Scoundrel

by guest author Janx 

The writer of this blog and I are very good friends who love more than anything to sip fine beverages and share the filthiest stories we have under our belts. Time after time I am defeated in our pissing game of smut tales- so I am honored that she asked me to write a guest entry for her loyal readers- as if I might actually get a rise out of what I have to share. What I decided- since this is technically a traveling blog as well- to tell a small tale on how I earned my stripes as a certified scoundrel.     

When I left California to enter a four month artist residency in Prague, I had promised Ace that I would remain loyal to him and our love would be enough to satisfy all my sexual desires.

This concept was quickly swept under the rug the first night as I awoke next to my new favorite local bartender who slept with his half-smoked rolled cigarette wedged between his lower lip and unusually large mustache.

I could already tell it was going to be a great four months.

August is Guest Writer's Month

That's right, it's time to shake things up. Check back often this month for varied submissions from diverse authors from across the globe and blogosphere.

Don't forget to like us on facebook, follow us, and tell your friends where it's at.

Anti-Social Media

Hi there. Will you, uh... be my friend?

You see, I don't know how to do this unless you are hoping to fuck me one day. But. Sigh. It's in my best interests to nourish non-sexual relationships in addition to all these kinky, filthy fluids I'm exchanging on a regular basis, in irregular locations.

My shrink, who I respectfully refer to as Dr. Homeslice, hooked me up with some pharmaceutical magic -- magic thus far for the stability of my moods and for correcting what may have been becoming a drinking problem, but not of course without its costs. Among the side effects is not being able to "find the right word." Examples given of especially slippery ones have been "garage" or "refrigerator," but Fangs and I had a hearty belly laugh at one the other day:

Thanks for this morning, Baby.

No problem. I couldn't stand to see you in so much pain from that rock-hard erection, so it was my pleasure to, uh-- damn...

...what?

...What's the fucking word? Oh yeah: blow you.  

Dr. Homeslice doesn't bat an eye when I arrive looking like a purple and chewed piece of steak gristle anymore, bless 'im, so I haven't had to explain Fangs' fangs or defend my kinks or any of that time-wasting garbage. He did recommend that I occasionally make friends that I don't fervently bang, though, so here goes: see the sidebar to send me a tweet! Make my little day!

Delicious Evil

I'm not much into sweets. "Not much" as in: not at all. But my one of my organs is currently ripping out it's internal lining and ejecting it forcefully from my body. In response, for some curious reason, nature dictates that I crave something hot, dark, and evil to fill my belly to replace it. Something Satanic. Something... chocolate. 

Simple enough to whip up in compromised states, delicious enough to make your eyeballs roll back into your skull, and not-at-all too sweet, this fucker will do the trick. I got the recipe from my mother, and I share it with you here in hopes that another female or female-identified body will writhe in this dark pleasure's respite in a similar time of need. 

Who's your Daddy?

Uh, sorry, our credit runner's out of order. 

Damn it all to hell. I love my little, independent, locally-roasted coffee shop, but these are issues to be expected: constant technical disfunction and general inconsistency. I can relate on a personal level, but I don't carry any cash on me as a general rule because it winds up slipping away like sand between a drooling child's open fingers. And so, frustration.

I got this one, Babe.  

Igor to the rescue! I smile and twirl one of my pigtails -- he likes when I put on a show. I lean over and give him an exaggerated peck on the cheek, look up at him with baby-doll eyes and squeak in a "little" voice:

Thanks, Daddy...

His eyes roll and then land in a stare that clearly communicates that he's over the theatrics. He puts his wallet away and as he turns, he throws his next words over his left shoulder like spilt salt:

Don't call me "Daddy". 

Hurt and a little stunned, it takes me a moment before I realize that I'm standing at the counter alone. I absentmindedly pull the elastic out of one pigtail as I wander to the table where he's sitting in his usual Dominant stance. He's cooler than the iced coffee.

Why don't you call Bacon your "Daddy?" He's old enough to be. 

I hate to jump to conclusions, but it seems that someone's feeling a little insecure.

He's only 32. That would make him a very virile 7 year old. 

Whatever, Sweets. It's just not my bag.  

Fair enough, I guess. The other pigtail comes out.

