Walk Into The Dark

Posted: 02/19/2014 in Letters

Dear you,

There is something very captivating about you. Be it a subtle look, a curve, a demure movement, or even a kept secret struggling against its silent restraints. You draw people to you because you are free, uninhibited, yet at times dissident and hesitant, but never timid. You are strong and resilient; irrepressible . In any world where determined men exist, you are not only a catch but a trophy, not to be paraded around and lauded, rather intimately celebrated in all your confines.  You want to tell a story, to reach out for help, but pride stifles you from doing so. You demand to be won; conquered but only by the one you deem worthy. Much like a submissive, you keep control. You are always the one in control, even working to your detriment, creating isolation.

 You see deeper into me than you should, given our few, brief encounters. Your intrigue is alluring. If only I could show you how you are seen through my eyes, although behind my eyes is rarely a safe place for anyone, maladjusted brute or otherwise.  I am an open book. You pride yourself on avoiding questions striking too close to truth. A conversation between us, one in which you were held to answering my questions and engaging on an honest dialogue would result in more than a little bit of arousal and carnal provocation.

Your quest for mental control is admirable. Despite being a romantic cliché, your eyes are haunted, and they prevent you from hiding away as you would like. Maybe it is just you with me, maybe it’s just me. I see it, though. I see it in all of its beautiful vulnerability. It’s your purgatory, I think, you hide despite not necessarily wanting to. It’s your dangerous intelligence.  It is your obvious struggle that makes me want to know you.

I say all this, but I apologize if it feels like I am dissecting you. Such is not my intention. My own savage tendencies compel me to live in a world of brutal truth. The natural consequence is that I am disarmingly blunt, which makes most people very uncomfortable. But, life is too short, especially the way I live it, to spend time spewing lies simply to make other people feel good about themselves. That is a maddening and worthless pursuit.

I know people so that I can understand them. Anything else is a waste of time. You either stand up for who you are, as a person, held open by truth, in which you are forced to see in the brightest of lights, those controlled by harsh realities that make up brutal honesty, or you do not. If you do not, we cannot exist together; my demands on people are exceedingly high.

If you can live your life removed from the bullshit of flattering mirrors and obligatory compliments, you will find freedom unrestrained. You will find yourself damaged and uninhibited, and damaged people are dangerous because they know how to survive. But here I find myself, against a backdrop of breaking dusk, the night full of possibilities, and the night has a way of making the unthinkable possible. This is especially true for those of us who live out here, beyond the stars; unrepentant for who we are, choosing only to live as ourselves and in the comfort of others like us, free of judgment and shame, suffering no derision for the world around us. Walk into the dark with me now, or stay sheltered and confined. We are who we are, with our middle fingers raised to the world.


I’m feeling uninspired but I feel the need to write, which is a strange position to find myself, but no stranger than finding myself in this position, which happens more than I would like to admit:


Writing is not the easiest thing in the world for me (obviously, look at some of the stuff I have written), and not only because of my semi-sloppy handwriting. Truth be told, when I want to print neatly it is possible, but doing so prevents me from handicapping myself. What defense mechanisms? Unfortunately for this piece of paper, however, my thoughts happen faster than I am able to write them down. I am a trooper so I will drive on and attempt to bring joy to the world through my magnificent prose, my unnerving ability to say and do what others will not, and my more than impressive techniques with my dong. Actually I am not too sure about that last qualification, but it gave me an excuse to say dong. If you want to check for yourself, ask your mom.

I will stop here and give accolades to the Pilot pen company for producing the G-1 05, with which I will use to produce whatever the hell follows this stupid sentence.

I’ve come to realize the only way to break through a wall when I am not inspired is to write, so that is what this is. Writing is cathartic for me, but much of the time what I write is too close to comfort for me to publish. I’ve made some strides in that area as some of the stuff I’ve published on this site would never have seen the light of day a few years back. Being honest with my writing has made me a stronger writer. The other side to that is most of that stuff is difficult to put out there. Double edged sword and all that.

Truth be told, I don’t have a point to this entry. I have no inspiration right now. I don’t understand how I can draft what I believe to be masterpieces in my head, only to have them completely dissipate when I try to put it on paper. I can’t say it’s a writer’s block, but I don’t know what else it is. Whatever it is, I am sure a blowjob would fix it. Blowjob = zen.

