Terror of the Alpha: Part 2

Who is this woman I’ve been flirting circles around for how many cycles now?

She isn’t the woman I used to know — convinced loneliness was the hand Fate dealt, romanticizing herself, and forever standing guard at the gate of her Sacré-Cœur.

She’s fiery like the cosmos, the young and burning blue center of the entire system. All other bodies revolve around her, gravitating inward. She’s not another object simply existing; She’s become the sun.

She’s comfortable. Flushed and purified of her previous sins and willing to accept a new truth from a bearded savior. Now only memories of the forgiven pave the way for a new trespasser.

Like a new crush, I’m obsessed with this woman; Her laughter could saturate every cathedral rafter with silvery delight. Her hips sway to a silent song with every step. Her azure irises fixate on the heavens hazed by Saturday night festivities, ravenously consumed alongside the second Christ. Coming again.

Who is this woman? I’m not asking about her magnificence… That’s been evident all along, but I don’t believe I’ve ever met her before… this woman “improved” by the presence of man.


Terror of the Alpha: Part 1

Forget an ocean abyss or a YMCA locker room. The modern dating world is one of the most frightening places on the planet. I’ve been banished to this realm for years, wondering if I really did just die and sent to hell for my sins. This current ride has been no different– horrifying, exhilarating, filled with ambiguity.

I guess fearing a nasty end to bout of dating isn’t enough; Now I’ve started fearing the beginning.

I found some writings from the last few months, and the ebb and flow of chaos and serenity is astounding.


“Post raping. Thoughts racing.
What am I doing here, again? Side of the road with my thumb out hoping to catch the ride of my life.
So starved for any affections that i gobble up every drop of cum slung my way and call it ‘intimacy.’
I’m no rape victim. Some of this truly is my fault. Hot whiskey breath and cold fan-blown nights. I consented, even wanted them.

Anything to feel closer to him. Anything to connect like tangled phone cords in a heap on the mattress.

Anything to feel any thing.
Not just thirsty but hungry and willing? Easy prey, my friend.
Anyone can blow their own horn, but nobody is obligated to acknowledge the sweetness of its tune until you’ve learned to play it skillfully.
So, get your life together.
You want respect and dignity? Earn it for yourself. Stop fucking hitch hiking and get your own car. Because you can’t pick a passenger if you’re not in the driver’s seat.”

Chocolate Dicks for V-Day

Wow. This Valentine’s Day I think instead of eating a box of chocolates, I should be stuck with a bag of dicks.

I believe people feel too entitled these days; Sometimes it’s carry over from traditional or conservative rearing; Sometimes it’s this ridiculous trend of individuals growing increasingly more selfish; Sometimes people are just jerks.

Ultimately, if someone takes time or expends resources making a gesture for you on a manufactured holiday like Valentine’s Day, or any day for that matter, the only words out of your mouth should be these, “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Is that what I chose to say this week when I found out my “I-don’t-know-what-we-are” partner in crime kinda didn’t plan any form of date for this weekend… at all? Nope. He’d asked me a few weeks ago if I wanted to go out with him on V-Day. Naturally I said yes, but that was the last of it.

No, “Hey, make sure you’re free for an hour or two at 8 p.m.” No, “Where would you like to go?” There was a meme though. Stating he would literally be staring at a wall alone on Feb. 14.


Instead, I learn I should be expecting one or two items to be delivered to my office Friday and having drinks with a DVD marathon is scheduled for the big day. The items are being delivered because he doesn’t want anyone to know he brought them to work just for me. They’re being delivered on the day everyone knows are reserved for the sidechick. And there will be no date.

I cannot lie. My butt was bruising from the hurt.

Even after I let him know he had sort of asked to go out before and the most uncomfortable conversation two people who are dating but not dating could ever have, he made it clear he wasn’t really interested in veering from his plan to do nothing (except have sex, of course).

The whole point of this silly exercise in gift-giving is exposure. Let’s not even lie. People who want valentines want them because they are public displays of affection. They are a way to shout to the world that “This is the person I dig right now,” and that’s the bottom line.

So when this man tells me he wants to stay in and hang out all day, leave his gifts anonymously, my red, foil Valentine’s Day balloon burst.

But then, I thought about the whole scenario and realized I needed to stop blowing so much hot air. Honestly, I do recall telling him the only demand on Valentine’s Day was was to eat a brownie. He remembered and planned for that. (Win) I’ve told him plenty of times I’m easy-to-please, and I don’t require a lot of material excess to have a good time. (Win/win) He did want to have my gifts sent to my office Friday, because that is kind of the point, right? You don’t want her to be left out of the office rose-petal-feeding frenzy…

So, naturally, the next thought was: “What. The. Fuck. Is wrong with you, girl?” I’m a real bitch. Here’s a perfectly good man you really like making an effort to give you a gift on mid-February day. Nobody owes you a damn thing. Be fucking grateful.

