Insatiable

Rip the sheets
As we tumble on the bed
Wild kisses to set souls free

Searching hands
Clawing fingers
Animal lust

Sniff the core of me
And I'll kiss the core of you
Hunger, hunger pounds

Feed the need
Growl and devour
Lips and tongues

And more...
And more...
And more...

As the hours stretch
Dawn looms in a crystal clear sky
Look me in the eye

Then do it again.

The Puppeteer

Pretty doll on a string
Ribbons of blue
Strung in your hair
Take a bow

Sweet dancer
Tip and spin and curtsy
Twist on the string
Tap to the tune

Of the liar
Playing the lyre
A golden tongued devil
With dexterity

Deftly he twists you
Into knots
Twirling and spinning
Until you are caught

Sweet doll on a string
Shut out the devil
He knows not what he means
You're but a toy

A pretty play thing.

Prowler

Prowler stay
Linger till dawn
Hold on tight

Press searching lips
Everywhere
Then do it again

Before the sun comes
And you must leave
Enjoy the secrets

Discovered in the shadows
Sweet Prowler
Linger near

Before you hunt another...

Human Touch

There were lines on her face that she didn’t recognize. A frown where her smile had been, she remembered being young and happy—so full of life. But that day had passed. A marriage ended. A new friendship was stolen away and she found herself alone again.

Sure, she could call about five different numbers in her cell phone and any one of them would come and be with her. She didn’t have to be alone. But there’s a different kind of loneliness that chills your bones when you’re sitting next to someone who doesn’t understand you and wants only to shove their hand down your bra.

The room seemed to close in on her. It felt hot and suffocating. She paced the floor so sick of everything.  Chat rooms and dating sites and horny people begging for sex made her ill. “I can teach you about anal if you can get past the fear,” he wrote. Some freak she would never meet and did not know, promising to dominate her. She turned off the computer ready to toss it over the balcony.

Dating in 2010 was nothing like it had been when she was in high school. Where were the people? Had they been replaced by robots and stuffed inside little machines? Were they reduced to text on a page? Where were the kisses? The hand holding? How was she meant to look into his eyes under a starless sky and fall in love?

**

“You don’t need love! It’s pathetic. Seriously. Are you gonna die if someone doesn’t love you?” She fought the tears and scoffed, holding the phone tighter. “Pathetic?” He laughed in her ear. “Yes, pathetic. Take me, I’m alone and I’m okay. You can do it. Think about your kids.” He was a good friend; she couldn’t scream at him, he was trying to help. It wasn’t his fault that he was an idiot.

She took a deep breath, her heart felt tight in her chest and hurt. “I think…some people are meant to be alone, cuz they’re afraid or selfish or just built that way. But others aren’t. I wasn’t meant to be alone. It isn’t pathetic or a weakness, it’s just the way I’m made. I want a companion. It’s that simple.” He went quiet for a moment. “I think that’s true. I think I’m happier alone.”

She laughed and wiped away the tears. “Of course you are.” She could almost see his expression change. “Why do you say that?” She twisted the hem of her shirt, nervously, “Because you’re dangerous. You’re the kind of guy a million girls could fall in love with, but you’re emotionally unavailable. You’re exactly my type. I seem to look for lone wolves that I can domesticate. It’s a hobby.” She laughed at her own stupidity. He laughed with her. “Well, girl, find a new hobby.” She looked at the floor. “Yeah…”

**

Joe’s marriage ended when he came home early after being on the road for two weeks and found her in bed with his best friend. She had smiled and said, “At least it’s someone you know and not a perv from the bar.”  His friend had the decency to look ashamed. But she sat up and let the sheet fall. She arched her back so he could see the dark wetness of her nipples and know his friend had sucked them. She sneered, “Now if you’d come home last night…you’d have met a bar perv. Fuck he was hot!”

Joe had never hit a woman before.