Zen Alien

Up early and into the gym. My workouts are getting more intense as I try not to lose ground I’ve already covered. I go  heavy and hard (much like in the sack, ladies) because I know there will come a time when I won’t be able to do that anymore (the lifting, not the aggressive fucking). I look at people that have lifted heavy for long periods of time and compare how their workouts have changed. Henry Rollins wrote the definitive piece on lifting, and recently I read something from him where his body cannot handle lifting like that anymore. It’s inevitable for all of us, our bodies deteriorate. Until then, however, I am going to be as strong as I can possibly be, with as much testosterone as my heart can handle being pushed through my body just in case, you know, the Zompac.

Zombie handZombie+Apocalypse.+Tags+~)_b13f98_3809260Hopefully I am not yet halfway through my life, I would like to see more of it. That is not a sentiment I felt a few short years ago, unfortunately, but that’s a different blog altogether. It would be a shame if this were my mid-life, and not only because I don’t have the money to finance a mid-life crisis.

I suppose it’s a good thing to take stock of your life at different periods of time. How else would you measure growth or realize you need to set different goals? These periods of reflection, for lack of a better term, should not be linked to milestones, however, as Hallmark so commercially suggests. They don’t need to be on any set basis, either. Not taking a look at who you are, where you’ve been, and where you would like to go is doing yourself a disservice. Everyone wants more money, etc. and I don’t think these thoughts should focus on something so . . . superficial? Money is necessary, no doubt, but it shouldn’t be the one thing driving your life. I can say that because despite being brought up in a middle class lifestyle, there are plenty of times in my “adult” where I have gone without food. There are times where I have gone without food so that my wife and child could eat. I’ve watched my utilities being turned off because I couldn’t afford to keep them on. It sucks, and nothing makes you feel like a bigger failure, especially when you have to turn around to face your wife and child. One thing I have realized is that regardless of how much money or influence a person has, nobody is immune from the giant shits life takes on us. The only difference is that money and influence can afford larger umbrellas. Like 98% of America, I have no umbrella and I perpetually left my galoshes at home.

stormNevertheless, I am generally happy with my life at this point, aside from the crushing student loan debt I carry. Like the tens of thousands of other people that entered law school between 2003 and 2008, I was under the impression there would be solid, paying work on the other end. The entire country was proven wrong on that. Despite going to a state school, my debt has more commas in it than I would like to admit. Frustrating as that is, I cannot let it beat me down, it is a path I chose, and a debt I must pay. I just wish it was less debt is all.

As I have children, I cannot take stock of my life without focusing, at least a little, on how much psychological damage I’m undoubtedly  inflicting upon them. All parents fuck their kids up, I know this. Anyone who has ever been a child knows this, it’s almost impossible for parents not to put at least some of their hangups on their kids. Parenting is managing the damage, and showing them how to deal with people in the real world so they can survive and flourish.

I’ve spent a lifetime in a relentless assault against authority, and my kids have clearly picked up on that part of my personality. It’s not that they reject authority for the sake of rejecting authority like their old man, they are not to that stage, yet. My oldest does realize that the education she receives at school is far different than the one she receives at home, however, and I look upon such things with pride. Maybe I shouldn’t, but who am I to judge me?

One thing I’ve found up until this point, is it’s the struggle and the fight that is what should be celebrated. My attitude regarding authority has led to me being fired from multiple jobs, often rightfully so. Okay, always rightfully so. I’ve sewed dissension amongst the ranks without the ranks even knowing what they were dissenting against. I have no shame in acting as an agent provocateur, but I do shame myself in having to use a french word.

vforvendettaI have no idea to what end I acted as I did, it isn’t like I was driving a labor movement, or improving anyone’s condition in life. I simply enjoyed the chaos, and watching people react to situations I started while I laughed and fanned the flames. I’ve been subversive when necessary and an agitator when needed. I was never able to stay in the background, however, and it was my mouth that came to the forefront of things, hence my firings. I have never minded being fired or shamed for doing what I thought was right, whether it was the right thing to do or not. That’s the message to pass on to the children. I’ve always been dangerous, and I don’t mean in the Maverick kind of way. Although, if I had an F-14 Tomcat I am confident I would own that shit as well.

icemanSome of the jobs I lost because of who I am meant more to me than others. Some I had for money, some I had because I enjoyed the crew and the work, and some for both. I realize now that my actions couldn’t be helped any more than the thought processes that lead to them. I am not excusing those actions, at the time they seemed either necessary or just downright fun. In the end they were mine, and I take responsibility for them. Results are secondary to me, I like the fight.  I don’t know if that’s a good thing to pass on to my kids, however. Maybe in another twenty years I’ll update this again. Only time will tell, and what it tells you is often frightening.

dfwThanks for reading this.

