Tag Archives: new york

Thai Terminal


friends

Written previously, recently revised.

We welcomed each other first with high spirited voices talking into our cell phones and waving from across the street like lost little kindergarten classmates.  Then we greeted like sisters with tight long bear-hugs in the same way we always have because there are a few things in life that never change.  I could hear her wailing happiness beating from her gut than her chest and out into the public and onto my ear.  I smile in her hair with immediate joy but reserved the sound of my joyfulness.

Xyza is an undercover mentor, a maternal-like figure, full of flashes of hippie love, extraordinary kindness and massive angelic light that illuminates from her aura.  I’m also an undercover mentor, half in age, full of loyal compassion, extraordinary hospitality and thoughtfulness that leave the innocent light on in the darkness of which I grow.

In the center of this embrace I reflect over our countless meet-ups and how it never fails, my constant awkwardness in the hub of sharing love and how despite iself, I’m genuinely able to digest her white magic, even if it leaves me depleted afterward.  Xyza looks tenderly beautiful with her strawberry blonde shoulder-length bob.  I compliment her on the new length when she declared, “I had a vision of myself twenty years from now, me with long gray hair and a flower in it off to the side.”

I love the visions she shares with me.

We settle in a Thai restaurant not far from her parked car.  Upon sitting, the server asks, “Are you tourists?”  “No”, we replied.  Xyza turns my way inching up her nose until it crinkles with a question, “How come everyone thinks I’m a tourist?  I was born in New York, but live just outside the city.  I guess.. because I travel a great deal.”  I nod in agreement and chimed, “Your aura never has that grounded feel from being in one place too long.”

But, with me it’s totally different; I’m a New Yorker who’s considerably considerate whereas I allow people to hit me with their bags as I stand overt with an introverted atmosphere on the train or bus.  Unlike Xyza, my roots are established in New York and it’s on display when I talk about my suspicions concerning the worldview.  I may come across as myopic, but I consider myself to be purely grounded.

Thirty minutes of conversation and I’ve been following Xyza’s lead because she’s paying so I never lay a finger on the menu.  The server comes over to nudge us politely – then Thai Chive Pancakes, Vegetable Spring Rolls and a glorious Mango Salad along with unsweetened ice tea lands sweetly before our eyes.  I continued following Xyza’s lead and didn’t touch a single carrot slinky.  I sat glued in passivity to the tales of my friend.

*

I listen to her speak about her ex-husband and how she’s pretty sure a demon owns him.  I listen when she said she knows of two men who have transcended beyond the physical and how they both married wonderful women, but not perfect women.  (It made me wonder, what constitutes a perfect woman according to a sixty-year old woman.)  I listen on in when she said she doesn’t want to play the romantic game from a male’s physical perspective, nor does she have any desire to play the woman’s perspective which is to trap a man in a relationship.  Of course, I agree.  I believe life is too short to live conventionally.

When Xyza decides to come up for air, I volunteer my own discourse.

I speak about isolation from the world and if canceling my gym membership is the wrong thing to do because at least this is a place where I can maintain some social skills.  I speak about having elevated to a place where physical sex is no longer an obligation of mine, nor is it ever a want.   I speak about the tiny things that make me happy like being by the water, the vision of living in a beach house single with two pets:  A husky dog and a petite cat.  I speak about not understanding the point of being in a relationship with men when being the opposite gender I’ve yet to connect and remain on the same wavelength.  I always feel superior.

*

We understood each other the way women and friends frequently do and we continued to eat, sip, laugh and talk the summery night away.

-Pennington

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DIRTY BITCH!


Are you dirty like
the balls of a turkey?
If so, how much?
Are you like me:
Clutch your cunt
to get in touch?
Did it stem from childhood
and wishing on all THAT good?
Or did it bloom
from the state of
reaching perfection
forever dysfunctional
and misunderstood?

I smell my earwax.  If you give me a choice between urinating in a toilet bowl in the middle of the night or an empty bucket with a funnel on the side.  I’m taking the second!  I blow intense snot rockets, not only in the raging streets of New York.  But on my breasts in the shower.  And when I’m feeling super creative and dedicated I finger paint a massacre in my tub with my period.  Now that I think about it?..

If my boyfriend during the age of 12 never told me, “You don’t stop eating your boogers you can’t be my girlfriend anymore”, I wouldn’t be able to truly pinpoint to myself or anyone else when I would have stopped eating my salty, soggy, brittle, chewy boogers?

I don’t like clean gyms.  The fuck is sup with that?   Can’t we get housekeepers to do something else?  Perhaps powder my face down after I’m done with my sloppy cardio session?  I like those precious and going instinct basement dungeon, scary dark, who-the-fuck-wants-to-workout-there meathead gym.