His fist clenched. His friend stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t hit her. She ain’t worth it. I didn’t know about the other guy. Sorry dude.” Joe’s friend patted his shoulder and grabbed his clothes on the way out of the room.

He stood there staring at the whore he’d married. He remembered their vows, remembered saving to buy the ring on her finger, remember her bitching. Nothing was ever good enough for her. He turned on his heel. She shouted after him, “Where are you going?! Come back here!” He was done doing her bidding. Joe passed his friend pulling on his boots. He looked at him as he opened the door. “You did me a favor, man. Buy you a beer?”

His friend stood up and slapped him on the back. “Hell yeah!”

**

The bar was full of lonely hearts. Some laughed and drank and danced, others took up space at the bar. She surveyed the room and almost walked out. This wasn’t her thing. Insecurity clawed at her. But the bartender smiled at her, he’d seen her type a million times. She walked toward him—a lifeline in a room of vultures.

“What are ya drinking, sweetheart?”  She looked around and cleared her throat. “I don’t know…” He grinned, “You look like a margarita girl.” She grinned. “I am!” He turned to fix her drink.

“What kind of woman doesn’t know what she likes to drink?” The guy next to her turned and glared at her face. He was obviously pissed off about something. “I’m sorry?” She looked at him questioningly.  He chuckled harshly, “Why? Did you do something wrong?”

She didn’t know what to say. Talking to him was like maneuvering landmines. So she turned back to the bartender and her drink. “He bothering you, sweetheart?” She smiled at him, “Nah. I think he’s just grumpy.”

The man laughed louder, mirthlessly. “Grumpy? Yeah, you could fucking say that.” She looked at him then, took in his disheveled blond hair and bloodshot blue eyes. He’d been crying. “What is your problem? I don’t know you.”  He growled at her. “Women are my problem. Are you a bitch, too?”

She shook her head. “No. But I could be if you keep this up.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry…” He mumbled and she leaned in, “What?” He looked up at her completely heartbroken and repeated himself. “I said, I caught my wife cheating on me tonight. My marriage is over.” She was stunned, felt his pain. She put her hand to his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

He kissed her hand and looked into her warm brown eyes. It was like looking at an angel. He bought her another drink even though she had barely touched the first. They talked till the bar closed. Then he walked her to her car. “I’m Joe, by the way.”  She laughed and leaned against her car. “Ana.” She toed at the gravel. “It’s funny how you can have a whole conversation with someone and not even think to ask their name.”

He stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “The booze helps.” She laughed at him then and put her hands on his cheeks. It seemed so natural. Her laughter trailed off and she licked her lips. He put his hands on either side of her on the car. His mouth found hers, eyes closed, lips drinking. He tasted her margarita; she tasted his beer.

She moaned a little and he pressed into her, crushing her breasts to his chest, his hands moved to touch her body. He pulled her legs up and put her on the hood of the car, stepping into their v. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him more intensely.

He cupped her breasts and leaned to kiss their tips through her clothing. She bit her lip and her hands tightened in his hair. He came back to her lips and kissed her hard, bruising her mouth. Her hands traveled him, settling on the bulge in the front of his jeans. He drew in a sharp breath and stopped her hand from stroking. He looked at her with lust. Then he kissed her again, released her hand, and rubbed her sex through her panties. Her skirt pushed up to her waist, he stroked harder. 

“God, you’re so wet.”  She grinned and tugged on his lip with her teeth. He shifted her panties to the side and dipped a finger in. She loved it, pulled his hand to her mouth and sucked his finger. “Yeah…” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “So. Your place or mine?”

Hate

I can't stand to see him hurt
Sad people make me sadder
I hate that he's shut me out


And would rather wallow


I hate that he drinks
I hate that he acts like I'm dead
He acts like I never existed


And that it STILL makes me cry


I hate that he bleeds
Oozes words and booze and lies
Spins his line of bullshit


And I STILL read it!


