Releasing the demons

When I was in junior high school, fifth grade, just after my girlfriend of three years died, vulnerable, alone, afraid, I was sexually assaulted by guys in both the boys’ bathroom and locker room.

There was no God to rescue me from the assault.

From that moment on, I was firmly an atheist, trusted no one, and feared intimacy.

When younger, preschool on up, my father beat me until I passed out, beginning me on the path of atheism, no deus ex machina, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the world that lasts until today.

Trust no one, especially when alone together, has been my modus operandi from a young age.

Assault can come and probably will come from your closest friends and family.

Build masks, layers upon layers of them, that you can let others remove for you, hoping they’ll find and heal the real you.

Learn to lie to yourself that one day you’ll be okay — become a good if not great storyteller in the process.

Understand that life sucks but suck it up, buckle up, batten down, and pretend to be the happiest, most serene, meditative guy on Planet Earth who just happens to want to leave this godforsaken planet and live free from humans on Mars.

No longer will I keep this private, sharing only with my closest friends that i was raped by a guy in high school.

For creatures who’ve build amazing civilisations, we’re still brutes who will satisfy their sexual cravings with anything that moves.

I fear guys in general.

Every gal I don’t know what to do but treat them as equals, aware that many of them have been beaten and raped by guys.

The few women who somehow found their way through the outer walls of my thoughts and I let them seduce me found my body physically fit, my caring, sensual foreplay arousing and my average six-inch erection sexually satisfying; all but one of them (my wife) broke up with me because they said I was too nice of a guy and too smart for them, freeing me to find a nice, smart, life companion, especially the one I kept comparing them to (my wife).

I met my wife at summer church camp the year after my girlfriend died and was first sexually assaulted by guys. There wasn’t an ounce of sexual interest emanating from my wife. She was a classic nerd, genderless, picked last to play dodgeball, sarcastic to guys in general.

I couldn’t help but find her attractive in a life frirndship sort of way.

But I burn with sexual desire, much more than my wife wants to share, putting me in the awkward situation where she won’t be intimate with me as often as I like and I’m afraid to approach anyone else.

C’est la vie.

Life goes on.

I’ll do my best to interact with humans despite my fear of most of them.

I’ll continue to pretend to be Mr. Happy, giving hope to others when I have no hope for myself.

“I’m not a virgin”

“I’m not a virgin,” said a friend at a party tonight.

“No. No, she isn’t,” smirked a former lover of hers to me as an aside.

Married nearly 31 years, I am like a virgin, still the same guy who in high school a girl I was once alone with and made no sexual advances toeard said to a male friend that thought I was in love with her, that I was clueless sexually.

And still am.

A friend told me that if I believe in open marriage I should be more assertive and take more chances with women other than my wife.

Hell, I don’t know how to act when I’m alone with my wife!

I know how to act sexy, dance sexy, hold a woman sensually but I don’t know how to kiss or make love.


It’s one of the major issues I’ve had, intimacy.

It’s why I wish I was dead rather than risk being alone with a woman and it become apparently obvious I’m all but a virgin.

It’s the secret I share with you here, the generic, invisible, nonexistent reader rather than share it with friends who might laugh at me or worse, try to break through the barrier that separates me from the universe.

Tonight, I am dead.


From birth to date, clueless.


Nothing left to achieve.

Nothing left to hope for.

No one who understands.

I give up.

I have no one to talk with.

Never have.

I am the Great Pretender!

Overcome by unexpected sadness

Cannot shake off the existence of a self today.

I’m sad, very sad.

I don’t know why.

Not completely, that is.

I once took the chance opportunity to deviate from the path laid out for me — BORNMARRYPROCREATEDIE.

That opportunity did not work out.

At the time I was a smalltime drug dealer working at a restaurant to cover my overhead costs.

I had found a flat with Amy Easter, for whom I was her supplier and whom she wanted as her pimp/daddy.

She moved a few of her things into the flat but the clients she brought over didn’t trust me because they thought I was too square so Amy never fully moved in with me.

Thus, I was left to pay both halves of our rent which I couldn’t afford.

I thought I was going to fully develop my new persona.

But it didn’t work out the way I thought.

Amy was a free spirit which also meant she was irresponsible and a sociopath.

She had no problem lying about anything and everything, which appealed to the fiction writer in me.

Mostly, I am a gentleman in regards to writing/bragging about my sexual activities with others, discretion is the better part of valour, et cetera.

I hesitate to write about nongentlemenly topics because of a fear of retribution from unknown social censors/thought police.

Amy had no such builtin fears.

More as it develops…


As an experiment, over the last several months I tried to be cheerful, friendly, and helpful.

The act appear to have worked on many others.

However, I’m just as lonely, depressed and suicidal as ever.

Oh well…

I’ll just keep hiding under the false pretenses of a fairytale marriage.  That act still impresses people.  In fact, the more I tell it the less people see me!

No deus ex machina, although some have tried their darnedest to help.

Unlike other sauces that mask the taste of food

Lee talked with Bai for the first but not the last time in a long time. 

Knowing that talking with her opened old emotional wounds not only for himself but also for his wife, Karen, his friends Guin, Bai, Cajessi and Pierre.

Lee listened to Bai and sighed. 

Two years had passed since the breakup, since Lee had lost a tightknit group of friends who introduced him to the happiness of social dancing…

Lee looked at Bai and tried to keep smiling. 

The pain, mostly memory, was real again. 

Bai relived the hurt he’d heard in Guin’s voice and eyes hours earlier.

Two years had passed and the pain felt just as horrible as before, everyone pretending to be analytical adults when they were crying inside.

Lee’s intention to seek healing amongst the members of the former group did not happen instantly.

Since the scars, still tender, subject to outside poison and toxins, burned at the surface, two years served only to start a life of healing.

