He Is Minty Fresh.

He is minty fresh.  He is dollar bills.  He is midnight truck stop diner hot chocolate.  He is miserable drivel.  He is a Tic Tac in your pocket.

Wake up sweating, laptop heat pulsing like waves of summer on Vegas cement.  Put your cheek down on the pavement to see if it’s exactly as you remembered.  It is.  Buzz and whirr of fans, open your lazy eyes.  “Are you done, miss?”  Sway from drinking.  That stopped years ago.  Eyes up.  Look around.  Maybe he’s the one swaying.

He is lemon scented logic.  He is momentary madness.  He is the last sip of coffee.  He is aggressive, strong, dark and broody.  He is built like a tank.  He punches you in the face.  He is someone you could never love. 

“Miss,” he asks again, this time head tilted down to you, “are you done?”  His blue eyes would be piercing if not for their heavy brown color.  Brown like reasons to order another.  Brown like shiny, young and new.  Smirk.  Smile.  It grows.  Beaming.  Big teeth.  Bright teeth.  Hollywood teeth.  “Maybe...” you blush, “...I’ll just take another.”  Part question.  Part demand.  He’s just a kid.  You’re only partly jealous.  You’re only partly responsible.

He is a librarian.  He is a label maker.  He is the moment between thunder and lightning.  He is the sound and the fury and the book you threw away.  He is a vacuum.  He is a constant disappointment.  He is a magician.  He is a figment of your imagination.  He is the color persimmon.  He is the taste of dandelion.  He is your magic wand. 

Your jeans are too tight.  Your hair is too curly.  Your makeup is too powdery.  Your scepticism is broken.  And you’ve got bigger problems.  Strike keys like picket lines and you write your entire life story in puns.  Breathe in the smell of bug spray and regret.  You are one endless camping trip and one forever late night hookup.  You are an apology.  Raise your hand and signal him, two fingers together sway back and forth, close, barely touching.  “Maybe a piece of...” you say, trailing off.  Think of your jeans, think of your stomach, think of your thighs.  Say apple, say apple, say apple. 

He is a pony.  He is the words of a thousand boys.  He is soft lips.  He is the way you kiss.  He is an advent calendar.  He is an opportunity, squandered, on purpose, and with good reason.  He is Vaseline on toast.  He is diamond earrings.  He is a less than charming bracelet.  He is a warning label.  He is too many carbohydrates and not enough adhesive.  He is an empty dispensary.

“Nevermind” you sigh.  Ask for skim instead of cream.  Ask for air instead of food.  Ask for sex.  Ask for sex.  Ask for sex.  “What are you writing?” he asks coming towards you.  He is a tightrope walker.  He is a circus clown.  He wants to shoot you out of a canon.  “Nothing special,” you answer.  Your left hand twitches and knocks the cup over.  Thick sticky liquid, spilling; an accidental river sweeping throughout the keys.  And then you blink and it never happened.  Look up.  Look at his face.  Smile.  Say “thank-you” and he sets the cup down. 

He is a super hero.  He is the tooth fairy.  He is a pathogen.  He will break you.  He is multitude.  He is myriad.  He is things that rhyme with lasagna.  He is “I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name”.  He is the reason to never leave your house.  He is paper mache pie.  He is last night’s leftovers.

“I’m an actor” he says and the number 22 leaps out from his chest, animated, like a cartoon heart.  Awooooga!   “Well..uh,” he admits as he pulls out a chair to join you, “...an actor and a pastry chef”.  He is a child.  He is an infant.  He is an embryo.  He has no idea what a fool you are.  Did you ask him to sit down?  He tastes like salt water taffy.  You guess.  You try to do the math in your head.  30 – 22 = He is a mistake.  He is a regret you consider having.

He is a ticking clock.  He is a tuna casserole.  He is the Christmas present you’re going to take back.  He is behind the glass; a sign that says don’t touch.  He is the price of admission.  He is locker room sweat.  He is a holy roller.  He is a ball gown.  He is the sex in the backseat of a car when you should’ve been walking down the stairs of your debutante ball.