Hate that I want him back
That I wasted 8 months of my life on him
Hate that I cry myself to sleep at night


And want only to make him smile...

Nonsense

Those I love
Don't love me
Learning to accept that
Is like

Finding a worm in cherry pie
Like learning the sky is green
The grass is purple
And burns real nice when you roll it

Or so I hear

You only call me when you're drunk
You only text when you're bored
Crazy men
Make me crazy

So many lips I haven't kissed
Hands I haven't felt
I should stalk his ass
Make him love me

But I won't

Too many rules
Have me twisted up in ties
An S&M rag doll
Presenting

Riddle me this
Riddle me that
Is phone sex a sin?
Gonna burn

In a fiery lake
At a banquet hall in hell
He said so many pretty things
Licked flames across my mind

Across my heart

Then flipped the switch
Executioner
Evil phone sexer
Evil mind licker

Found a worm in cherry pie
Found a worm in the bottle
Rolled some grass
But the match was wet

Or so I hear...

Yes Man

I freaking LOVE this song, lol.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UH47sZcMbE&NR=1

Orange Candy

Sanitarium in Dripping Springs

“How many hands does it take to pull the wings off a fly?” I looked at him with confusion and apprehension, barely able to shake my head wrapped in the ties he’d bound me with. He leaned in close his greasy face inches from mine. The knife in his hand felt cold and ominous against my skin. “I say two, one to hold the beastie down and one to do the plucking.”

I wanted to argue to kick or scream or something, but it was impossible trussed up like this, with a gag in my mouth. In movies I always wondered why the victim didn’t push the gag out with her tongue. But he’d wedged it in so tight that the skin of my lips cracked from the strain. Maybe I’d have given better head if I’d been able to stretch my mouth like this before.

It made me sad to think that I’d never give head again…or worse…that I’d have to suck on his repulsive prick. Please God, I prayed, don’t let that be the last thing I taste. It’s a crazy thing to think when you’re about to die, but fuck it, it’s my death scene.

I remembered Gary. He tasted like orange cream candy…mmmmm….Too bad he liked to share his candy with all the girls. I thought of opportunities missed, of the sex I could have had, of the lollipops I could have licked. But I declined cuz that’s what good girls do. What good has being good ever done me?

He paced the cabin. I still don’t see how he broke in here, let alone drug my limp body up the decayed incline. I should have known better than to go hiking alone. The world isn’t as innocent as it used to be. It seemed a great idea though…initially.

He pulled my hair back and licked my neck. I choked on bile. He shoved me away. I lay there flat and listless unable to right myself. They kept the Lepers here—way back when. I lay on the floor the Lepers laid on. There was something symbolic about that, but I couldn’t reason what.

He looked out the window and I realized that he was waiting for someone. I thought about his words. …two hands…one to hold the beastie…one to pluck its wings. Am I the beastie? I squirmed trying to sit up, succeeding only in kicking dust in my face.

“Knock it off, girlie. You ain’t goin’ nowheres.” I stopped and looked at him. I wished again that I could talk. The things I’d say to him…disgusting twit! I relished the heat of anger. I savored it as it curled in my tummy and licked along my skin. I felt that I’d need anger to get through this.

I heard the crunch of stones outside. Fear raced, warring with anger. My kidnapper opened the door and a small man walked in. He wasn’t much bigger than my 5’ frame. He came over to me, pulled me upright and stroked my cheek as he brushed my hair over my shoulder. “How are you this lovely evening?” His voice flowed like honey. How am I? Is he serious? How does he think I am hog-tied and kidnapped up in the Organ Mountains? Idiot! I glared at him and he…smiled.

“Ooooh. A feisty one!” He seemed genuinely pleased and turned to the grease-ball, “Well done Carl. I like the feisty ones. You feel their fire fade so much more intensely than the meek ones. Well done.” I looked at the wooden planks of the floor feeling my confidence fall as they congratulated themselves. How many times had they done this before?

