her into a helpless toy in your hands. Seriously, a good tickling session works better than dropping a date-rape drug in her drink! You know what I’m saying? Well, son, there you have it. I hope the fuck it works out for you. But in case it doesn’t, don’t say you got your advice from me! You know what I’m saying?

Where IS TRISHA?

Where is Trisha?

[A FaceBook mystery]

1. Poooffff! And suddenly, like thin, white powder accidentally blown from a glass countertop, all traces of my ex-lover disappeared from FaceBook. Shall I call the media police and charge her with abandonment? Who's going to feed my addiction now?

2. THE PLOT THICKENS: Where is Trisha Wood? She's left no trace on FaceBook! Is she a victim? Or has she committed cybercide? Many California "missing persons" cases turn out to be homicides! Will C.W. be held as a "person of interest"? Exciting chapters to follow!

3. The clues of her disappearance (from FB) begin to mount. Her favorite pet, Trixie, a tiny, white Pekinese was found wandering its San Diego neighborhood bedraggled and missing its collar. Could Trixie lead us to the scene of the crime? Stay tuned!

4. Trixie led us to Trisha's empty apartment. Signs of an angry, hasty departure were everywhere. On the soiled, tiled floor were torn up model job rejection notices and ripped fashion design drawings. In a large, crystal ashtray we found remnants of an attempted burning of love letters. We bagged everything for clues. We listened to a three-days-old inquiring phone message from one of her sisters.

Luminol did not detect human blood—a good sign. But there was no sign of twenty-six year old Trisha and her daughter. Were they together? We had to find out—and soon!

5. "I'm driving to LA," were the last words Trisha spoke to anyone. That was three weeks ago. An APB is out for her red Corvette, a graduation gift from her doting father. Posters show Trisha and 5-year old daughter, Jane. Search teams cover a three-mile area. This is no longer a “missing persons” case. This is now a criminal case. Trisha mentioned in a letter "a ton of family harassment" over her choice of new lover, Perry. She was angry at her four sisters for their interference in her romance. What is Perry’s role in this disappearance? Is he with them in LA? Is he the last person to see Trisha? We rush to Perry’s last known address. Are we too late?

6. A sleepy-eyed Perry opened the door. We were surprised. He was a gray-haired, 52-year old! Is this the guy Trisha texted, “of course u know i love u but you have to cool it til this blows over."? A lie detector exam later cleared him. He had been dating her for only eight months. But he knew a lot about Trisha. The youngest of five beautiful sisters, she was the first to fall into a bad marriage, leaving her a young, single mother. In the beginning, Perry and Trisha had exchanged love poems--in French! One of hers ended, "Je suis juene et jolie...but if I were to fall in love...it would be to you! " What Perry told us next was a shocker!

7. What Perry told us threw our case wide open. He showed us Trisha's last MySpace entry: "I'm chatting with the hottest French dude in California!" Neither her sisters nor Perry recognized her reference. A new love interest? A potential employer? Did she drive to LA to meet this "French dude"? We had to find out...and quick! But before we could act on this new intriguing lead, Trisha's burned out auto was found!

8. Police list the following “Persons of Interest” in the FB missing case of Trisha Wood, 26, of San Diego, CA. A homicide victim?: Carlos Wood [estranged husband—divorce, child custody issues?]; Perry King [52-year-old current e-beau, passed a lie test, jealousy issues?]; “French Dude” [mysterious new love interest? Last to see Trisha alive?, APB issued!]; four older sisters [they think Perry “too old”, sibling rivalry?]. Awaiting new developments. Not yet a cold case.

PUNKUS EVERYWHERE

PUNKUS EVERYWHERE

My friends think I’m crazy. Especially when I talk about my first serious love—Punkus! Punkus disappeared from my life about twenty-five years ago, but I still bug my friends about her—about the memories I have of her—about my hope of meeting her again someday soon. I tell them I still see Punkus…not in a banal, ghostly way—but in a real, tangible way. I often see her, not as I remembered her, but as how she must have looked as she aged—always beautiful, always desirable, yet always unattainable.

“Look at that woman sitting at the table in the corner,” I would say. “Doesn’t she remind you of Punkus?”

“Not in the least, she’s too fat.”

“But the eyebrows, Sam, aren’t those the eyebrows of Punkus?”