He is smocked.  Brushes his hands across the front, over his thighs and stares at you eagerly.  He is a Labrador.  He is a puppy.  He is an Adonis.  He is a cake in a box.  He is a trip to Costco.  He is the water bill.  He will not make up for the past.  He will make for good keyboard stroking.  He will make for a fantastic story.  He is an anomaly.  He is a statistical love equation.  He is the words Go Home written in black ink across your palm.

He is gone.  He is left.  He is right.  He is a 12 gauge.  He is a tree top.   He is a thank you card, written but never sent.  He is a cockroach.  He is a tablespoon of baking soda.  He should’ve scrubbed you clean.  He is a list on the fridge.  He is an audio clip of laughter.  He is your blindside.  He is a bruise.  He is a bag of frozen peas.  He is the flavour purple.  He is wrong.

Shut it down.  Fold it up.  “I can’t save you,” you say, knees touching legs together, “I’m just the olives in the glass.”  His eyes crinkle.  He winks.  “I know,” he laughs softly.  “I see you,” head nodding slowly.  He smells presidential.  He smells like authority.  You smile at the illusion.  You’re in the movies.  You are a silent picture.  You are a black and white.  You are Charlie Chaplin.  You are what happens when nobody is watching.  You are over exaggerated and underappreciated.  You are Grandma’s stories.  You are Sarah Bernhardt.  You are a county fair.

He is the lights too bright.  He is a mouth breather.  He is the pages stuck together.  He is a spoiler.  He is already chewed gum.  He is a dripping faucet.  He is water-boarding with a bag of sugar, granulated, in your cavities and sitting where your teeth might grind.  He is moving day.  He momentarily moves Him to the back burner.

“Hey,” he says.  You hear it.  Soft and low.  Turn to where he stands, flicks the lights off.  Cash register box laying open.  Stand silent, watch him over your right shoulder.  You are the moment before it happens.  You are the turning point.  You are the decision making process.  You are a box of iced cupcakes.  You are sex in a weekend bra. 

Outside.  Snow everywhere.  Icing sugar floats past gets caught in your hair.  You are a Christmas special.  You are an empty snowglobe.  You are jinglebells.  Say it’s snowing, it’s snowing, it’s snowing.  Or it’s not.  Every time you blink is different.  It hits your cheek, cold, wet.  You are Russia’s last chance.  You are Snow-bunny Sundays.  You are a ski-in lodge.  Close your eyes.  Make it stay like this.  You are his frozen moment.  You are his TV dinner.  You are his bedroom sheets.  You are his mother’s neon secret.  You are his father’s envy.  You are baby soft skin.  You are raspberry deodorant.  You are teenage sweat.  You are 11:34.  You are only wearing one shoe.

He is the cold brick against your back.  He is the eclipsing hand behind your head.  He is a push against your hips.  His is the give and the pant and the pull and the desire.  He is all the best moves.  He is an entry in your 6^th grade Lisa Simpson diary.  He is the wrong question.  He is a quick fix.  He is gauze dressing.  He is a Band-Aid.  He is spilled dog food on the kitchen floor.  He is “I’ll get to it later”.  He is this very moment.

And you were right.  He is Salt water taffy.  He is Peach flavour.  He is swallowed whole.

I'm a Man Eater, Not a Pray Mantis

Preface:  This post has me longing for the hot sweaty balls of boys...er...I mean days of summer.  Is it July yet?

I want to clear something up.  Be a little more precise.  About Man-Eaters.  About who I am.   About chicks just like me.   Because there’s this notion.  That Man-Eaters.  Are Man Haters.  (A notion proliferated by young buckettes who don’t yet know themselves.)  And it’s really just the opposite.  Grown Up Man-Eaters.  Are Man Lovers.  We love ‘em.  Can hardly contain ourselves.  Gotta have ‘em.





Friend:  Man-Eater!! 

Me:  What?

Friend:  *raises eyebrows*

Me:  Oh, okay fine. That’s about right

I’ll admit it.   I.   Am.   A.   Man.   Eater.