__________________ 

I'm at the beginning of my cycle, and Fangs has been taking really sweet care of me. Belly rubs, back rubs, neck rubs, every kind of rub, basically. He took me to all my favorite places in the city and then he took me to dinner and a movie. He selflessly guided me to orgasm to relieve my cramps and he fed me chocolate. When I was moody, he held me and told me I was beautiful until I felt better.

As much as he treats me like a princess, Fangs really does look like a Nordic prince. His long, fine hair rests in soft curls on his broad, strong shoulders. He looks at me with his disarmingly golden eyes, smiles, and offers me a giant hand clad in every opportunity with silver metal to help me into the vehicle.

You take such good care of me... 

Well, you're my baby, you know that?

The following debate takes place in my head in following .5 seconds: I'm going to say it. I'm not going to say it. *Breathe* Don't say it -- Remember last time? Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over yourself and say it. If it doesn't go over well, just have a little grace and laugh it off...

Does that make you my Daddy? 

I'm afraid to make eye contact, but when I look up at him from the car, I see a wide grin and four fangs.

I guess it does...

He chuckles to himself as he goes around to the driver's side, and I bubble inside.

Wild Cats, Lady Beats

Everything in the world is hilarious. It's like a cosmic 'your mom' joke.

That's Janx for you. She spits this gem of acerbic wisdom with a slanted grin as we fly down a California highway at 90 mph, her bare foot on the dash as she fingers a gem she wrapped in copper wire the night before. We had a meeting, a caucus of lady hens in Santa Barbara where we gathered our supplies -- cheap red wine, crystals, gems, bright wire, cotton thread in every color of the rainbow, weed, tobacco, instruments, and stories -- we took a big sit with all these things and we rapped. No topic was off limits, no limit was off topic.

The thing about masturbation that really frustrates me is that I think: I am way too cute to be doing this for myself.

A pause in conversation as we all focus on our projects in a haze. Thin paper crinkles as a joint is passed, soft glugging as a glass is re-filled. Somewhere in the room, a bulldog farts and sighs.

I hate those fuckin' fox tails people are wearing these days.

Why? 

They have to kill the whole fucking animal just to parade around looking like an ass-pirate's bitch -- it's disgusting, murderous, and wasteful.

Hey, do you still have your old dreadlocks that you cut off?

Yeah? 

You should die them and make a tail out of that.  

What makes you think I want to look like an ass-pirate's bitch? 

The thing about these ladies is that we aren't your typical ladies, we're cowboys. We will fuck you up from the inside out and laugh while we do it. Rough, a little hard, and gone with the wind, we out west are more like tumble weeds and hardly "the fairer sex." We also represent the modern beats -- just like The Dharma Bums, we're only romantic enough to be pathetic, only revolutionary enough to be self-indulgent. We are vain, and not without sensitivity or desire -- what kind of poets would we be otherwise?

Each us of us are in constant conflict with ourselves; that is part and parcel of our self-indulgent vanity. We each contain a tarot card-like persona against whom we struggle, but it's these struggles that come to define us. Janx's impossibly long, thick dreadlocks in every color of the rainbow are a whimsical touch that attempt to disguise the fact that she is at heart the existential realist. Our mate and occasional ward, who is a brilliant crafter and dedicated boozer often prancing around as a middle eastern unicorn, is the drunken idealist. Sparky, who is here with us in spirit with her magenta hair and her wild eyes, is the emphatic. I, ever searching for sincerity in all the wrong places, am the romantic hedonist. We are each of us flesh hungry wild cats.

On this road trip plummeting back up California's coast, it's Janx's hilarity I'm exposed to at full volume. A realist she is, but humor is the spoonful of sugar with which she shoves medicinal observation deep past one's esophagus.

So I've been questioning my relationship with Man a lot recently, as you know, as I'm sure you are sick of hearing about, and so I've devised a new test, a relationship test. Here it is: if you have a baby and it turned out to be exactly like your partner, and I mean in every way, would you be proud of him or her? Think about it... would you?

Yeesh, I don't know. 