Two years did not give them enough time to build even a modest integrated platform of a bigger organisation with new as well as old members of the core group.

Lee sighed.

He loved without judgment.

He wanted to magically heal his friends, find some way for them to forgive and forget, as he had trained himself to dissociate temporary emotional responses from influence on future actions.

But he couldn’t. 

He, like them, was simply human.

And that was enough, sufficient to go forward with big goals for a bigger group.

Forever ten years old

I burn a lot of energy attempting to be whatever I imagine an adult is.

Never lasts very long.

I’m forever ten years old, my thought pattern hard-coded at that age when my girlfriend of three years, Renėe Dobbs, died.

I continually seek to reconstitute that friendship with people in my life, male, female, whatever.

Juxtaposing others’ adultlike behaviour toward me against the child in me is often painful and scary. 

I can only painfully stand in the harsh, brash, confusing adult world for so long before I find a way to withdraw into myself and still function marginally enough as an adult to get by.

I wish I had someone to erase Renėe from my thoughts. In rare moments of temporary bliss I think I do.

Then i look in the mirror, see an old man and wonder how much longer this ten-year old boy full of wonder and awe will watch his body age, eventually die.

Renėe, I’ve missed you lately. A lot.

I tell other people i love them, hoping to hear your voice one more time say you love you.

You never will.

How many more decades can I go on living without you?

My old Kentucky home far away

What is friendship?

Sometimes a story doesn’t tell the whole story.

What is love?

Love is washing the dishes after your wife of 30 years, a friend for almost 43, fixed you a home cooked meal not only for your birthday but for most of your birthday weekend.

Friendship is that shared space between two sets of states of energy that never goes away, regardless of circumstances, even if they never talk with each other ever again.

If we never leave home we never see that other thing which may not be the Next Great Thing but it’s a thing unto itself.

I’ve given it all I’ve got.

I’ve tried more than I thought I could have, decades of effort.

Starting over is not going to be easy.

I know that.

It’s scary.

It’s not a mystery, finding my own place, being me, not the person I’ve had to be to fill a single person’s needs.

It’s completely selfish, I know, wanting not to hate myself for living a falsehood, wearing a mask for the sake of a friend.

But, although the pain is tearing me apart, I’m in the process of letting go, moving on, so close I can smell the roses.

I do it for myself, I do it because of you, for you.

I lose my old life, lose everything I was to start anew.

I already it’s worth it.

It always has been, I’ve just been slow to admit it to myself.

But it’s never too late.




Tiny yacht, big feet

Raubine’s legs wobbled on the floating dock.

A sign on a boat read, “Work like a captain, Play like a pirate!”

Her eyes tracked the flight path of a large white heron, hoping it was a whooping crane lingering on its journey northward.

She looked down into the water where aquatic plants surrounded the dock.

No fish.

She set her rod and reel inside the starboard rail.

Raubine missed her father and their fishing trips in warm weather.

She wanted him here now, telling her the best way to cast and draw fish out from under the dock.

He always caught enough to eat, never more, never less.

She choked up.

She could barely remember how to hook a worm so she asked advice at the bait and tackle shop on the highway, three short blocks from the dock.

They sold her a cardboard cup of nightcrawlers and a few artificial lures to try out.

She stopped by the adult beverage store and bought two six packs of craft beer, wanting the high alcohol content to drown her sorrows for the weekend.

Stepping down into the boat, she looked across the small bay where the local yacht club marina was hosting a Mother’s Day Gala featuring local celebrities auctioning off an afternoon with them on a two-hour regatta.

Raubine took a deep breath.

She and her father had sat on this dock how many times?

She grabbed the mast and sobbed.

Had he been gone five years already?

She looked at all the boats on the water.

The last time they sat together on the yacht, he had told her about the radiation poisoning he had suffered at the nuclear plant, guessing it was going to shorten his life.  They laughed it off because, no matter what, they were going to outlive every fish they caught that day.

Raubine removed the moorings and pushed off, leaving the sails furled.  She’d paddle around the bend, out of sight of the regatta, to a spot her father loved.

It didn’t take long.

She dropped anchor.

From inside the hold, she removed a large tackle box and opened it to reveal it was a container for her father’s ashes.

She poured his ashes into the water around the yacht, crying the whole time, knowing he was where he always wanted to be.

Raubine pressed her arms to her chest, wanting her father’s hug one last time.

There had been many men in her life but no one like her father.

She closed the tackle box and picked up the rod.  She still had time to catch something for dinner.

Haven’t slept well in days

Haven’t slept well in days and the sleep deprivation gives me the opportunity to analyse my sensory set, the stimuli around me losing cultural significance.

I don’t know how to comfort others in pain.

I know how to cry but when I cry it’s like I’m performing Pain as a bad, unconfident Method Actor, unable to feel comfortable choosing whether to sniff, wipe tears from my face or bawl like a baby.

The sociopoliticoeconomic world spins around me and I continually observe what’s going on, secure in the give-and-take of who wants to be the the next status quo.

So I am here in myself, seeing if there’s something greater than myself worth getting back out of myself to pursue.

I turn to you.  You know who you are.

Have we ever been alone together?

Would I ever let that happen?

I know you are in pain.

I also know I’m terrible at comforting others.

Terrible, that is, until I let you see my own pain.

Why is it so terrible for you to see my pain?  Everytime I was alone with a person and shared pain turned into something physically intimate.

I’m not trying to get your clothes off.  I’m in love with your thoughts, your intelligence, the look in your eyes telling me there’ll always be more to learn about you.

I don’t want to be alone with you (even though I do) because I know what becomes of me and I don’t want you to think I’m just after your body.

I don’t want you to think I’m like the other guys.

That’s why I hide behind these words.

Tears don’t stain electronic text.