Desultory and Impulsive

[y=mx+b]

Lips, yes. A hint of a smile there, upturned and feels reflective at the moment.
Your hands graceful but impatient as they wait to roam.
Chest equally warmed and hard under the soft hair.
Your words, poems, thoughts, rambles and what have yous have piqued my curiosity for some time.
And then now, a subtle interest in art. Interesting.

There you go on the what.

I'm still waiting on myself to figure out how to go about responding to this.

I want to because if there is one thing I've learned about ladies it's that they like to be acknowledged

So perhaps this is enough.


I don't know.

I actually saw your reply while I snuck off at work during break to the one place where I get reliable data reception.

Afterwards I was like... fuck she wrote about me. how am I going to respond to that?



Not knowing how, I began to think about art and how I miss it. The culture behind it. Not the double espresso half-caf macchiato soy milk topped with just a smidge of whipping cream snooty pompous baret wearing cheese and wine tasting bullshit culture

But the culture of seeing someone see something for the very first time. Seeing that recognition that what they are seeing is something that someone has given them--out of themselves--to be seen by them.


I'm on vacation. I have to stack wood. So that's what I'm going to be doing with a hope of seeing it through to the end.

 

[y=mx+b]

I looked up from my drink
And I saw her

There.

Across the bar

A guy began talking to her.

I don't know when she arrived
Or how long she's been there

But I did know she knew she would see me here.

This is my haunt.
My secret world
Not so secret to those in it

A place
Where I met
Her

She didn't look at me
Didn't acknowledge me

At times
No one does

And I like it just as well

I took a drink
Cold carbonation
Hops
Malted barley
That comforting golden amber
Of constant companionship
That those that know
Will never let you go
Will always treat you just as you want
As you expect

As you can count on.

Seeing her...

I pushed away thoughts of Why. What are you doing here? and exhaled in which a way that left me feeling older than am. More exhausted than I should be.

In the shadows
Eyes were on her
Vying for her

Old friends coming up to her
Touching her shoulder
Giving her hugs that looked as empty as I myself beginning to feel

And I was caught in that place where guys get caught. On the sidelines of a game he once wanted to play but no longer does.

My legs and feet already had me walking out the door but my arms body and mind kept me sitting. Drinking. Watching her. Feeling what she wanted me to feel.

Jealousy
Envy
A want to be there with her in the center

"Sorry boys. She belongs to me."

But she doesn't
She's free for all


I take another drink
And wish them all
The best of luck.

 

[y=mx+b]

I came there to see him
But I knew that if I did
He would think something of me

He would judge
Act weird

Close himself off

Run.


So I did anyway

And that's probably what he was doing
Over there
In the shadows

Like he is always
Like he always wants to be

Writing thoughts in time
Emotions
Wants all in his head
So strongly
That in his company
Next to him
You can feel it

Even if only in your imagination.

And that's why I was there
For him

To see me
To write about me

To blow this searching off of me

And for a second
I thought I felt it

And I wanted to reach out to him
And crawl in his lap
And have him chase everything I didn't want around me away

And I wanted him to carry me forever
Wherever he wanted to go

And cut me
And crawl into me
And keep me from feeling cold

It's a stupid feeling
And an even dumber thought
But there it was

And there I was...

A muse
Having lost her author.

 

[y=mx+b]

I confess to some of these.
And more.

 

[SMNaughtywife]

I'm still waiting on myself to figure out how to go about responding to this.

I want to because if there is one thing I've learned about ladies it's that they like to be acknowledged

So perhaps this is enough.


I don't know.

I actually saw your reply while I snuck off at work during break to the one place where I get reliable data reception.

Afterwards I was like... fuck she wrote about me. how am I going to respond to that?



Not knowing how, I began to think about art and how I miss it. The culture behind it. Not the double espresso half-caf macchiato soy milk topped with just a smidge of whipping cream snooty pompous baret wearing cheese and wine tasting bullshit culture

But the culture of seeing someone see something for the very first time. Seeing that recognition that what they are seeing is something that someone has given them--out of themselves--to be seen by them.


I'm on vacation. I have to stack wood. So that's what I'm going to be doing with a hope of seeing it through to the end.

3050 posts on this thread and four years later I’m the one that’s left you questioning, perhaps slightly perplexed how to respond?
I don’t know what to say either.
Me?
*looks around wondering what I’ve missed*

Coffee and art.
Where do I even start.
Earlier this year I spent a day at Art Institute in Chicago with a friend. To watch the expression on her face of pure beguilement when she saw one of her favorite Picasso’s, The Old Guitarist made my heart skip a beat.
Yes, there is something magical watching the expression of someone’s eyes lighting up as the world quiets around them.