Why do we let Valentine’s Day get under our sensitive skin so much? Why do we care so much about broadcasting the fact we are sought or desired by another human to others? Why do we take it so personally?

I mean, it’s not like he’s trying to ditch me on V-Day. He promptly rattled off a long list of activities he sort of assumed would be happening… a workout (possibly together), maybe having lunch (together), maybe a little outdoor adventure (together, with my child) followed by drinks and TV at home (trust me, I love TV marathons). He was still planning to spend his time with me that day (and night), so why in the hell was I so upset?

What right do I have to insinuate his plans, his offerings were not “good enough” for me?

That bottom line.

His actions convey the message that he doesn’t want anyone to know he associates with me. I interpreted the whole thing as a confirmation that he, in fact, doesn’t want to “shout it from the rooftops,” which would either open him up to embarrassing questions or kill any chances with future or current romantic interests. Or maybe, just maybe, there are some people who don’t want to broadcast every detail of their lives to the rest of the world and truly do want to just do what makes them happy with the people that make them happiest.

Whatever the case, I’m already going into this weekend with a chip on my shoulder. I don’t think it’s fair to be “upset” that someone didn’t do things the way you silently wanted them to, but I also don’t see what the big deal is about making a little effort to show an awesome chick that she’s worth some probing questions, a few lost phone numbers or a tiny shout from a balcony.

One thing I know for sure is that chicks who act spoiled and entitled in the fashion I did this week probably should only get one thing to eat this Valentine’s Day — a bag of dicks.

Coming this V-Day: Lonely Hearts Club Meetings

I’ve been single for Valentine’s Day since my son was born. He’s three and half years old. Whatever.
Seriously, whatever.
I’ve never really had a problem with not having a hunny to shower affections upon me one day of the year, to make public gestures of love on my behalf and spend way too much money on useless nonsense. I honestly, have always enjoyed the day, single and ready-to-mingle or otherwise. It’s harmless fun and frivolity, and if you feel the need to hate on an exchanges of glitter-encrusted pieces of construction paper, there’s likely a reason you don’t have anyone asking you to “Be mine.”

Honestly, it’s a little more difficult to kick back and enjoy all the married and coupled friends’ V-Day Facebook posts when you’re dealing with pressure to win a bet for best gift. Valentine’s Day planning is lot of work, son!
Aside from the exuberant spending, boasting, gushing, kissy photos, whining about single life and other “disgusting” behavior that goes on around this time of year, beware of the most disturbing of all: lonely deep sea fishing.
There’s an assumption that single women feel especially left out at Valentines’ Day. Maybe men even consider them “easy targets” for a quickie this month. I don’t know. But every year, about seven to 10 days away from V-Day, a handful of private “fishing” messages seem to creep into my in-boxes, and I get the impression it happens to singles all over the social media realm.
Some may be harmless attempts to “catch up,” sure, but many wind up turning into questions about dating, going on a date or not-so-subtle attempts to skip that whole “date” thing all together.
This post is not meant to be a humble brag, but rather the raising of an honest question: “Are dudes deliberately preying on chicks they believe to be single and lonely on Valentine’s Day, or are dudes secretly the ones who can’t stand being alone? Maybe it isn’t a dude thing at all; Are chicks doing the same thing?”
Either way, it’s not exactly a turn-on, and it also has me wondering, “Does this actually work?”
Tell me what you think… Is Valentine’s Day the harvest season for quick, regret-filled hookups, or am I just being neurotic (like usual)?

ANOTHER blog about #Ferguson

Kim Kardashian didn’t break the Internet; Protestors in Ferguson did.

Around 7 p.m. Monday, every Facebook feed in the United States of America was fully engulfed with rants, jokes or snippets about the grand jury’s decision not to indict a police officer for fatally shooting Michael Brown. By Tuesday morning, five of the top 10 trending tags on Twitter were related to the #Ferguson protests, and Internet was thick with a cloud of photos, blogs and news stories about the unrest.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead and ruin businesses in your town. THAT makes sense.”

“We have to stop pretending like race DOESN’T matter in this country.”

“Dancing With the Stars was interrupted. #rageface”

“If you don’t want to die, don’t punch a cop in the face!”

These are all valid commentaries, save for anger about a television show– sorry, a terrible television show. I can understand rage in the event the LOST season finale was cut short. Honestly, I’m a little pleased to see it all considering how complacent everyone has become in this country. Most of the time, issues that have little to no direct, measurable impact on our lives are filed away into the “don’t give a shit” file, but I guarantee you, discussions around the Thanksgiving tables this year might involve something more substantive than football.