I had to think fast if I wanted to get out of this—I needed to focus. My mind kept going back to sex and boys and all the things I’d never done. It was non-productive. I should’ve tried anal. Stop it! I shouted at myself, pay attention stupid girl. I watched them huddle at the far end; they spoke in hushed tones, deciding how to kill me.

There were two pieces of furniture in the cabin--an old wooden table next to me and a steam trunk across from me. It was the sort of thing a ventriloquist would use while playing Vaudeville. I looked at the stamps all over it, wishing I could read all of the places the trunk had been. Undoubtedly it had seen more places than I ever would.

They stopped talking and came over to the steam trunk. Greaseball pulled crisp white linen from it and laid it over the top of the trunk. The little freak opened a bag that I’d somehow missed and started lining up shiny metal objects on the linen. He held one up and looked at it lovingly. He turned to me and showed it to me. It looked like some kind of dental saw. It was immaculate, shining silver in the dim light.

I cringed.

He smiled and stroked my cheek again.

He went back to setting up his workstation and my mind began to reel. I looked at them—no longer seeing them. I thought of happier times. I imagined warm sunlight on tanned skin and laughter. I dreamt of orange candy bursting in my mouth.

My daydream was broken by the freak turning my chin up to him. “Such a pretty girl.” He smiled again and pulled the gag out of my mouth. I worked my jaw and sighed with relief. “That’s better isn’t it?” I looked at him and spat, “They’ll find me, and they’ll catch you, and I will see your ass in hell.”

He chuckled—a most sickening sound. “Maybe so, maybe so.” He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “But not today. Not before we’ve had our fun.” He kissed my cheek and straightened himself. I looked at him with hatred. He liked it. “Oh, that’s good. It makes me hard when you shoot daggers from your eyes.”

I snarled at him, “Fuck you!” He laughed and Greaseball joined in. “All in good time, Precious.” His ands went to his zipper and he freed his erection. “See how stiff you’ve made me? Let’s see if your pretty mouth is as hot as your words.”

I almost fought him. I started to turn away. But he’d get off on the struggle. I decided that if he was going to do this I’d make it as miserable for him as possible. I opened my mouth like an obedient child. Disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he pushed his organ past my lips anyway. I stroked him once…twice…I licked his repulsive shaft.

I heard him moan, heard Greaseball unzip his pants and starting beating himself. I give him one more taste of pleasure and then I bit as hard as I could and ripped his organ with my teeth. I yanked my head to the side with lightening speed. It didn’t separate completely, just squirted blood and hung like limp hamburger. He screamed—had been screaming for a minute. He doubled over and tried to blot the blood.

Greaseball ran to aid him and became enraged at the carnage. He stomped over to me, the veins in his neck popping. “You bitch!” He raised his beefy paw and cracked me across the face.

I saw a bright white light and then darkness.

**This story was inspired by a hike I took on my Birthday, last Saturday, to Dripping Springs in the Organ Mountains. It was an awesome hike, but the photo of the Sanitarium shows why it was also a little eerie. Some happier photos:

A flowering cactus, can't remember the name and the ruins of a ranch...I think...or hotel...or something. It was cool. Lol.

Do Da Do Da Do

Andy Warhol and Candy Darling

She walks with sure feet
The sound of stiletto boots
Echo down the alley
It isn't easy being a girl

Can't remember the last time
She ate a cheeseburger
Or drank a milkshake
She preferred candy

Snort it
Lick it
devour innocence
Inhale life's blood

It's all good
On the wild side
She smiles
The smile of the walking dead

A little blow
For some blow?
It wasn't always this way
Hadn't meant to get lost in a Lou Reed song

She used be Daddy's pride and joy
A quarterback in high school football
She was only in it for the ass grabbing
And locker room showers

A heel snaps
She's got runs in her hose
Her mascara smeared in black streaks
A parody of womanhood

Goldie Locks and the Three...

