Don’t explain


Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.

It was your transgression that killed love
I wasn’t perfect, but you weren’t close.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to hear.
She was my friend, wasn’t that clear?

Our trust is a torn curtain, gone,
A broken thread can’t be rewoven.

Don’t explain, I don’t want you here.
I can’t stand having you near

You hardly knew her, or so you said,
Until I found her in our bed.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.


Mine removed


I knew he would come,
our place since the beginning of time,
our time.

This is our watery garden,
our Eden without that damned tree,
pure and untouched.

He knows not why he is drawn,
pure as the driven snow,
in his dream.

When he last visited,
it was my dream,
his beautiful flesh,
my paradigm.

My spirit sat on this log,
here since ancient times,
but he couldn’t see me then,
not like now.

He can’t help noticing a woman,
the most beautiful he has ever seen,
as we were created for each other.

Forever I wait for him in the mountain tarn,
fed by a waterfall, borne of a force,
an underground river
bursting from a cliff face.

This lake is our love,
still and pure,
with its source from a higher power.

I will always love him because
I remember.

He forgets until he sees me,
wonders at his newfound love,
One that he understands not.

Natural, yet he is Earthbound.
I will teach him again,
but when he awakens,
he will marvel at his dream.

He’s had one like it before,
I know because I know his thoughts.
They are mine, removed.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (30. A Kick in the Pants)

PRINCESS of DISKS … again.

Christa sent me an email this morning and had a real go at me. She was upset that I was being so introverted and self-absorbed. She thinks that I should phone Janice, just to catch up. Don’t bring up that she stood me up, maybe hook up for a run – something I’ve done every day since we ran together. I couldn’t bring myself to do it today.

I’ve taken to playing my music very loudly when I’m home: performance volume. Does that mean I’m going dead … deaf? I’m off this week, so I’m just sitting at home practising, except for today. I went to see Evangeline to get felt up … knocked … um, touched up … my henna, that is. She’s very good at what she does, and agrees with Jem that I shouldn’t bother being integrated … initialized … initiated as a witch. She can tell I’m ditzy … different, and she can see the bite-marks in my soup … soap … err, soul.

I think she’s been talking to Marcel about me, too. Suburban St Louis isn’t exactly witch-ville, and he has his own coterie – not exactly a coven, but a group of mindless … um, like-minded friends. I could be one of them – if I could keep my fantasies out of his pants. It’s those bites from my soul that leave me wanting him, and knowing that while I was at the depths of my recession … depression … (Stop it!) … possession, that he had nearly given in to me.

I don’t know what his wife must wink … think about me. I don’t even know if she is a witch. Their house seemed quite ordinary, unlike the houses of most Wiccans I’ve slept with … err, met. Evangeline has planned a dinner party for next week, and most of the coterie, as well as Mrs deBussy. (I don’t even know her name!)

Aside from that, I’ve also been working on my latest story. Eirica is having quite a love-fest. I wonder how much of me is in that. She keeps saying she isn’t a lesbian, but she keeps having encounters with other co-eds. Having the object of her pretension … obsession tell her his fantasies in embarrassed detail is probably too much like me, except of course that they are definitely a man’s fantasies.

I’m going to format the next chapter and post it in the next few days. 

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (24. Done with)

It’s over. I should have guessed it when I drew my card this morning, the Knight of Swords – Allen – again. This time it was inverted.

At least, this time he phoned. It wasn’t a long conversation. I’m too loose … too much of a loose cannon, and I can’t control myself. (Well, maybe if he was here!) I get out of control when I’m lonely, and I still don’t have any regular friends here. I think Evangeline could be a friend … and Marcel. I’m a better slut … err, fit with people that have unconventional spiritual views.

Marcel invited us to dinner tonight, essentially to meet his wife. Unfortunately, both Christa and I had to play tonight’s concert. I think she, Marla, wanted to gauge how much of a threat I was to her.

I’m not. I’m imploding … um, impulsive, and I let the torturers … err, moment carry me away, and I’ve come to confession … the conclusion that it is caused by the same thing that spawns my Tourettes-like behavior. I was, of course, cured of a stammer long ago, but the wrong words just leap out of me, and sometimes they are dangerously too close to the truth. Are my actions governed in the same way? Is eloping with … err groping Marcel something I want to do on a base level? He’s nice. He’s handsome, but he’s also married, and that is something I usually hold sacred.

