Friday, December 16, 2011

Looking for Ms. Write Vol. 1 No. 3 By: Marvin Gonzalez


I always hook up with the most fucked up chicks,
My shrink tells me that it’s really me
That’s all fucked up,
She said that I am suffering from abandonment issues
Stemming from the fact that my Mother
Was never around when I was a kid,
I told her, “What the fuck does my ex’s heroin addiction
Have to do with the fact that
My Mother worked two jobs
To put clothes on my back
And food on my plate?”
She said that I purposefully choose
Unstable women that I know ahead of time
Will result in complete failures of intimacy,
That way I could use these women as proxies,
And blame them for my feelings of loss and abandonment
And not my mother,
First of all,
How fucking dare she bring my mother into this?
Second of all,
Where does this Vanderbilt hussy come off?
With her fancy diplomas
And her matted Georgia O’ Keefe prints,
Giving me these pointed glares all the time
And scribbling in her steno notebook
In this high-minded, judgmental way,
I got so fucking mad I popped the cap off the
Large blueberry mocha frap that I got before my session
And poured it all over her
Wanna-be Victorian psychiatrist couch,
She screamed out, “My God, that’s an antique!”
To which I quickly retorted, “It’s faux-leather!
And, you know it!”
Then I told her diagnosis was correct,
Yet again I had entered into a relationship
With an unstable louse that was doomed for failure,
“Congratulations,” I said,
“Your keen detection skills have once again
Led you to crack the mother fucking case!”
How dare this woman I pay $80 an hour
Tell me how fucked up I am,
I know I’m all fucked up,
Why do you think I solicited her services in first place?
I tell you, 
It’s hard to keep a right mind in these trying times,
Naturally I was in such a state after
Our prematurely aborted session
That I had to get a drink in me,
And anyway it was Friday and happy hour,
Not that I ever needed that as an excuse to tie on one,
I end up at this out of the way place I like to go to,
Don Carlo’s,
Mainly because, though all the bartenders know me by name,
I won’t run into any of my friends or coworkers,
And I sit at the end of the bar and mind my own
All the while getting more and more cheery
And laughing as I pop
Complimentary peanuts down my throat,
So, anyway,
I am rubbing elbows with the regulars
Like Louie Quintana who has no reservations
Telling me how big a pain in the ass
His old lady had been lately,
Or, Otis Neetleman who’s drowning
In unpaid child support and alimony debt
And has the authorities breathing down his neck,
And, for a minute I relish in the fact that I am
All alone and not tied down
To anyone serious,
Because, let’s face it,
The sweeter the first kiss is
The more bitter the last argument will be,
So what’s the point of getting yourself
Mixed up in tragedy in the first place?
Maybe, I think, the first kiss should be bitter,
That way it can only grow sweeter from there,
But you know how things go?
Once I am about eight deep
And all the old-timers have thrown in the towel,
I am left to my own devices
And my mind wanders to that all too familiar place,
Which is when I spot her sitting at the other end of the bar,
God, where has she been all night?
I have been sitting in the same spot for hours
And I never noticed her walk in,
It’s almost as if she just appeared out of thin air,
But, there she is,
Undeniably present,
This physical anomaly of beauty,
A wondrous, magical flower growing in the middle
Of nuclear fallout,
She’s got flowing red hair that’s pulled up,
And I swear to Christ
She looks just like a pin up doll,
I don’t typically throw around the word “anachronistic”
But, she literally seems out of place in time,
Like a photograph from the 1930’s come to life,
And, there is literally this
Glamorous glow that seems to hover just above her,
Giving her this kind of soft focus
Muddled aura
That seems to evaporate any
Rigidness to her appearance,
I am so enchanted by her presence
That I don’t even notice her approach me with two drinks,
“You’re a Scotch man, right?”
She says placing a sifter glass
With a shot of Black Label
Swirling around like a caramel version of the cosmos,
And I say, “Damn right about that,”
“That’s good, I like a man that can
Handle a strong drink. 
You know what they say:
Strong drink for a strong man.”
She says grabbing my upper arm
Which I instinctively flex,
She is wearing a long coat which she unbuttons
And I see that she is wearing a black skirt
With a slit that runs down the middle,
And as she adjusts her position in her seat
I see this tiny swathe of exposed upper thigh
And I know it’s all over from there, Ladies and Gentlemen,
We end up moving to a corner booth,
And though I am struggling to stay awake
I let myself be taken by this inexplicably
Extreme weight of fatigue,
And I allow myself to fall vulnerably into her lap,
Meanwhile she is whispering in my ear,
Lulling me gently into a deep sleep,
Slowly, sweetly,
Like a Polaroid patiently coming into focus,
Only, backwards I suppose,
Going from light to dark,
And, back once again into light,
For a moment I taste the sweetness of death,
That golden moment when the pains and heft of life
Are suddenly purged from our bodies,
And our soul sheds our outer shell,
Like a tarantula developing a new exoskeleton
Leaving behind only that physical semblance
Of the man that I truly am,
I float in a dream,
But it is muddled and hazy,
Peaceful and saccharine,
Though slowly I float back into the shell,
And though it’s only been hours
My body struggles to regain its faculties,
Which is why it takes me so long to realize
That I am hanging from a wall
Shackled at my wrists and ankles and gagged,
And, as I make a voiced attempt at protestation,
A muted and mumbled exasperation floats into the air
Then falls flat on the floor
Along with the foamy, rabid saliva
That pathetically drizzles down my chin
Like a grotesque child or enraged canine,
Before I even have time to process or make sense
Of the predicament in which I found myself,
She flicks on a single buzzing light bulb
That hangs down from the ceiling
Like a menacing eyeball dangling from its socket,
She is dressed in only long black vinyl boots
And she brandishes a stiff whip,
Like the kind a jockey uses to goad a racehorse,
Saying nothing verbally,
But, communicating domination with her expression
And ruthless ecstasy with the way she nibbles on her own lips,
She whips me mercilessly,
Exulting emphatically each time the whip
Lacerates my exposed, vulnerable dermis,
And as tears voluminously spring forth from
My Excited lacrimal glands,
She takes a moment to stop and pulls herself in close,
So she can lap up lasciviously like a kitten
The salty manifestations of pain,
Which seems to make her grow stronger
As if though she were sadistically
Regenerated by my misery-impregnated secretions,
And, when she has had her fill,
She flicks off the light and I am left alone in the darkness,
And, so each day progresses in a similar fashion,
As time passes, I can’t even feel the strikes against my body,
She takes out the gag, 
Because i stopped screaming long ago,
And, there is no more misery left within me,
One day as she pulls me close to lick my tears,
She stops when she realizes she is simply licking my cheeks,
She remains hovering just so, with her hand behind my neck,
When like a bolt I am struck with desire
And I muster the energy to turn my neck toward her
Placing a desirous kiss upon her lips
Which does not go unrequited,
And, then what happens in nothing short of amazing,
We lose ourselves in a fit of ecstasy,
All the pain that I’ve endured is converted to pleasure,
There is no more shell,
There is no more man,
There is no desire to run,
To abandon,
No more fear,
Only us,
When at the highest moment of ecstatic release,
My eyes open for the first time in all my life
And I see that all this time I have been
Afraid that a woman would tie me down,
But, this is not true,
What I have really been waiting for
Is for a woman who would tie me up…