(Eye candy for the ladies, lol.)

In a tiny little village there dwelled a lonely young woman and her two rotten children. All day long she chased them around their modest home and cleaned up their messes and broke up their fist fights and wiped their noses when they cried. They were beautiful little monsters, but they were wearing her down.

After several weeks of fighting against a spell an evil wizard had cast on the poor put-upon woman, her mother said enough was enough, and signed Goldie Locks up on a dating site. There weren’t many eligible men in their little village. The baker was married, Little Jack Warner was for too young, and the Big Bad Wolf was…well…big and bad.

So after a moment’s hesitation, Goldie dived into the site. She began to smile again (in spurts) and chatted with guy after guy. Most of them could never be anything more than friends, but she did find three interesting prospects.

Prospect numero uno was a nice man with a job and a good sense of humor. But the pictures he’d sent her were twenty years younger and 100 lbs lighter than he really was. And he was intense, mauling her as if he were a giant Grizzly bear and she some frail elk. She tried to escape him and his crazy advances…backing into a wall, climbing over the back of the couch, cringing away from his puckered lips, flinching against his searching paws. This would never do. He was too hot for her, too clingy, too much.

**

The next guy was amazing, a truly sexy bear. He seemed interested in her thoughts, her writing. He was very sexual, affectionate. He called her beautiful and for a moment she believed him. They agreed to meet and he was just what he’s said he was. He had a lot of toys, all of muscles, and a crazy amount of charm. He kissed her hard, kissed her stupid, and almost convinced her to give it all away. But pride kept her legs closed much to his dismay.

It was so hard, had been so long since a man ran his hands over her body and enticed her tongue with his. It had been so long since her breasts had been kissed and nipped and brought her the joyful haze of lust. He was so sexy. She wanted to strip her clothes off and wear his wicked mouth like a pair of panties. But the angel on her shoulder was screaming, “Slow down! Don’t do it Goldie!”

So she climbed off of him and wiped her swollen lips with the back of her hand, needing space, needing air. He sat up and she knew at that moment that he wasn’t a good fit. There was coldness in his beautiful hazel eyes. He wasn’t into her, not really. She was just another toy. She was a collectible to mount and toss away…and if he couldn’t mount her—he was done.

She stumbled through the rest of the evening with him. It was awkward and he tried several times to lure her back into submission; he tried to part her thighs. But she held fast to her conviction and was relieved when they said good-bye.

**

The third prospect was a sweet bear. A beast of a man, he stood 6’ and had the hottest smile. They were just friends, chatted nearly every day. He had a kicking body. A 36 he looked more scrumptious than the twenty-somethings who had hounded her. His thick black hair, desert eyes, and Latin accent were messing with her head. He spoke to her in Spanish—said amazing things. He said she was good for him, sweet and understanding. He loved her crazy texts.

She sent him silly flirts about feeding him blueberries while he rested against her breasts. He was artistic, a musician. He talked about camping in the mountains and she imagined kissing his beautiful lips under a star-filled sky. He made her want to drink deeply from the cup of desire. He could fit so easily, but then...so could the evil wizard...if he hadn't been evil, that is...

She could fall in love with this sweet bear. He could banish the evil wizard from her thoughts, from her dreams. But he was a complicated bear. His life was a maddening mess. It would be years—if ever—before he was ready for something serious.

She sat on the sofa and pondered them all: the wizard, the three bears, and even the immediate rejects. It was so hopeless. All she wanted was a good man with strong arms and strong lips to kiss her and pet her and love her. She just needed a bear who fit in her crazy life. It seemed so simple. But it wasn’t.

She closed her eyes and soaked up the silence. Silence? She sat up straight; silence was never a good thing in her home. She made haste to the monsters’ room. The two rotten boys sat amid a pile of toys—fresh crayon marks scaring the walls. They whispered to each other, planning another horrible scheme. She cleared her throat to get their attention. They looked at her with angelic smiles—naughty bears in the making.