Back in the days of my early twenties, I had a rep. Slutterific?  Sure enough.   Awesomtacious.  True Story.  But at the heart of my rep (pun intended) was my lack thereof. Tin Man. The nickname speaks for itself. I was a Man-Eater. I had a bed post and an abacus. A belt and a list. I had a ledger. The boys were a tally. I was like Columbus, conquering the natives. I was just a kid. I may have been one of the minions proliferating the notion that Man-Eaters were Man Haters. I was just a kid. I didn’t know any better.

But I never made anybody do anything.  Boys did things of their own volition.  For their Goddess, Man-Eater.  One boy quit a job just to see more of me (he also proposed within 4 months).  One boy stayed home on Saturday nights, in case I called late night.  Boys set up bar tabs and announced our arrival in nightclubs.  Boys made offerings.  Boys left their chicks.  And at dawn I left my socks (and ran).  I hunted.  I prowled.  And the boys came out of the forest, hands raised in cheerful submission happy to be my dinner.  I ate boys like chocolate, and they were delicious.  I didn’t care.  They seemed not to care.  But I don’t really know.  Because I never asked.  Because I definitely didn’t care.  Carve notch.  Move bead left.  Punch hole.  Add name and date.  *hunger pains* and prowl again.  I was a bit of a dick.

But that was then and this is now.  Here I am, in my Summer of Boys and it has me thinking a lot about what’s different (if anything) between then and now. Have I learned anything? Have I just gotten older? Has there been any kind of development? And I can without a glimmer of doubt answer yes. I am very obviously a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater. Let me say it again. Loud and proud.

I am a Man-Eater but I am no Man Hater.

The boys of now.  They’re in the know.  Whether they listen or pay attention is on them.  But I tell them.  I say it.  I will be kind and gentle.  But you are a meal for the summer.  I plan to eat you.  It is no reflection on you as a person.  I’m sure you’re awesome.  And if you can handle it.  I promise not to go prey mantis on your ass.

I heart boys.  Really.  Let me say that again.  I.  Heart.  Boys.  Just because I don’t want to be your girlfriend, your mom, your babysitter, your secretary, your teacher or your savior, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your friend, your favorite summer memory, the reason you’ll forever laugh at the word “lozenge”, the person who challenged you to grow and know yourself, your smoking hot booty call, the memory that will always make you hard.  Boys, I think you’re amazing.

So boys, I’m telling you now.  And I’ll tell you again if I have to.  You are the candy of my summer.  You are the giggles by a campfire and the sexy innuendo in a game of pool.  You are the butter on my movie popcorn and the breathless scream on a rollercoaster.  You are the magic in a first kiss and the impossibility of anything more.  You are the steam on the car windows and the writing on the bathroom mirror (cum back to bed).

Boys I heart you.  I want you.  I need you.  This summer.  I’m hungry.  And I’m going to eat you.  But I won’t be mean about it.  Because even though I’m a Man-Eater, I’m not a Man Hater.  I’m a Man Lover.  And the moments that we have together, though fleeting, will be awesome.  I’ll make sure of it.  Because I want your world to be as full of rainbows and magic as mine is.

Now grab your balls and ask me out. I’m sitting right there. Two tables away at Starbucks.  Shiny and happy in all my SLUTmazing glory.  Ask my name.  Ask my number.  Show me your balls.  And I just might put them in my mouth. But I promise not to bite.  Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

Fuck Me Till I'm Thesaurus.

He tastes like a conversation.  Candy coated cadence and tempting temporary tempo swirl somewhere in between our tongues touching like torches.  Ablaze.  That bend and blend like lexicons likened to a river and its trial by tributaries.  He stands trial before me.  He stands there.  Not here but there.  Where.  In a moment long before I forget him.  A mouth full of what I have to offer and vocabularies rubbing up against my memories mammaries momentary majesty he dips and bows in front me.  My eyes roll back and I wonder how I've managed to last this long without his Dictionary  inside me.  

