The Zoo Series: Peacocks

Peacocks are apparently my favorite kind of man, or at least the kind of man I am most drawn to. I was looking back at previous posts and it is very obvious that I have been repeating history, I keep going after peacocks. You think by now I would have caught on or realized how dangerous and tragic they are; what's that saying about hitting your head with a hammer?
I'm not exactly sure what draws me to them, but I really can't control myself, they're just so sparkly and inviting to me. A guy classified as a peacock is lithe, exotic, fashionable, and artistic. They're usually skinny, like skin stretched and pulled taught over carved muscle skinny. They smoke. They stay quiet. They don't tell you what they really want. And they drink. A lot. All my peacocks were heavy drinkers, those peacocks love their sauce. They wear a lot of black, and their style is underground metro as opposed to Paris runway. Skinny jeans, skinny ties, skinny cigarettes, skinny shirts and fat boots. They're like artwork, because they're so beautiful and so sad looking all at the same time. The most important part of a peacock, is their ink. Peacocks have lots and lots of ink, that is their version of colorful plumage. The body of a peacock, the bird version, is a deep turquoise( which is pretty )but the real wonder is when they present and spread their tail feathers. The body of a peacock, the guy version, is the equivalent of the tail feathers. All the black clothes hide the colorful sketches and markings that race all over their white skin. If you're having a hard time imagining what I'm talking about I can provide you with visual examples, just Google any of these men: Josh Beech, A.J. English, Jared Leto, Adrian Brody, Tyson Ritter, and any guy in any Lana Del Ray music video. Another distinguishing feature of a peacock is their eye color, always so bright and brilliant with a touch or sadness. Crystal blue orbs with a fleck of depression. Or emerald green diamonds with a spark of sorrow. It's what gives them away, and what makes them unattainable. A peacock is a beautiful, alluring and delicate creature; but they want nothing to do with cages or companions. My Roman was a peacock, but he didn't want to be contained. New York was peacock, he also wanted to fly free. I've had and loved dozens of peacocks in my life, and it always ends painfully; so why do I keep chasing them?
They don't mean to be assholes, they're just fatally flawed, exquisitely handsome, feathered creatures. They're not mean on purpose, they just get caught up in the beauty they create, and then they end up breaking your heart and destroying your soul. New York was nothing but wonderful to me, and he was upfront about everything, I knew what I was getting into; but how the fuck do you resist a masterpiece? My Roman hurt me so deeply I am still bleeding on the inside, but it wasn't intentional, it was a side effect of his own pain. It's kind of like Icarus, when you fly too close to the sun you get burned. When I get too close to a peacock I get burned and they fly away. Peacocks are too perfect for their own good, they destroy everyone around them while they secretly try to destroy themselves. They're not bad boys; they're actually wonderful, but they don't know what to do with their wonder.

So, I keep hitting my head with a hammer so when I do stop it'll feel so fucking good. Maybe sometime soon I'll feel good again, and I can finally put down the hammer. If and when I do, it'll mean no more drunk kisses goodnight. No more special moments forgotten when the stars fade. No more dangerous evenings. No more second hand exhales. No more nicotine kisses. No more fall down Saturday nights. No more vodka bruises. No more Jack Daniels sex. No more puffed petals. No more broken feathers. No more peacocks. No more accidental tears.


"Go kiss the liqueur off his laugh" -Natalia Kills

Go Hide, Me. Go, Hide Me.

Silence me with your tongue.
Blot me out with your body.
Blur the outline of my being with your hoodie and your denim.
Capture me into your existence.

I will go willingly, into you.
Your smell kills of my doubts.
Your hands know how to make me cry, and how to make me cum.
I shackle my heart to yours.

I like you because you understand me,
but I love you because you make me invisible.
No one can hurt me if all they see is you lying on the couch.
I won't hear anything but your heart if I'm hidden underneath.

When you stretch yourself over me, I'm just your extra rib.
I can be completely unseen if I stand close enough to you.
If I kiss you long enough, you will just absorb me.
Take me from what I have created, and put me into you.


"If I raise my voice will someone get hurt
And if I can't feel then I won't get touched" -Garbage

Rib Cages and Cigarettes

I'm singing on the inside, because my voice doesn't carry.
I'm running my hands over your back to feel the vibrations.
Your body is humming with a tragic passion.
Lower your kingdom on to me, your nicotine words on my neck.