She rubbed her temple. She just wanted a simple life, a man to love and love her…and a cattle prod.

Rambling Reflections...and Chills

*Fyi: This bit of madness was inspired by two men. Neither I've met face to face, one I don't know from Adam, and one I loved like crazy. Crazy being the operative word. My apologies, in advance.

When a woman lays down her soul you better shut up and listen. Snap-to boy and pay attention to the beauty she emotes. Pale yellow-gold washes away morphing into somber blue—her heartbeat is an artist’s kaleidoscope of color swirling all around you.

Watch her cry. Watch her plead. Watch her laugh and bounce for you. Silly boy, watch her as her love crashes to her feet. Close your mouth; hush your empty complaints and stare in wonder. Be dazzled and charmed and sweetly aware. Then kiss her like you mean it.

Because you should…you should always mean it.

**

“What’s up?” he texts, because no one really talks anymore. People just speak in little bleeps, tweets, in meaningless texts sent across an ocean…across a continent…across a city. I work the buttons, thumbs flying. Why not? I’m an American girl, it’s what we do. “I’m working,” I say. But isn’t true. I challenge him to figure it out.

He writes back, “Lol. You don’t work.” I frown, “I’m writing. What do you want?” He responds bitterly, “Another horrible poem about me?” I smile weakly, thumbs working, “Never. You’re dead to me.” It’s a lie. We both know it. He’s more alive to me than flowers swaying in a cool breeze under a clear blue sky. But I won’t say that. I can’t say that. First rule of war: Never Confess.

He responds with false bravado. I knew he would. “I know you are, they’re all about me.” I snap my phone closed. Fuck him. No response is an answer, too. I sit back and stare at the monitor. Stare at the white screen, the insertion point blinking expectantly. He’d accuse me of being passive-aggressive again. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just a sinking ship…the last passenger on the Titanic praying for a life jacket.

Silly boys with silly toys and pious thoughts lure me. Beckon as surely as the muse feeding a Greek God grapes and ambrosia. White and pasty boys with intangible dreams and fears big enough to block out the sun cripple me. Aim their arrows and penetrate deep. I miss his voice. I miss his randy smile, the sparkle in his eyes just before he flashed me his ass.

It all slips away. A sea of empty emails, deleted texts, and truths never uttered. He writes the most amazing things. Deranged things. He feels so much he has to drink to numb the sensation. He’s toxic. Cut him loose.

When a woman offers hope, offers home you should take it. A gift so freely given can never be replaced. When she whispers soft and low with heated breath and welcomes you inside it’s rude not to dive right in. Tread her waters. Milk her breasts and savor the sweet. Take and take and give.

I thought I could save him. I should have saved myself.

**

A story should have a plot…a point at the very least. What good are bunch of rambling descriptions with no purpose? A poem can flow free. It can swirl the English language into any shape. It can emote and bleed and cry and scream and cum. But a story? What can a story do save narrate? More showing, less telling! Give the characters dialog you dumb ninny.

I curse the blank screen. Close my eyes and drift away. Think of pretty things that bring joy, bring peace. I remember the feel of smooth skin on smooth skin…the feel of hardness slipping against my softness. I sigh and think of warm sunny skies and soft wind…running barefoot through tall grass. So many gifts have formed my life. So many opportunities wasted…

Ms. Olliffe is running American week, wielding talent with the careful precision of a sculptor. She writes the damndest things in tribute to each author. Who will stand and give her tribute? I can’t explain the thoughts this experiment have forged inside of me…I read the stories with a tinge of jealousy. I’ll never enjoy the talent they exude, never grab someone by the nuts with my words. I’m just a hack with a penchant for drama.