Roll my hand across the spine.  Fiddle fingers across ink and paper and the words someone somewhere wrote for a somebody something like me.  Me.  Standing.  Here.  Try to flip to the last page, find out what happens before we've even begun till a hand something like his stops mine.  Bookmark this moment he says.  Take this hand.  Take his hand.  Trust in these fingers that paint passion onto me.  Hush.  Paint and stroke me to the core and then brush color across my lip.  Kisses hard and fast.  Wet and warm.  Tastes something like cinnamon.  Synonym.  Ache like antonyms stretching to be more than the promise of an opposite stance.  Legs spread wide to encapsulate a hope for something bigger.  Something bare.  Bear with me he says.  

Pause.  Paws.  Silence.  Take a breath.  There is a break.  Here.  This spot.  This tic.  This toc.  The very moment.  And we break apart.  Look each other in the eyes.  Long like Johns.  Buzzing like summer nights when there's trouble between the fireflies. Slow like trepidation and school zones, the rate at which I fall in love.  He is.  Empathetic.  Pause.  Silence.  A moment.  And when it's ready.  When we've stewed. In the wanton wanting.  I hold what's akin to arms wrapped in armour.  Out to him.  stripped bare.  Next to naked.  Stand patient and waiting.  Bear with me he says.

And I am his bear.  He is my bear.  Fish for fun to feed him.  Grow strong on gulps of giggles and the laughter is the love that sustains us.  Our love is a cyclone.  Cylindrical.  Circular.  Cyclical.  Our love is an Encyclopaedia.  Write entries for days solely on the way he touches me long past late and well before the early hours.  Spreads apart the folds of my blankets.  Flaps sheets to fluster the flutter of eyelids just awake enough to open up my wallet.  Finds my library card with ease and borrows more books than his arms can hold.  Book after book he reads the stories onto my skin pours them into my mouth just to smell a hint of happiness on my breath.  Fresh and sweet.  Fun and simple.  Find and set free.  He is my hero.  My soldier.  My Professor.  Professing hot panting playfully provoking a pinnacle.  Partners.  Patterns.  Palpable.  Our love is palpable.  Our love is passion.  Our love is the sex he spreads across my toast.  Jam type love.  Breakfast nook type love.  Who wants to lick the spoon type love.

And he is my reference text.  Indexing the moments I can't decide.  He is my anchor.  Sailor's hands.  Rough and sea worthy of my every inch.  I slip the cacophony of his nation deep inside my voice.  Sounding vowels to find guidance.  Breaking rules to form poetry.  I leave verbs like fingerprints across his fur marking my territory like over entitled opulence and empiric entanglements.  Sticky ridges of pronouncements and I'm turning his similes into smiles.  He parades parables down my throat.  Panting.  Panting.  Panting.  Hold close in sweat and pheromones.  Fall prey to moments I can't control, for him.  Let him hold me for a second something like vulnerable.

Want to be his diatribe, want to write his soliloquy.  Hold words like babies until they stop crying.  A life of possibility.  Hold his breath for a moment while he pictures it.  3am feedings from fountains of feelings.  Roadmaps of resentments and regulations to relegate our senses of selves in singularity.  Syllable.  Sellable.  Seeable.  See me able.  To breathe.  Just this once.  Bearable.  Bear with me he says.  Take this moment and bear it.  Exposed like the letter y in a sometimes-y kind of way.  And that's when it happens.  Reads my words aloud like rivers flowing out his mouth, over his teeth.  Wrapped in the taste buds of his tongue, my words like sugar and lemons on Saturdays when the housework isn’t going to get done and nobody but the fireflies and the porch swing care.   

Euphony he says.  What? I giggle wrapped in arms hulky with Hercules.  You funny he says and kisses my cheek we were always here you know.  Long before the first taste.  And we fall asleep.  Exhausted from our education emboldened by bodies that bathed in the broken beauty of each other.  Fed one another till being starved was a memory so long forgotten it fell away from context.  I kiss him once more.  And fall asleep with the blaze of conversation on my tongue.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com

I'm Not Clingy, I'm Just Smarter Than You

*Disclaimer.  There are clingy chicks in the world. There are clingy boys in the world.  This is about the rest of us.   Who get a bad rep.

