Hey there web-wanderer, welcome to my blog. I’m Bangkok Seven, and this is part 16 of my Frowback series rehashing the final months of my life in the prison of America. By the time I shat out this entry, my last American girlfriend had left me, but I was too pathetic to admit the truth to myself. In last week’s offering you can see that I began to use my internet journal to talk directly to her, hoping she’d read it (which I doubt she ever did). Today as you’ll see, I doubled down on my strategy, only this time the entire thing was a DM to said girl, whose interest I’d already lost, and so this plea went unread, and it died in cyber-darkness like all the rest of these old, wine-induced
“Saturday, March 3, 2007 Current mood: spellbound
For You Only
You know I’m talking to you, right? No one else. Just you. You know me like no one else does. You know things no one else knows. I’ve felt your skin. I’ve held you close, felt your breath on my neck, gone dizzy at the thought of being entangled in you, being lost in your depths. The smell of you, like sex and candy and woman and girl and my dreams, if dreams could have an aroma, mesmerizes like hypnosis, like a gypsy curse and an answered prayer together. Sometimes I fear that if I have to go another minute without the gift of your kiss I might lose my step. The vertigo sends me reeling. An imagined moan echoes into the dark.
Your touch is electric. I burn in you but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else to regret is for fools in the light of your smoldering embers I find solace that is brighter than the sun the heat of your embrace as long as this descent into an abyss like the dying refrain of a chorus, like “hallelujah” and the softest sigh, your thigh against my cheek your skin is like medicine, my sickness lost if my tongue touches your neck I am saved I am resurrected this miracle enshrined in your arms immaculate synchrony like God stepped out of heaven for a night on the town and here we are together in a blinding flash your eyes light the way your voice leads me on into shadow I am safe in the glow of your smile.
Ok I have a confession to make. While most—if not all—of my blogs are written under the influence of a particular viticultural solvent, the two previous paragraphs were composed under total sobriety. And while I hesitate to make so trite a statement as “I can’t create art unless I’m drunk” I must admit there’s a certain melodramatic sentimentality in the above offering that doesn’t sit well with me. It’s a conundrum. I know—I’ll open a bottle of Arthur Earl Dolcetto and see, after a glass or two, if the aforementioned content improves through the rosy haze of the wine. Be right back. . . . .
Ahhhhh, I love this winery! I get black cherry and a hint of roses. . .some oak and vanilla. . .smoke and leather. Each sip is a tiny flashback—a montage of blue skies, green hills, winding highway and Santa Ynez, Los Olivos, Cachuma, Pismo, San Luis, Paso. Every trip accompanied by a beautiful female. Stiff hotel sheets, late night restaurants, ocean sunsets, heady buzzes, and the smell of her hair. Her soft embrace and a look of satisfaction as I lay her down. Hmm. I sense the wine taking affect.
I wonder, does she think of me as I think of her? Naked in my bed, two heads and one pillow, her eyes closed, laughter, her body rising at my touch a long caress down her back spill her hair across a shoulder while I whisper into her dark secrets, lullabies for her heart. There’s no better game than this, no better reward that the taste of her kiss, the gift of her body abandoned to me. Her mind a mystery to untangle, even as I trip through her wires her secrets like gemstones on the floor of a raging sea her fury so secret yet so alive I feel it when I touch her stomach I see it spark in her eyes. She doesn’t want anyone to know but she prays that someone will take the time to see.
I want you to know I see you. Your fear is a weapon you use to strike at your own heart except in those moments when you give yourself up to me. You don’t need to run don’t you see you need to draw in close, to taste the ecstasy of letting go, of letting me have what you hide. I know your heart skips a beat when I take you in my arms but what you don’t know is mine does too I see in you the hint of a promise of something like what a child sees in birthday candles you are a gift your clothes are wrapping paper in my mind’s eye you radiate like a star I am blinded I am corrupted I drink you in and lose my balance no gravity I’m in orbit your arms around my neck my hand on your breast I can’t breathe each kiss like a last request, a tiny death every time you let go I come crashing back to earth.
You’re in my dreams lately. Like this wine you color my sleep and make it heavy, heady, I don’t know what’s real. Could wine be a hallucinogen? I know you are. I dream myself into you nightly. I see the road leading to you daily. The sun is an enemy if it’s not lighting your skin in an afternoon glow through the curtains. The dark is a broken promise if you’re not reaching blindly for me across the expanse of my bed I mix with your heat like poison and treacle both wounded and healed in you I elevate with you you turn on my axis the planets align and stars rain down this is my dream of you lost in the sheets and pillows and the echo of your voice your laughter like a bedtime story I want to hear told again and again.
I dream you into my life.”
I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. When I look back on those desperate days and me, wedged between a rock of loneliness and the hard place of intoxication, I’m struck by the sheer luck of finding Thailand and its oppositeness. In each of these blogs, I noted that towards the end, as I became more inebriated, I abandoned punctuation. I think it was indicative of a subconscious urge to speed up, to hurry on, to quicken the pace and get somewhere, anywhere. And damn if I didn’t end up in the greatest place on the planet. Today, the hardest questions I have to face are ones like “Do I have the energy to train my new harem girl to deepthroat?” The answer is usually no, but that doesn’t make life any less sweet. The point is, esteemed reader, you should never give up of the prospect of happiness. Not while there’s still a place called Thailand. Peace out.