Parliament Light

It was many and many a year ago,
Under a neon sign in the night,
That an item there was sold whom you know
By the name of Parliament Light;
And this item, she lived with no other thought
Than to smoke and flame so bright.

I was a young and it was cheap,
Under the neon sign in the night;
But I inhaled with a breath that was more than smoke-
I and my Parliament Light;
With a love that the cashiers at 7-11
Coveted our bond so tight.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
Under the neon sign in the night,
A decree came from the state, raising
The price of my Parliament Light;
So my wallet grew thin
And twas beyond my budget so tight,
To shut them up in the glass case
Under the neon sign in the night.

The politicians, not half so happy in Congress,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
Under the neon sign in the night)
That the decree came out,
Overly taxing my Parliament Light.

But my love it was stronger by far than the fear
Of many far healthier than me-
Of those with political might-
And neither the cancer lobbyists who bend their ear,
Nor the clerks under the neon sign in the night,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of my delicious Parliament Light.

For commercials never air without making me care
For my delicious Parliament Light;
And I never finish a dish without making a wish
For my delicious Parliament Light;
And so, as my lungs mend, I think of the end
Of my darling- my darling- my reliable friend,
In the glass case flooded with light,
In her tomb under the neon sign in the night.

Day 1 as a non-smoker and I'm already a plagiarist. Special "shout out" to Edgar Allen Poe for this beautiful piece. And for sleeping with his 13 year old first cousin, who was also a beautiful piece.

Come and Knock on Our Door

Two's company; three's a crowd.

Maybe not.

Long ago I banished the idea of having a threesome. Sexual exploration and experimentation is the fabric from which my life is made. Still, even I have my limits and standards. I've slept with married men, with men in long term, "committed" relationships, with men my friends hoped to date, with multiple partners in the same time frame. Loose as my morals may be, I occasionally, and seemingly arbitrarily, draw the line. I don't sleep with baby daddies. I don't have threesomes.

Correction. I didn't have threesomes.

For some, avoiding multiple partners in the same bed is a choice based on morality. Not surprisingly, I do not see this as a moral issue. Selfishness is the sole reason I have stayed away from a menage a trois. I don't like to share my toys, or my boys. Moreover, I don't like distractions that divert attention away from me. Several of my lovers have sought to bring another person into my bed. I've always politely declined. My assumption was always that in order to experience multiple partners in one sitting, I would have to give up something that I had already marked as mine. Mine, mine, mine!

Not everyone is as self-absorbed as I am. Rather feeling deprived, being pursued and persuaded to join another couple made me feel lavished upon. Instead of one person telling me that I have an amazing body, that I'm an exceptional kisser, I had two. Double your pleasure, double your fun. As the guest, I was the center of attention. Holla! Why didn't this situation ever occur to me as a possibility? Joining an existing couple is the holy grail of sex!

Leap

2008 is, thankfully, a leap year. One more precious day in a month that already seems too damn long. Two full days shorter than a regular month, February still stutters and hiccups along, dragging it's sorry ass the entire way.

Weather leaps forward to spring, then jumps back into winter. Rapid changes in climate cause my head to grow foggy. I sniffle, once, twice, then a full sneeze. Stumbling out the door when I should be leaping, I forget that February moves faster than I do. One foot of the porch and down I go. Coffee spills, phone flies into the bushes, tush and arm severely bruised.

Matching February in style and grace, I stagger and struggle through my daily life. Back and forth I go against the bowling bumpers. Should I, shouldn't I? Do I, don't I? Same story, only now in a less forgiving season.

On Saturday, when I couldn't stand the chaotic motion anymore and my bruises started to ache, I leaped. Without stabilizing my footing, without knowing fully where I intended to land, I leaped onto my couch. In the first graceful movement my awkwardness has ever produced, my head rested on his lap. Soft curls that I'd fixated on creating for 20 minutes framed my face. Dark rims of eyeliner and low lights allowed my eyes to appear green, rather than the plain brown they actually are. Elongated eyelashes fluttered. Curled up in his lap, I appeared beautiful in a classically romantic and vulnerable way. Fingertips brushed against my arm, making me instantly glad I choose cashmere for the occasion. Protected, warmed and comforted by the beautiful girl reflected in the glassy, intoxicated haze of his eyes, I leap into terrifying intimacy.

Huge, fat tears gather on the edges of my perfect eyelashes. Joining together, one rolls out of the corner of my eye and over my cheek. It leaves a long trail across the high bones of my face and down to my chin. That first tear takes a lifetime to fall and slide across my face. Each additional tear moves incrementally faster until I'm sobbing. Guilt, anxiety, fear, loss...every negative emotion seeps out of me. Pulling in deep breaths, my diaphragm expands and contracts rapidly. Fingertips circle with the same steady motion across my arm and onto my stomach. These gentle motions dispel my loss of control and restore order. My breathing slows and my tears stop flowing. My stomach muscles rise and fall slower and slower until my body relaxes. Our breathing matches, and his fingers keep the pace my heartbeat should have. 72 beats per minute. Over and over again.

72 beats per minute puts me to sleep. Then it puts him to sleep too. Waking several hours later, in the early morning light, we are still in the same position on the couch. Despite the tears, my eye make up is undisturbed. My soft curls are softer still now. I am still warm and beautiful. Blood pulses through me at the perfectly reasonable rate of 72 beats per minute. Fingertips no longer match it. Everything is the same, but we leap back into ourselves and remove the vulnerability. Fickle just as February, and never saying what we really want for fear of the commitment in spoken words.