Art is not passive, it acts upon us all across the room or way, calls to us differently and can change ones life.
Whether it be from one of the Masters or a local artist, art stirs emotions that scramble for a cohesive string of words to leave the lips.

I could roam the art museums and galleries around the world forever, of course with my bike and a steak every night for dinner please. The only thing tiring would be my feet.

Anticipates a pic of chopped wood?

 

[y=mx+b]

3050 posts on this thread and four years later I’m the one that’s left you questioning, perhaps slightly perplexed how to respond?
I don’t know what to say either.
Me?
*looks around wondering what I’ve missed*

Coffee and art.
Where do I even start.
Earlier this year I spent a day at Art Institute in Chicago with a friend. To watch the expression on her face of pure beguilement when she saw one of her favorite Picasso’s, The Old Guitarist made my heart skip a beat.
Yes, there is something magical watching the expression of someone’s eyes lighting up as the world quiets around them.

Art is not passive, it acts upon us all across the room or way, calls to us differently and can change ones life.
Whether it be from one of the Masters or a local artist, art stirs emotions that scramble for a cohesive string of words to leave the lips.

I could roam the art museums and galleries around the world forever, of course with my bike and a steak every night for dinner please. The only thing tiring would be my feet.

Anticipates a pic of chopped wood?

Yeah. I'm weird like that.

Truth be told I've been lurking some of my brothers from other mothers threads out there and I've come to realize how shitty I am at maintaining a degree of banter and dialogue with the womenfolk who come by and post.

But then I'm like... meh. It's not my thing so much anymore. I've kinda forgotten how.

And I've come to think that's how people like it. Banter and flirting takes away from the self indulgant, cathartic fanciful batshittery I puke out of my head. Errors and all. (Except for that one person that pm'd thinking they were doing me a favor pointing out my inproper usage, frasing, and spellding, not too sometime ago).

 

[y=mx+b]

Every day
I wake up
Feeling as though
I've painted myself in a corner.


Every
Goddamn
Day.

 

[y=mx+b]

She walked out of the bathroom naked. All hips, tits, and curves. I was laying on my side as my eyes woke up to her standing, one knee on the edge of the bed, the other on the floor. Her arms raised above her head. Hands back behind her. And she stretched. Standing like that. Backlit by the bathroom light. The length of her hair all about her.

She was stupid beautiful and I got caught up in the moment--the realization--that I get to fuck that. That woman there. I fuck her.

I didn't want her to leave for work. I wanted to tell her to call in. To stay home. To crawl back into bed. To lay next to me.

She has since left for the day
And here I am thinking about her. About last night. About this morning seeing her. And it's all like a book that has ended but you weren't finished reading. The kind where the characters still live on in your head.

And it all is so absolutely magical.

 

[raindancer]

Every day
I wake up
Feeling as though
I've painted myself in a corner.


Every
Goddamn
Day.

I literally wrote the first paragraph in my journal last week.

 

[y=mx+b]

I literally wrote the first paragraph in my journal last week.

How do we get ourselves to stop feeling like this Rain?

 

[y=mx+b]

I know I'm supposed to be all dominant and always ontop and stuff.

But...

https://64.media.tumblr.com/171998e5223a1ac01d48477f58c0ea1c/tumblr_pblvccgv3j1rgpko7o1_540.jpg
...fucking RAWR!!!

 

[y=mx+b]

Also... I wish I had hair like he does.

 

[y=mx+b]

Baking Bread.

After having secured her catheter
I shoved a handful of malted milk balls up into her pussy one by one until I could fit no more. I then stitched her labia closed. Making sure the sutures were tight together.

Once done; all that there was left for me to do was cut her restraints, wait for the sedation to wear off, and for the yeast infection to set in.

 

[y=mx+b]

So this little vacation of mine is leaving me alone to deal with my imagination

 

[y=mx+b]

...and thoughts.

 

[y=mx+b]

And I kinda like it.

 

[y=mx+b]

Calls for a little Rammstein I think

Click

 

[y=mx+b]

Hey...

 

[y=mx+b]

Hey...

What.

 

[y=mx+b]

Why are you like this?

 

[y=mx+b]

Why are you like this?

To appeal to the lowest denominator of women into fucked up shit.

 

[y=mx+b]

Why not shoot for the middle?

 

[y=mx+b]

Why not shoot for the middle?

The middle between their legs?

I do.

Or I try to. Sometimes my aim is high. Sometimes my aim is low.

 

[y=mx+b]

Don't you think that during these trying times people are in need of something a little more comforting and meaningful?

 

[y=mx+b]

Don't you think that during these trying times people are in need of something a little more comforting and meaningful?

What's more comforting than a guy able to dive into the sewer to satiate the darkest debased thoughts of a women that maybe she never knew she had?