The insertion point still winks at me, knowing my dirty secrets. It knows the shit I’ve written…and hidden, buried in a folder never to see the light of day. It knows how I’ve cried and hurt and bled. It knows my rage and weaknesses. It’s a bitch—a blinking bitch who mocks me.

When we first met he called me an Aztec Princess. When he loved me he called me Kitten. When he said good-bye I was just plain old Kat. It’s funny the names we give each other—just labels for promises kept, promises broken.

**

I should really write something meaningful, something profound. I should quit this writer’s block, this rambling line of bullshit and really say something. But words escape me. This wordsmith has lost her sword. I read American week and hang my head in shame. I read his stories and want to scratch out my eyes. I read published novels and think, “I write better than that!”

I’m a tangled mess of contradictions and unfulfilled potential. I am a coward. I’m far too self-centered—but it’s part of my charm. Every once in awhile though, I look outside my dirty windows and see something amazing…I think Mark Kerstetter is amazing. Not only is he white and pasty, but he writes with grit. Grit is awesome.

("You know who" has grit. He has pain that he could bottle and sell and make a mint on. It’s what I noticed first. Is it insane to fall in love with a man because of his writing? He never believed me when I championed his craft. He dismissed me as being biased.

He’s an idiot.)

I hope Mark knows that he’s brilliant. It’s tragic for writers to open a vein and yet not see the power of their words. And yet…they all seem to do it. His work, in particular, hit me hard. I wanted to say in the thread, but couldn’t find the words. It seemed so shallow and pointless to write a passing, “Wow that was fantastic!” When the truth is that his description of the death of a relationship sent me spiraling into depression and searching out his blog. You see? A pat response was inadequate.

I never read his work before. Sure, I know who he is in a, “Oh I’ve seen him post.” Or, “Oh, I’ve heard he’s dark, but brilliant,” kind of way. But I don’t know him and have never followed him. Imagine my surprise when his words gave me chills.

Mark reminds me too much of the one I can’t forget. I doubt if I read his blog again. Ah sweet, sweet neurosis…my old friend. I should stop this whining drivel and write something coherent. But then…I never do the things I should.

**

You might say, “Hey Kat, you said you’d never write about him again…or at least not post it.” You might say, “Time to be slapped, chicka!” But you’d be wrong. It is my earnest opinion that this is more about my insanity, writer’s block, and addiction to emotionally unavailable men than anything else.

That and a lesson to men… They need to know that women are Goddesses. You read that right. We are. And the things we give are surreal, more perfect and beautiful than a million twinkling stars in a blackened sky. On your knees boys and worship us. ;)

The Simple Life

Fate is a drunken whore
Who swaggers from man to man
Casting her pearls for any
Who will have her

The bitch needs to get bent
I'm sick of her toying with me
Sick of her meddling fingers
Sick of her lies

No one knows the future
Or what God has in store for us
Nay--we muddle through
Like pawns on a chessboard

God in the corner playing against Satan
Fate throwing her diseased tits at them both
A seedy room smoke filled room
And Big Mama Thornton singing, "Hound dog"

Fuck them all
I've had enough
Life is what you make it
When you get the balls to do something

I'm done sitting back and playing dead
I'm gonna smash the chessboard dammit
And take back what's mine
Smile and laugh and paint

Jesus, I haven't painted in so long
What's stopping me?
Me. That's what
No more sad Kat

No more nice Kat
It's time to live
To breathe
To enjoy the feel of the sun

It's time for a simple life




* I used to like Sundays, lol. Now apparently, I like blasphemy. Sorry!

Fallen Angels

“You’re sinister.” She tightened the tie around his wrist and a small giggle escaped. This mix of temptress and youth was driving him mad. She cleared her throat and whispered softly against his lips, “Am not, I’m lovely.” He laughed a bit too deeply, and winced as the pressure tugged on the bonds anchoring his wrists to the bed. He watched her angelic face, openly aroused. “You’re the devil incarnate and you know it. Hell, I think you thrive on it.”