“You’re crazy.”

And so it would go through the years. Piece by familiar piece…characteristics I would recognize of Punkus in other women. Sometimes I would open a magazine, as I did a few moments ago, and there would be Punkus’s eyes staring at me from the page. Or walking along a street, I would catch a snatch of conversation coming from Punkus’s lips—only to discover the speaker was a stranger.

“Why do you torture yourself so,” my friends ask. “The longer you don’t hear from her, the less chances there are that she’s disappeared from your life forever!”

“But that’s the whole point!” I argue. “ As long as I can find some glimmer of recognizable feature of Punkus—however insignificant…however diaphanous—she will always be near.”

And who’s to know. As long as Punkus is everywhere—she’ll never be nowhere!

OLGA THE TEMPTRESS

OLGA, THE TEMPTRESS

You would have figured that after three strikes I would have learned my lesson and stopped playing games with my latest heartthrob, Olga. She was known in the neighborhood as “Olga the Flirt.” My ex-girlfriend called her a “skanky ho”! But I was drawn to Olga like a honeybee is drawn to a yellow rose. Had I known Olga was keeping a scorecard on our affair, I would have been more careful. But I kept running off at the mouth about how much I loved her and what I was willing to do to make her happy, that before I knew what hit me, Olga had amassed ten charges against me and called it quits!

In a final message to me she accused me of being a “pubescent teen,” an “antagonistic jerk,” of being “less than tactful,” of offering her an “indecent proposal,” suggesting that she was a “gold digger,” of showing “animosity,” and ending up with the statement that she was liking me “less and less.”

Needless to say these charges were completely unfounded for just a few days prior she was charming me with compliments such as I had a “brilliant mind, an open heart, and words that touch my heart.” That same day she said, “Of course,” to accepting my offer of “unconditional love.” “I love you so much,” she whispered, “for always taking the time to think about me.” She recently described me as “witty, intelligent, and caring.” Tell me, how could I misinterpret such sentiments as, “you are so special to me,” and “I love you so much.” Are those the words of a flirt? I think not!

What am I to do now? Am I to believe the words she spoke last week or the words she spoke yesterday? Either way, my love for Olga is true, and I will continue to love and adore her. Until I know for sure, I won’t conclude this story with THE END.

ONLY IN FLORIDA: Punkus revealed

Only in Florida would a vacation hotel install a Jacuzzi on an outside balcony. And that’s where Punkus and I, for a few days of spring break, spent the evenings lolling in the warm swirling water, staring at the huge moon over our heads, and listening to the soothing sloshing of a nearby sea against warm sands. Like most of our days together, we spent long hours just relaxing in each other’s company. Unlike many dramatic stories I have written of our affair, most of our days and nights then were spent quietly in love. We had no wildly erotic scenes in that Jacuzzi. Just the two of us silently watching the moon move across a darkened sky. If anything, once in a while our toes would touch in a flirting move and once in a while, our lips would softly touch. If any words were spoken, it would be Punkus sighing, “I’m so happy!” That was her favorite expression, spoken at any time of the day, in any place, on any occasion. Not “I love you” but “I am so happy!”

Punkus’s favorite activity was shopping—especially shopping for shoes. She had a passion for shoes—not buying them—but trying them on. Most of the time she wanted me along, I didn’t mind--just being with Punkus made me happy. I was even pleased when she asked my opinion of a pair she had tried on. She had lovely feet, and I had no problem giving my diplomatically, noncommittal judgment of her shoe choices! We once spent two hours in one Florida shoe outlet store without buying anything. But I didn’t mind! At the end of a long, shoe shopping spree we would arrive home with maybe one or two new purchases. And her predictable comment would always be, “I’m so happy!” Whether in a downtown bistro or a country bar, Punkus and I had the uncanny ability to carve out a “zone of quietude” for ourselves. The adjoining room could be filled with shouting revelers or ear-pounding music, but we always managed to find a booth where we could drink and, if not talk, at least absorb the atmosphere. Our favorite country restaurant and bar was a Caribbean-themed edifice, but we preferred sitting on an outside patio, away from the jangle of calypso beats, so we could sit, sip our umbrella-topped drinks, and talk. At the end of such “nights out” Punkus’s summary words were, “I’m so happy!”