Just because we're doomed doesn't mean we can't be doomed together.
Lay down in the snow with me and it'll wash us clean.
You count my ribs and I'll count your scars,
Stick with me baby and we'll go far.

You're clapping for my body, because I stand and get bare.
You're pushing on my muscles so they mold to your curves.
My body is filling with a deadly beauty.
Grind your soul into mine, your fingers poised on my lips.

Just because we're doomed doesn't mean we can't be doomed together.
Lay down in the sheets with me and it'll wash us clean.
You count my ribs and I'll count your scars,
Stick with me baby and we'll go far.

We're clawing for new oxygen, because we sizzled our atmosphere.
We're crumpling into reality again as the snowflakes burn outside.
Our bodies sewn together by the furious exchange.
Etch into the surface of my blood, your sleepy eyes on my heart.

Just because we're done doesn't mean we can't be quiet together.
Lay down in the past with me and it'll keep us clean.
You count my ribs and I'll count your scars,
Stick with me baby and we'll go far.


*** *** ***


I'm keeping this one. I want it for the book. I don't think it would transfer well to lyrics.

"They tell me I'm skinny, as if that's supposed to make me happy." -Angelina Jolie

50% Off Heartache

I've had a lot of sorta big things that I've been trying to take care of this past week, and only one percent had gotten taken care of. My "to-do" list is on the rise, but my concentration is on the decline. The percentage of my brain that has been spent thinking about this whole New York situation is high, and it makes me very unproductive. But now that it's been a while since I've seen him, productivity is on the rise. I was down in Chicago these past two days, and it was necessary. Had a fun night out and then spent the following days with my parents. It was an early Mother's Day celebration. It was a lovely time. I enjoyed myself. And now I'm back up here and in the middle of doing some housework, and liking the fact that I'm getting stuff done. I'm planning all the appointments and errand running that needs to get done this coming week, I'm clipping coupons and shopping for the best deal. Making sure my dollar works for me, because I work for it. Found a great deal on getting new glasses and an eye exam. Clipped a coupon for getting my car worked on. Hunted down the best deals for groceries. I was never a coupon kind of guy before, but now I'm a compulsive clipper, of coupons. I wish I could get one for the coming heartache that I'm going to purchase when I inevitably tell New York that I can't see him anymore, in a friendly or romantic way. No ways, no ways can lead to New York. I can't be the "other man" for him, I won't be his bogo deal. You can't buy one and get me for free. I may clip coupons these days, but I won't cut out my morals or standards. Plus there is a brand new guy who is delicate and quiet and careful. When I'm around him I feel like a bull in a china shop, and I don't want to break him, because relationships are the one thing where "you break it, you buy it" doesn't apply. I don't want him to know about all my emotionally bad, romantically expensive purchases of the past. I want him to know me as a bargain hunter, someone who thinks before he purchases. Someone who isn't an impulse buyer. I don't have the purse strings or the heart strings to have relational shopping sprees. I want to start making investment purchases. Like what I'm doing for my bedroom; I'm redecorating it, but I'm filling it up with things that will last for a very long time. Things that I can take with me to my next place, and maybe even into my own house one day. One day far, far, far, far, far away. Like, post student loans far away. Very far away. Whatever. I'll be clipping coupons for many decades to come. That's for sure. Just like me walking away from New York is a for sure, or at least it should be a for sure. He's an impulse purchase I keep making over and over again, like shopping at Armani. The stuff there is really nice and super sexy, but it only lasts one season. This new guy, and what my trend should be for the future, is more like a wardrobe staple. Something that can last, something that you can wear for seasons and years to come. Something timeless. Maybe even something you got for half price on the clearance rack from Macy's. A smart purchase. That's what my life should be full of these days, smart purchases. Good deals and great bargains.