Allen is gone. Shit!

It keeps coming back. I blew him a kiss … um, blew that one. I never deserved him. On a scale of one to ten. I’m a one, and he’s a hen … ten. (There I go again.)

Christa’s asleep now, but I have a feeling I’ll be up all night. I’ve donned my headphones, and am blasting Bruckner right now. Nothing like some heavy brass to clear the bugs … wax from one’s ears. Only a few days left. She leaves on Monday afternoon. I wish she’d touch me up … touch up my henna before she goes, but Evangeline is doing that next Friday. Monday is too soon.

I’m resolved to wear the henna until this evil spirit is completely gone. I still feel the urge from time to time, and I’m desperate to have a man between my legs. That may be more due to the fact that I’m in a period of abstinence than to her powers. Marcel says she is gone, but I can’t say I believe it. She’s done something irreparable to my soul, to my desire, to my …

I’ve become like her, not in the eat-your-soul sex-in-your face respect, but a more subtle taint. I need … what do I need? I just need. I can’t just now see that feeling go away. I just have to separate my wants from my needs. I need that man between my legs, but I don’t necessarily want him. I want to be respectable. I want to love someone first. I want to respect them.

I want to respect myself again.

I’m not sure that will ever happen.

It’ snowing outside. I’m cold.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (5. Tears)

I received an email from Christa today. Do you remember her? She was my not-so-talented little horn student, who has become a remarkably constant email companion, especially since she has come out as being bi-sexual. Apparently something happened on her wedding night that changed her, or at least resulted in some sort of epiphany. It brought out a declaration of love – for me. I don’t understand it. She knew what she was getting into – she was already 4 months pregnant! What is it with me that attracts both gay women and gay men?

THREE of SWORDS. Sorrow. The essence of melancholy, unhappiness, tears, absence … and just about everything else associated with it.

Christa’s email brought sad news. Tom (her husband) and Jason (one of my more-talented former students) died together in an auto accident on the way to a gig last night. She would have phoned, but it was in the middle of the night – when I was probably awake anyway. That’s horrible! Two talented musicians gone in a split second on the M3. A lorry jumped the median barrier and landed right on their car. Sad … tragic …

Sorry. I needed a few minutes to compose myself. Where was I? Oh yes …

Christa is going to come see me after the funeral. She’s desperate to get away from it all. Although she took this year off from her studies to have her baby, it looks like she won’t be able to go back any time soon, now that she’s a single mom. (I’m paying for her flight. She’ll bring her infant daughter along, too.)

Christa. I didn’t realize that she was an avid follower. She’s read all my old blogs, and was the first to subscribe to my new series. That’s scary. She knows how I feel about her, and she knows that I’ll be uninhibited with my thoughts about her here. You know I will!

Max? I had to take a shower after Skyping with him tonight, so I’m nice and clean now. My bedroom stills smells like honey … and that’s not from my shampoo. He’s dropped the facade now. His wife is openly watching, too. (At least he says she is his wife.) He had her in on the act tonight, as naked as I was. Still, he remained fully-clothed. At least, now I can be certain that he had a real orgasm. (Thanks to … what was her name? … Jemima? I’ll just call her Puddle-duck. There was a puddle in his lap.)

Yes, it was as kinky as it sounded. He waited until just before my first climax to introduce her into the equation. The honey was her idea, too. He poured some on her as I watched – and then I poured it on me … let’s not go into further detail. (I feel oddly embarrassed about it.)

I did, however, notice a distinct lack of affection between them. (She seemed more interested in me.)

Not again!

Now, I feel really dirty. (I’m so sorry Christa. Tonight of all nights!) Will I answer his call tomorrow night? Regrettably, I probably will.

Look ma! No st-s-st-stut-t-t-t- … well, I blew that one. That was even a proper stutter, not just a verbal ejaculation. (I haven’t properly stuttered since I was a child.)

Good night lovelies. (Christa – I am so sorry about Tom.)

Pull the plug

Someday they will flip off the machine that keeps me alive. For most, a near-death experience lasts only a split second – or as long as it takes for the doctors to defibrillate them. Either their experience becomes permanent – they die – or they come back to life raving about a bright tunnel of ecstatic light.