I have tattoos. Not a plethora of tattoos,  but some largish tattoos. I will be getting more tattoos, and eventually everything will merge into one tattoo. I am one person and I have one story to tell. One story equals one tattoo, just like one riot equals one Ranger. I have a good chunk of skin already covered, but I have a vision of the stuff I want on my body and where it is going to go. That said, I’ve never enjoyed chest tattoos on men or women. I have never been able to put my finger on it, but there was just something about them that bothered me.

Recently, however, I’ve changed my views on chest pieces, and have found a new appreciation for them. I embrace such pieces now. Once my upper body work is done, what will appear on my chest will not be a chest piece, but rather a central meeting space on my chest of two separate tattoos. It will look wicked sweet. For such a momentous occasion, i.e., my embracing chest pieces, I felt I should share the piece that brought me to the light so to speak.

This is not what I meant.

This is not what I meant.

As I was looking at boobs on the internet researching octopus tattoos one day, I came across a tattoo that always got me right where it counts – in the dick. I’ve seen this particular piece a couple of times, and I don’t know what it is (boobs) about this tattoo (boobs) but I’ve always (boobs) responded favorably to it (read: involuntary hard-ons). Much of it has to do with the piece itself, i.e., its placement and the way its drawn. Everything is right with the ink itself. Probably another factor is the spectacular breasts that provide the canvas, and the sexiness that emanates from the woman herself. For my money, this is not only one of the sexiest tattoos I have ever seen, but the picture itself is so well done it captures the sexiness of the ink, which is not always easy to do.

What an outstanding piece.

What an outstanding piece. What I wouldn’t give to take a look at those . . . err that tattoo up close and personal.

With my hard on significantly straining against my pants, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Interested solely in the aesthetics of such a piece, I kept digging for more pictures and came across the following:

Chest octopus II           Chest octopus III

Fuck me those are sexy pictures. Seriously, god damn. I cannot be the only one, right?

Two things here. First, I am a boobs guy. For me it’s never been about the size of the boob but rather the shape, natural or implant. Ladies, if you ever want to get me going, send me pictures of side and under boob, that stuff drives me fucking nuts. Did I mention I accept such pictures from all my reader(s)? Second, you cannot teach sexiness, the woman either has it or she does not. This woman has it, and I, for one, appreciate the hell out of it.

Clearly I had to keep looking for more pictures, because there is no way I was going to not see this woman’s tits. Forgive me for being crass, or don’t, I don’t care, the woman launched a mission like she was Cleopatra. If you are reading these words right now, stop lying to yourself and saying you are not going to scroll down for the big reveal. If you’re here, you’re looking. Hell, I’m doing enough looking for all of you.

The ink (and the breasts for that matter) belong to Luscious Suicide, who knows how to take an incredibly sexy picture. Ready for the unveiling? Can you stand it? Are you turned on? I was on the edge of my seat waiting to get a look at the entire tattoo as well.

Ready? Here you go . . .

Here's a tease.

Ha ha, that’s her, pre-chest piece.

I’m such a shit. Fine. I realize I cannot afford to alienate my limited reader base, so I’ll give you what you came here for, which certainly isn’t the writing:

Ocotpus 2

For my money, this is a perfect picture. Not just because of the fantastic tits on this woman, but because you can see the entire tattoo and how the artist laid it out to work with her very impressive, and nicely shaped personalities.

Ocotpus 4

One of my favorites of her. Very sexy. The woman knows what she’s doing.

ocotpus shower IIOcotpus IVCool-Octopus-Tattoo-on-Boobs1 Kawaii Keshia Octopus1

So there you have it, Luscious Suicide, for your viewing pleasure. I know I’ll be visiting more of her pictures in the future, and I will be looking forward to her next shoot. Also, have I mentioned how her octopus is perfectly drawn and perfectly placed on those fantastic breasts?