"Shopping for labels, shopping for love." -Fergie

Les Liaisons Dangereuses

I have become "the other man". There, I said it. But it's not so black and white as you might imagine. New York is exclusive, if that's what you can even call it, with a guy who lives in Texas. Who he has only seen in person about, at the most, five times in the past five years. New York stands by his claim that they are very close due to the letters and emails and video chats that they exchange, which is probably true; but when did a pen pal become the foundation for a personal relationship? You can't kiss an envelope. It just leads to paper cuts. And lets not even bring up where else you could get paper cuts if you decided to be exclusive with the post. Is licking the stamp considered foreplay to them? I don't understand it! Better yet, New York doesn't understand it! I've talked with him about it, both sober and non sober, and he has no real explanation for it. (you might be thinking why I would chose to bring up this topic with him, but that's what friends do; they talk about their relationships. plus, I need to know who my competition is) So New York says that they connect and agree on a lot of issues, which is great if you want to start a club or a political campaign. But how is that satisfying the emotional, physical and relational needs of a romantic entanglement? Plus New York is not moving down there anytime soon, he is weeks away from finishing is medical internship and had already been offered a position at the hospital, so he's not going anywhere. And this Texas Stamp Licker is in no position to come up here anytime soon. So it's not like they are even going to be able to be in the same room anytime soon. Which once again brings up the question of: how long before I state my case? Because I am fading fast. I can't lay in his bed and cuddle with his cats while he showers and puts his scrubs on and puts on the coffee and gets ready to go to work, all the while thinking to myself (yet again): this is lovely, this is how it should be. It's dangerous for me to think like that. It's painful. Extremely painful. I've gone running almost every night this week because I know if I try to go to sleep, sleep won't come. I'll be laying in bed staring at my ceiling, with this puzzled look stretched across my face, wondering how this all got so fucked up. How he got back into my life. How I allowed myself to fall back into him. To fall back into ****. I won't admit that yet. No way. No friggin way. I owned up to being "the other man", but I'm not admitting to falling back into **** with him. WAY too dangerous. I spend every second in my head trying to convince myself that he's not the same wonderful, delightful, intelligent goofy New York Cuddler that I fell in **** with years ago. But, he is. Actually he's even hotter then before. And even more put together. It's terrible. It doesn't help my situation at all. It's so dangerous. Allow me to be petty for a moment. This Texas Stamp Licker bitch, isn't even cute. He takes medication which causes him to break out in acne. Which doesn't mean no one should ever love him, I suffered with acne for years, I was on every drug the FDA approved and the one they didn't, I use to have to get blood drawn because I was part of a test group, I know his pain; so I'm not picking on him because his complexion is shit. I'm just saying that New York deserves comparable pairing. The Texas Stamp Licker deserves to find someone who will love him and enjoy him for who he is, but it doesn't need to be New York. And why should New York tie himself to a pimpled little boy who is miles away, when I'm the cute runner who lives seconds away and is hopelessly devoted to him. I'm not going to resort to Merteuil tactics, because in the movie that didn't work out so well, but I am going to remind New York, every chance I get, that I'm local, devoted, and wonderful. Plus, like I said, his hands are in the cookie jar right next to mine. Don't think I'm some kind of cookie monster in this scenario, New York likes to make cookies too; he's usually the one starting the recipe first. And we make such great cookies together. Really, no really!, we should be together. WE should be the exclusive part of this dangerous love triangle. I'm going to get fucked over, I just know it. I want to believe there is some chance that I might end up a winner, but that part of my brain/soul just doesn't exist anymore. That part of me has been killed off. I'm going to be left with no New York, and just a package of Oreo cookies. Which I will eat a lone.