I have been in a coma for sixty days, seven hours, 24 minutes and 8 seconds, give or take a few tenths. My family has kept watch over my lifeless body the entire time, and I thank them for it. But they should give up – my body has. I will never walk again, even if I do regain consciousness – well, I am conscious, but my body doesn’t betray it. The doctors talk as if I’m not here, while my family pretends that I can hear every word.

They say when someone goes blind, their other senses become more acute. What happens when someone loses all their senses? They have a near-death experience. In only a second or two it can seem like a tunnel of light, but for an extended period, it can be pure ecstasy. I can see through my closed eyes, hear with my non-functioning ears, feel with my disembodied body … and my memories become more acute. I can feel every one of them as if they were happening right now – and the best thing is that I can play them over and over, changing them to suit my fancy.

I am aware of every second; and I even know whether the sun is rising or setting. It is a light, cool evening rain outside right now, and I feel every drop as it explodes on my naked, disembodied skin, at 43 drops per second. Each one caresses me like the tip of a lover’s tongue, first the impact, and then the stream down my body as it obeys gravity, picking up the essence of my salty sweat. It’s a clean summer rain, since the showers earlier in the day have left the air fresh with positive ions.

Between my dead legs is where I can feel it best, as the droplets cling to my pubic hair before beginning their journey southward. I love that journey especially, as I can break down every sensation to the hundredth of a second. It reminds me of Richard for some reason – he was not my first lover, but much more memorable. He was into oral sex, and he loved to explore my bush with his tongue, especially when it was untrimmed. He drooled as he roamed, and it dribbled down my pelvis like reluctant raindrops, clinging to me as to a branch. That’s a real memory, not one I’ve enhanced.

Richard had an amazing tongue, now even more amazing as I savor every millisecond, every twitch of those wondrous muscles, and finally every excretion as I orgasm. Surely you think I should use past tense there, but I orgasm even now as I recall it – not down there in the dead part of me, but in my head, and it is every bit as intense as the local physical sensation was. That sensation is interpreted by the brain, and although the doctors don’t see it in their scans, my brain is in overdrive.

His other appendage, where I bathed him with my saliva, was less effective. It reached deeper into me, but he tried too hard to please me and never relaxed enough to make it pleasurable for both of us. He said he could taste my orgasm; I could certainly taste it later while he tried unsuccessfully to make me pregnant. Maybe he was disappointed that I never tasted his – of course, I tasted his semen during foreplay, but never stuck around for the full flow. That wouldn’t happen until a decade or so and two lovers later, by accident. It was like eating oysters without the wine chaser – too salty by half.

The doctors have just told my family again that I am brain-dead, yet I feel my husband Jeremy’s sweaty palm holding my hand. He’s crying – he’s been doing that a lot lately, and I know why. They are pushing him to give the word. Then the doctors can slice me to bits and parcel my organs out to needy people who still have a chance to live. He’s still holding on to me, unable to let go, sensing perhaps that there is still something happening within my skull.

It’s been too long since we last made love, much too long. I can remember it in my supercharged state, but can he? Can he remember what I felt when he traced my spine with his forefinger? Did he feel me shiver? I can still taste the garlic on his tongue from dinner and hear his desperate breathing. He didn’t do oral – the proper appendage served me just fine. But not him that day. His thoughts were somewhere else, as they often were back then, probably on his job, or his cricket team. His over-active mind was always in the clouds. Now those thoughts are in his hand, where skin meets skin, life meets death. He wishes our last carnal memory was a happier one, and more recent.

Why is it that in my final days all I can think of is sex? I should be thinking of the afterlife, pleading for forgiveness of my sins, and praying for my immortal soul. Instead, I cling to life, because sex is life-giving. Maybe I’ve never had children, but the act of love gives life to the lovers, and that is worth clinging to.

When they do finally pull the plug, I shall draw out every last millisecond in ecstasy, my final act of love.

There again please (haiku chain)

There please, again, yes
ignition sequence started
ready for lift off

love or lust, that’s it
you’ve found my soul, stirred it
my cat is purring

don’t be afraid dear
I won’t bite the hand that feels
(no, not a typo)

two apples, one tree
tongues joined, bodies colliding
soil fertile, ready

blazing sun, spring rains
fill our dams to overflow
you, me, two as one

we reach for the stars
climbing up Jacob’s ladder
together replete