The reason why people of all colors, all social standings, professions and sexes are compelled to say something, I believe, is because Ferguson is a microcosm of a nationwide problem. Men being shot and/or killed by overzealous, perhaps even overly aggressive police, is nothing unique to that community. It happens all the time, all over the country. I’ve had to cover it many times right here in Oklahoma:


But what is unique about Ferguson is that the resulting protests justified the anxiety that Americans have had since entire neighborhoods were shut down during the search for the Boston marathon bombing suspect (BTW, whatever happened to THAT guy?)

It confirmed to us that there is an thick, blue line separating “us” from “them,” with the “them” being law enforcement officers. The complex love/hate, need/despise relationship between citizens and police has been festering for some time, but as the populous embraces the idea that people can kill anyone who they deem to be “up to no good,” a threat or simply a “scary thug,” the disconnect has deepened.

On one hand, citizens need police to maintain order and help the wheels of justice turn. They are the people who come when your husband beats you up, again. They are the ones that gather the evidence that puts away your nephew’s murderer. They are the ones that walk into the darkest places of humanity in an effort to bring some light.

Not all police officers are terrible people.

But what we’re seeing now is officers who look more like soldiers than law enforcement– Paramilitary gear, assault rifles in hand, literally rolling fucking tanks into the streets… in Boston and now Missouri. No police force should be equipped with a tank. Period. And in Ferguson, we’ve gone one step further… the National Guard is put on standby to suppress citizens?

Don’t get me wrong, I know that a violent, unruly mob can’t exactly be talked down with listening words. I can’t even pretend I have an appropriate suggestion about how police should or shouldn’t diffuse the anger. I just know that Americans are feeling more and more trapped within their own boarders; That we feel as though the police state is worsening, and the only retort is “Well, don’t break the law.”

Breaking the law isn’t an excuse to fire 12 shots at an unarmed man. Breaking the law isn’t an excuse to shoot a man you KNEW was armed nine times in front of his own wife… on his own property… when he called to report he was the victim of a crime. “Reaching” into a pocket isn’t a reason for police to make a kill shot following a traffic stop, simply because the perpetrator was a “known thug.”

What happened to people being given a chance to be innocent until they’re proven guilty? Now, most “thugs” and “badguys” have a day in court posthumously with tangled tales of their existence woven into elaborate representations by attorneys. The social response seems to be shrugged shoulders and a crude comment about how people should know better than to raise their voice or eyebrows, hell even breathe the wrong way around police officers.

Essentially, Americans have accepted the socially-constructed notion that “some people just deserve to die because they don’t follow the rules.” Americans have internalized the concept that justice is somehow a tradeoff– police have difficult and dangerous jobs so sometimes people are going to accidentally die– and we look the other way.

Police may not actually be guilty of murdering individuals when they get trigger-happy. They are also victims of a fear-mongering, told every day that they won’t come home to their families if they don’t shoot first and ask questions later. Their jobs are, in fact, quite dangerous, and many officers have successfully disarmed, shot or detained very dangerous people. Those cases don’t seem to resonate with the public as much.

But change is obviously needed. There is a perception that the police can shoot and kill citizens with little to no reason and without consequence. An officer may be fired, yes, but there is nothing that would keep him or her from working at another jurisdiction, especially since police band together and rally to protect their own. Until there becomes some way to hold police officers responsible for making a mistake, maybe not with an indictment (criminal allegations still must have a factual basis), or law enforcement make serious efforts to show they understand and want to correct (NOT rolling tanks into the streets) the misery in Missouri will only become more venomous.

Dream Man

I met my dream man, and for a short sleep he was mine…again, and then again, again. An uncanny match for my ravenous passions who still inspired love for keeping your boots tied to the ground.
Just as visions pass in slumber, we drifted. Swirled round one another, trying to escape the gravity of reality.
He wasn’t Ken, and I’m certainly not Barbie. I’ll take pound signs and Hitler ‘staches over exuberant cars and rose bouquets any day. A game of cards surpasses the romanticism of dinner in the moonlight, not because I’m not a sucker for romance, but because my heart sings a different song.
I’ve never felt a harmony like ours… a harmony so intoxicating it was surreal… a harmony that was a blessing and a curse.
Like a hit of LSD, the delirium is delightful, magical even, but it’s still delirium. You spend every moment in an ontological battle between heart and mind. Sure I can touch this idol of a specimen. I can caress his hair and kiss his lips; I can admire his beautiful mind and feel the laughter in my core, but what parts of him are real? Anything?
Then, the moment you wake up, deliver the heartbreaking pinch to your arm, he’s gone.
Just like the dream you knew him to be.