"It's beyond my control." -Vicomte Sebastien de Valmont

One Way Ticket

These days it seems like each time I walk in my front door a housemate is either stepping out, moving out, or leaving on a jet plane. While I on the other hand feel like I'm deserted on a barren island that strangely resembles my city block. But with everyone around me vacationing, or leaving entirely, I have had some extra social time to find my love passport and start getting some new stamps in it. But dating, just like traveling, can be exhausting and more tiresome then originally recognized. Both are always romanticized into being great and luxurious, like a 1950's American Airlines advert where all the men wear tailored suits and all the women look like Grace Kelley. Damn, was that a lie. The reality is, dating is a lot more dangerous then flying. I'd take grouchy security guards with their beeping wands over talking to a stranger at the bar any day. Every time we decide to go out on a date, or agree to get a drink with someone, or ask someone out for dinner we are buying a one way, non-refundable, ticket to a destination we aren't aware of. Dating, or seeing someone, is like an impromptu flight purchase without the free peanuts. Or the hot towels. The idea is so risky and crazy and absurd; wanting to get closer to a complete stranger. It's comparable to blasting ourselves into the friendly skies and hoping we won't fall out of them. We fly all over the place, with our love passports in hand, hoping that the destination we reach is love. Or romance. Or good sex. But dating doesn't come with a parachute underneath your seat, or an inflatable life preserver. Dating is either smooth sailing, or plummeting to the ground at an alarming rate while desperately trying to slip the oxygen mask over your mouth. A life of lonely, solo train rides is sometimes appealing. But there is too much about flying that we just can't give up. The excitement you get when making a ticket purchase, the fun of deciding what to pack and what to leave behind, that butterfly feeling in your stomach when you lift off. When it's a good flight, you feel amazing. You're thousands of feet above reality with your head in the clouds, and nothing bad can touch you. You're secure in the arms of your lover, enjoying the in-flight entertainment, only worried about how to recline your chair. Sometimes you touch down in an exotic and lovely destination, other times you simply disembark and go your seperate ways. And then sometimes you crash land in the middle of the ocean and fight to keep your head above water. The fact of the matter is, you're more likely to get killed in a car accident on the ground then die in the air....or something like that. I've been flying all over the place lately. Vacationing in New York. Having business lunches in Iowa. And I've recently started making day trips to California, and Michigan. Despite my frequent flyer romance miles, I can't help but still feel that I left my heart in New York. Or rather, with my New York Sweetheart. I was so jet lagged this past weekend my brain still doesn't know what time it is, and my heart hasn't found it's normal rhythm yet either. I guess, for the time being, New York is more like a travel companion; because our destination keeps changing and becoming something new and something else. I can barely keep up, or afford the tickets. And since I can't rely on New York, I've been booking other flights left and right, trying to put emotional miles between me and the big apple of my heart. But, just like that fucking song says: I wanna be a part of it, New York. New York! I think I view New York as first class seat material, but in his book I'm just business class. Obviously, because of his "special someone" who he says is his copilot. But my passport has had "NY" stamped all over it recently, and I wasn't even booking the flights. Sometime soon I need to analyze my flight patterns, but for the time being I'm too jet lagged to think. Plus, New York is so hot in the summer. If you catch my drift. So, we continue to clutch our carry on bags to our chests hoping that the next ticket purchase will be our last. Not because we go down in a fiery ball of melted fuselage, but because we finally reach a destination that is worth throwing out our love passport for. Until then, enjoy the free peanuts.

"Hold me like you'll never let me go, cause I'm leaving on a jet plane." -J. Denver

New York Boys

(horn intro)

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They're always so busy,
It's kind of a pity.
Just like wine, make you tipsy

New York boys are so dangerous
Little monsters you just can't trust.
Slight of hand and quick of tongue
One kiss, two kiss and then they're done

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They're always so loud,
So full and so proud.
Just like cabs, knock you down.

New York boys are so notorious
Headlines have always warned us.
Forget your wallet and guard your heart,
You'll fall for them before it starts.

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They've all got vagabond shoes.
Pretty words that give you the blues.
Bedroom eyes to match their tattoos.

(horn solo)

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today.
Who wants a boy who acts like New York, New York
Can't handle these boys, So I can not stay.
I can't be a part of it no more, no more.

Who wants a boy who acts like New York?
They’ve got no real rhymes,
And they lack all reasons.
Like fashion, it all changes by seasons.

(horn outro)


“Men are all alike--except the one you've met who's different.” -Mae West

DOMS

DOMS- delayed onset muscle soreness. Or, in my case, delayed onset mental stress. The last 48 hours have been all kinds of painful. Got a call saying my dad is in the ER. Went back to working normal shifts because third shift days are over. Got a letter of rejection, pretty much a "dear john letter", from Macys. Oh! Wait! It gets better. Was told by New York that he has a special someone, and that his intentions with me (YET AGAIN!) are strictly platonic, for the time being. Well thank cheesecake it's only for the time being...whatashmuck!...since I only have one remaining martini glass I decided not to throw it across the room like the fated glasses that went before it. Since I'm done with smoking the anger away, I refused to buy a pack. And since I don't have a special someone to have an angry make out session with. I went running. At two in the morning. For a very, very, very long time. So today I'm feeling some hardcore DOMS, but since I'm still feeling some hardcorse DOMS, I'm lacing up my gymshoes and charging the iPod for round two. Funny how DOMS leads to DOMS. OH! And it's really funny how relationships lead to bad romances. Which, in turn, lead to good remixes which give way to great playlists. DOMS ain't got nuthin on me!

“Run like hell and get the agony over with.” -Clarnece DeMar