Growth - take yer lumps

I was stepping onto the number 1 train at South Ferry. Left leg first into the car, it slid across spilled coffee. My right leg fell between the car and the platform and I smashed my shin against the side of the car.

It bruised down to the bone, and left a lump two inches in diameter, five inches below the knee.

It hurt.

Its size shifted.

Sometimes it softened.

It hurt.

It was warm.

A month or so later I was in the hospital part of the leading edge of a mini-epidemic of cellulitis.

Years later, the scar aches.

Growth - discovery

He was almost a year old when it emerged into day light the first time.

There it was! Dark pink, indeed almost crimson, and pointy. A brand new -- well, what was it? I'd have said it resembled a lipstick, but he, an akita, had no words, and needed to explore it in other ways.

He bent himself double sniffing at it. He didn't recognize it. He sniffed again. Licked it. Clearly it wasn't poisonous. Sniffed it some more.

Like any puppy he was curious. After smell comes taste, and after tasting something a puppy tries to eat it. Chomp!

YELP!

Growth - tulips

Tulip time in New York.

We were wandering across town on 79th, and walked past a Very Swanky Building indeed. The flower beds surrounding the trees by its entrance were filled with large red tulips. The blossoms, classic tulip shape, fire-engine red, were too heavy for the long stems and had fallen in waves towards the street.

"Crop Circles!", A said. "Feeds those conspiracy theories you always spout."

(N.B. I don't, nor A. A teases me unmercifully, however.)

The tulips by the corner building on 82nd, yellow and red, were firmly upright. Their heads weren't too big for their bodies.

Tears - the 9th

Everyone's heard the Ninth, endlessly. My grammar school even had us sing a variant of the Chorale, apparently it's the United Nations anthem.

Eighteen or so years ago my father and I went to hear it at Carnegie. It was the first time I'd heard it live, in concert. It's so loud that it's outrageous.

As the tenor came in screaming Freunde, I started weeping- helplessly, ceaselessly. I was completely embarressed until I realized that my father, and the man at my other side, indeed all those I could see (through the tears dripping down my face) were also sobbing.

Sexy - gobsmacked

Damn! Sometimes you get it totally wrong.

Utterly convinced that this time it'll be pretty boys, or horse-faced girls. Younger, older, thinner, stronger.

And (of course) she (or he) will share your favorite kinks, and no doubt even teach you new ones.

You already know what sets your juices flowing. How not? You've navigated these shoals for years. Jaded, you accept an offer, already rehearsing how you'll end the evening politely and alone.


His brains, gentleness, and clear perception of your inanity snuck up on you.

Finally confronted by someone you adore, none of what you checked off oh-so-diligently matters.

Disgust

I'm confronted again by my own stupidity.

I have utter contempt for the occasions on which I've used my intelligence to seduce -- just because I could. Or of course the occasions on which I've been predatory towards rather younger people.

I presume (often incorrectly) that if I refer to this other people pick up that I'm almost never unconscious of my bad behaviour, and that simply talking about it is yet another example of stinging self-contempt.

The most recent occasion? I was plastered. Yet some of how little I love this in myself may have registered. If not, how could - ?

Sexy - foreplay

Years ago H and I were talking about what does and doesn't work sexually.

We agreed that anger didn't. Nor mess.

H gave a perfect example of the latter: the trail of dirty clothes on the floor.

A friend of hers used to say "that's not good foreplay".

Now it's entered the lexicon. Examples follow.

Leaving the toilet seat up: bad foreplay.

Dishes in the sink: bad foreplay

Emptying the dishwasher: good foreplay.

Noticing the new haircut: good foreplay.

Kissing you immediately after ogling the other girl: bad foreplay.

Giving you someone else's bra: bad foreplay.

You get the idea.

Sexy - a non-starter

They had spoken before, joking. Neither said anything substantive. She'd never thought about it much. His thoughts, like him, opaque. He asked her to come in while he got her her Christmas card.

He was gone briefly retrieving the card. She looked around. The room was small and fairly tidy.

The card itself was nothing much. Trees. Holiday greetings. A signature.

They were alone in silence perhaps fifteen seconds. She noticed him for the first time, noticed all attention concentrated on her. Something shifted. Nothing happened. She left.

One thought circled through her head repeatedly: "Damn. This is bad news."

Sexy

You expect a thrill from beauty.

Intelligence livens you.

Other senses explode inside you, pointing to a wider, wilder life.

Suddenly, unexpectedly you two alone. The eyes locked on your face and body. The hands that know you. Whenever you glance at them a tactile memory.

Myriad songs. Each opening you once more to the stab in the guts -- harshness, kindness.

What's lovemaking? What's desire?

The ache and its satisfaction. The remembrance of a smell. All sights, all sounds overshadowed by the other.

When we kiss, when we waken, when we sleep, when we breathe. Ourselves alone. You. Me.

Fire.

Happiness

An utterly gorgeous day is a good start. Clear, not very warm, nor very cold, but a sky which darkens as it recedes. What more can you ask?

A lover? A friend? A puppy?

Look around. Small dogs (puppies? adults?) snuffle up to feet in sandals. Their very pink tongues shoot out to lick.

Couples holding hands, so wrappedup and rapt that everyone else is invisible. Astounding that there are fewer collisions.


Let's now return to our moutons (or puppies). First scratch the jaw, now the base of the tail, observe the eyes close and the leg beat in extasy.