I’m a planner.  Some people think that’s a flaw.  I think it’s brilliant.  And FYI: Planning and spontaneity are not mutually exclusive.  My passport is always up to date.  At a moment’s notice I’m ready for a summer road trip.  Camping?  Sure!  House-party in Kelowna tonight?  Fuck yeah…I’ll get gas, you get snacks and we can be there in five hours!  I’m basically up for anything at anytime.  Party at the moon tower and I’m rounding up money for kegs (for you guys of course, I’ll drink diet coke) and Mathew McConaughey.  But essentially I’m looking for fun fun fun all the time time time.

Now while I may spend the majority of my days egotistically thinking I’m super awesome and RARE, I would hedge my bets that there are lots of lovely ladies out there just like me.  Ladies who have careers.  Ladies who have friends.  Ladies who have goals, dreams and priorities.  Frankly, Ladies who have shit to do.  And yet.  Ladies who have time to date.  Like I have time to date.  Ladies like me, who are available.  And not because we’re clingy.  Or desperate.  Or insecure.  Weak or sad.  Losers or duds.

We’re just simply not retarded.  Allow me to elaborate.

The biggest complaint I hear from men (trying to date me, trying to date others, floundering about) is that they’re busy.  They’re tired.  They’ve just got so much going on *stifles eye roll*   But here’s the thing of the thing.  There are a lot of hours in the day.  There are a lot of days in a week and weeks in a month.  Our lives are fucking filled with time.  So why can’t these men find any of it.

They’re retarded?  They’re confused?  Something in their DNA?  Momma didn’t teach ‘em right?  They’re really just big babies?  They can’t see a big picture?  I honestly couldn’t tell you.  It baffles me to no end.

Logic tells me that fun…uh...ya know...is fun.  Experience tells me that fun is…awesome.  And since you can never have too much awesome in your life, logic tells me that I would want to squeeze every drop I can of it into my life.  I mean honestly.

Therefore, I like to make plans in advance.  Why?  Because then I can fit more in.  I don’t wait till the weekend to make weekend plans.  Why?  Because when three people call Saturday afternoon to kick it Saturday night…I have to pick one.  Only one plan gets made.  I only get 1/3 of the fun.  However, if those same three people call by Wednesday, it’s likely that I can make plans with one on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and possibly one even Sunday afternoon.  Three out of three.  That’s one whole cup of fun. Fucking Awesome.  Now sometimes shit doesn’t work out and schedules collide and other times there simply aren’t plans to be made.  And that leaves all that lovely room for spontaneity.

And I know that often guy’s want to leave their options open.  They don’t want to commit to a plan, a girl, an idea for the weekend.  And that’s fine.  Go ahead and wrap yourself up in your issues.  It could very well work out awesomely for you.  I’m not saying I have all the answers.  I’m just offering an alternative perspective.  A reason she doesn’t answer your weekend texts.  A reason she cuts ties after three weeks without connecting for a date.  So like I said, I don’t know all the answers.  Not by a long shot.  But I do know about smart chicks.  And I know about awesomeness, lol.  And I know about planning.  And I know about having the most fun possible.  So with all that said, I leave you with this:

Boys, I beg you.  Next time you meet a girl who only wants to make advance plans with you.  Or calls you on Tuesday to make plans for the weekend.  Try to remember.  While it is possible she’s clingy or high maintenance.  It’s just as likely that she’s awesome…and quite simply smarter than you.  So do a cross-word or brush your teeth with the other hand and get that brain power up.  Step it up a notch, get your shit together and get the most out of your life.  Or don’t.  I mean do what you want.  But don’t be shocked when you call on Saturday and she’s busy.  And the best thing that might have ever come into your life is booked solid.

Just Sayin’.

Class dismissed.

Original work by SSDated, written as a guest post on the amazing website MetAnotherFrog.com