She moved to take her seat, positioning herself over his shaft. She smiled a wickedly slow smile. “I am a nice girl. My tattoo says so. And you are naughty boy, now hush.” She lowered herself onto him, as a queen takes her throne. His eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned as she rode him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t touch her with his hands, couldn’t drag her lush mouth to his and kiss her. All he could do was feel—just lie there and feel her sliding over him like liquid heat.

Her sweet face flinching with pleasure was the last thing he saw before darkness descended.

The room smelled of sex and perfume. The sheets were soiled and bunched around him. His arms ached and his hands were completely numb. The knocking on the door brought him back to his senses. “Housekeeping!”

Salvation! He cleared his raw throat and yelled, “Come in, I can’t get to the door!” A moment passed and then another. He gathered his strength to yell again when the door swung open. A round little Mexican lady came in pushing a cart in front of her. He squinted in the morning light. A little gold name badge read, “Rosa.”

She mumbled to herself in Spanish not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. He cleared his throat again and called her name, “Rosa?” She jumped half out of her skin as if she’d forgotten him. She looked at him there on the bed. And laughed.

Her chubby arms circled her hefty middle and she doubled over laughing. “Oh senior! You had a wild night, yes?” She came over to him and started to loosen his ties. Then she stopped. She touched his cheek and smiled. For a moment he could see the beauty she must’ve been before life had worn her down. He smiled back and shook his bonds. But she was watching him intently and no longer cared about the ties.

She licked her lips and for the first time he felt true, gut-wrenching, fear.

“You’re a handsome man, Papi.” Papi? I’m not her father; he thought…oh…came the realization. She ran her small, fleshy hands along his body and he tried not to recoil. He tried again to get her to help him. “Rosa, could you untie me?” She leaned in and sniffed him. She crinkled her nose. “You smell like her.”

That got his attention. “Her? Did you see the woman who was here leave? She’s a tall blond with blue eyes.” Rosa sat back on the bed, her hands exploring his chest. “I saw her. A bitch, she left no tip for Luiz. And he’s a good waiter.” He clucked his tongue in agreement. “That’s terrible, Rosa. I’d like to make it up to Luiz…if you could just untie me?”

She cocked her head and skimmed a finger over his lower lip, whispering distractedly…”So sexy, Papi…” She leaned forward again and this time she tasted his mouth. She pressed her lips to his and kissed him. But it wasn’t just a kiss. It was 40 years of sleepless, sexless nights, 40 years of scrubbing hotel rooms, bathrooms, kids, and cooking. It was a lifetime of work and sadness poured into a kiss. He stared at her in shock as she pulled away.

She was angel of a different sort. Rosa wasn’t a fallen angel bent on eating men for appetizers as Gloria had been. No, Rosa was something else altogether. She was fallen, sure, but only because her wings were broken. He saw the tears in her eyes even as she blinked them away. Her hands went to the ties at his wrists. And he pretended not to notice that they were shaking as she freed him.

She backed away from the bed, straightening her smock. She looked at her feet as he dressed in silence. He wasn’t sure what to say. A woman had never laid down her soul in front of him before. He was used to them using him, he using them. He walked passed her and his hand reached for the doorknob. He paused, the room breathing emotion with hot ragged gasps.

She wasn’t his type. She wasn’t sexy. She was older and rounder than any female he’d ever looked at. He hung his head, his mind made up. He crossed over to her three quick strides. He grabbed her round face, turned it to his and devoured her mouth. He opened her lips and pushed his tongue inside. He kissed her till she moaned, till her knees nearly buckled, till he couldn’t taste her sadness anymore. Then he swatted her on the ass and said, “Rosa, you’re a doll.”

He walked out of the room feeling like a million bucks.

He rubbed his tender wrists. It was time to hunt down another fallen angel—a sinister bitch with a penchant for absinthe and some unfinished business…

*Art by Boris Vallejo