Yeah, well, think about it. That's what's going to happen. So thinking about this actually led me to come up with something else, which I like to call: The Dead Baby Method. I came up with this tactic because I don't use birth control or condoms. When my body starts to feel a little... different or when I sense my uterus go a-flutter, I simply meditate on dead babies. I say to it: Uterus, don't do it. If you make a baby, I'm going to kill it. These are all the ways in which I would kill it. Don't fucking do it. I figure, you know, you hear of those girls who convince themselves they are pregnant so much they start to blow up? Well, if they can convince themselves they are pregnant, I can convince myself I'm not. 

Brilliant.

I know... but sometimes I worry about my mental health.  

Yes, well. Her countering poignant depravity with questions of her sanity is why I can justify calling her a "realist" in my mind.

This bitch is resourceful. Give Janx some powerful hallucinogens and 15 minutes alone and she will return to you having solved all your problems. She will deliver you unto the sweet warbling voice of Jesus Christ and bring you handsome gentlemen cowboys who will play country music, provide you refreshing beverages, and keep you warm when the night turns cold. They will say things like "See that ther' coffee stan' over yonder? Built it. Take mah jakit, lil' lady. Kilt a buffalo in that thing. Hey, Woodrow! Come meet mah new girlfrien'!" and you will never stop giggling... Janx will get on stage and play a stranger's banjo, leading a crowd in a chorus of meowing until the sun rises, and she will purr like a hooker until she gets bored. She will lead you on powerful journeys and quests as an impromptu shaman, a spirit animal even, and she will blow your freakin' mind.

Full disclosure: I hated The Dharma Bums. Even so, in moments I find myself happy to be living it out less piously, and Janx is the Japhy to my Ray Smith.
Was that sappy? Well, you can go fuck yourself. 

Sick

I'm sick. Coughing, wheezing, sneezing, and dizzy with discomfort. I seek respite in the steam of a hot shower.

I've been missing Istanbul intensely. I miss my old roommate: a man who barely speaks but somehow just radiates. I miss my neighbor and best friend there: her company, her energy, her stories.

Almost as much as I miss these people, I miss the solitude. For three months at a time, two winters in a row, I enjoyed privacy of spirit. All the way across the world from most of my social habitat, I would hole up, sometimes for days. I would barely speak to anyone, happy to be mostly undisturbed in the dark, cavernous and warm room. When I occasionally did part the thick, green, velvet curtains, the light from the alley was sad and cold -- as it always seemed to be reflecting of the clean marble in Istanbul (only the sunlight over the Bosporus in the late afternoon was golden). Back then, I was able to be alone with the voices in my head, who muttered and hummed, made up stories to entertain us, and mused about things of little consequence.
These days, they won't stop screaming. It's too much, toomuch, toomuch... and yet.

I slip down in the tiny square shower to sit on the tiny square tiles. I close my eyes and let the warm water plunk on my face and knees. It sounds like falling rain. I curl myself into a ball and sink down to my side on the smooth floor. My long hair floats and waves a little. I let the sound and the warmth of the water take over and fall asleep.

I dream in memories. I dream that I am back in the rainforest of Chiapas, Mexico, where the rain was just as warm. I remember swinging in the impossibly thick vines, in competition with howler monkeys who, despite having the terrifying cry of a fierce jungle cat, are adorable, mischievous little things. I remember decorating the dreadlocks I used to have with hibiscus flowers. I remember the flavor of papaya water soothing my stomach. And I remember my lover at the time hugging a leaf that was bigger than he was. What different times! Nothing proves this to me more than thinking of him, the kind of person he was, and who I was in his reflection.

The rain slowly turns cold and I'm in Madrid. I'm delirious from jet lag and having slept all day, but now it's the middle of the night and I'm being dragged down the street by the hand of a different man entirely -- and what a different life we led together. We run through the chilly rain and seek refuge in a sherry bar. The amber liquid comes straight from the cask; we drink it from tiny flutes and it warms our shivering bones. I deliriously munch on oily, skinned almonds and he makes up little songs to amuse me and crack a smile on my paled visage.

Now the water is cold enough to drag me back into awareness. I laugh at myself a bit bitterly for being so sentimental, for missing so much, for being an avid adventurer who simultaneously: constantly craves, and yet is astounded by, change. It's the little things, the simple facts, the obvious conclusions that often seem so impossible to me.

I sit up, let the blood rush back to my head, and turn off the tap.