I never understood people who believe a gym is supposed to be spotless.  And though I can appreciate a mega clean, bright doctors office, glamorous Gym and Spa like Equinox..it just doesn’t suit my carefree grungy personality.  Or give me the edge I need mentally to get a heavy-duty workout in.

I mean, am I the only one who has seen the asshole with gallons of sweat coming off onto the gym floor while he performs a marathon on the Stairmaster?  Am I the only one who has the nerve to leave glute sweat on spic and span benches?  How about my snot tissues in the treadmill bottle holder?  Have any of you come across them? 

GIVE THEM BACK!

Are you aware the people who are the cleanest are the dirtiest behind closed doors?  It’s why I don’t trust men with super clean faces or woman with perfect bounce in their tresses.  The least I could do is show you the build up of lint on my sweatpants and the smudge porn mascara streaking my face like black comets because I medicate myself with raunchy workouts.

I’m not sure where this dirtiness arose from?  But back from the age of 7 I could tell you my mother and aunts had to force me to get in the bathtub.  They would check the bar of soap, see if it was dry.  From there on out I had to wet the bar of soap before I came out the bathroom.  Eventually my aunt won.  I couldn’t turn away big boats along with those green little army men with guns and soap war.  Clever bitch?

I never enjoyed washing my hair or detangling it.  I kept it hidden under a hat.  (Still do!)  When I came back from hanging with the mob of boys from what I call our car-house at an empty lot I was content with the dirt on my face and greasy oil under my disgusting fingernails.

I remembered a few times I got hit on the head Puertorican style with a hairbrush because I somehow had bits of chocolate, ladybugs, leaves and branches falling out while the bitch of my mother tried to comb through.  I was that kid who would bring lice to school.  Probably the kid your own parents warned you about?  During these times, I made sure to take advantage and visit my asshole cousins often to give them a taste of lice when I could.

So tonight in the gym I felt extremely dirty and I must say:  I get off on it mentally.  Mostly because nobody knows it.  And although I sneer at any man who decides to get close to me with a dumbbell in hand, I smile silently to my hearts delight.  During the first set of Incline Dumbbell Chest Press I could feel the unity forming between my perspiration and heavy menstrual flow bubbling into what I call Wet Farts.  These suckers slide from down below where my vagina hole is and works it’s way up to the starting line of my outer lips.

I could sense and visualize the air balls in full detail and in my head they make little pop, pop, pop noises.  Nothing loud.  Just undercover.  This evening, (not the first time around) I wondered if the herd of men in the weight-room heard them too.  You know, in the exact way they sounded in my head.  FUCK YES!  I wanted them to hear it.  But I refused to take off the music blasting happy in my ears to see if the noise came through.  Still, did they? 😉

On every failing rep for the evening I felt the push of blood sprouting out and about right on the mess of my napkin.  Surely, it’s annoying at times.  But my devotion to the work and effort I’m putting in literally outweighs every con within the high of moment.  Yet the topper of the night was practicing some jogging (fake) skills and psyching myself entirely by saying:  Just 5 more minutes and just 5 more minutes until 40 was completed.  (Because I hate cardio!)

But fuck me man!  I wanted to run the hell away from the treadmill as I felt the world of mangled people in my panty from a kotex-wreck.  And through the sweat, front, back, shirt, breasts, neck, pausing to tie shoelace, side stitch and excessive menstrual flow.. I had to put up a gigantic fight through the disturbing mental waves while seeing red.

Pennington

New York Train


New York is a place I can’t stand!

Sure there are fun things one can only do in New York like watch a movie at a theatre around 1am or buy a porn video at 4am.  But truly and deeply, I dislike New York because most people are rude and tougher than the ocean itself.  It seems being remote and on-guard is my best bet, until further notice of a person, place or thing.

By far, the worst is the train.  And besides the MTA overweight, slow and horrible complaining workers, the people traveling in and out of the Subways somehow suck worse!  (How is this even possible?)  Dealing with the folks on the train takes me back to elementary school.  Where I’m on my toes as the foreigner bully starts to pick at my cafeteria food and race card.  It becomes a jungle!

A jungle of pure madness when people won’t let you exit the train for your stop.  This due to the asshole folks who want to enter the train as quickly as possible to collect a seat so they can dazzle in on their IPhones or simply maintain their shitty posture, hip and knee obesity problems.

I told a friend of mine after this stylish man with a huge keyboard left out of the train:  “I can’t believe this guy!  I gave him space and he kept taking up the space I gave him to the point of breathing the stitches down of my jean jacket.  What gives?”  My friend who’s obviously male and a prick tells me:  “You just have to be an asshole and never give anyone space!”

And, though I understand that this is one solution.  This doesn’t fit with my personality very well.  I carry myself with dignity in public.  I also like presenting a friendly aura, which can be mistaken for my being passive.  And with this, I don’t think it’s bad.

Pennington