s0litude - Anything, Everything,... Perhaps Nothing At All?

[s0litude]

"In solitude, where we are least alone." - Lord Byron

In my childhood, in my adult life, I've been blessed. Lord knows, my friends don't always understand me, but they love me nonetheless, and for this and more, I am grateful.

I decided to create a section for my ramblings and my erotica-- as I do love to write. Some of my older poems and writings as well as some of my newer works will be shared. If you like it, wonderful; if you don't, please feel free to PM me. We'll discuss it. We may disagree, but I promise to listen and to do my best to understand your point of view.

Now, it's just a matter of reviewing and explain some of my work and selecting the things I am comfortable sharing.

Until then, I wish you well.

~s0litude

[s0litude]

While I will try to give fair warning in the titles, a friend read this from my Facebook page and flattered me greatly in that she sent me the following conversation. Unfortunately, I hear a lot how many of my loved ones have suffered similar abuses.

She: i read today one of your notes....on your fb...and it floored me how amazing you are and you do not even know it.
s0litude2013: What note?
She: the one you wrote on Rape Empathy....
s0litude2013: Ahhhh.... the class assignment
She: yes
s0litude2013: I remember. I was ready to take an F on that one.
She: did you get an A?
s0litude2013: On the paper and in the class AND the curriculum was changed so no one has to go through it again.
She: good. your note, your strength to discuss your experiences in class and then post about it ...you simply amazed me

IF you've had the misfortunate of being harmed in this manner, do not read it. I don't wish to cause you more harm. I am told my writing style in this is quite raw, but for those of us who have experienced it, there IS strength in being open and sharing those experiences.

===

Assignment: Rape Empathy (aka "Time to educate my professor ON empathy").

Nicholas ________
FHS 2450 – Human Sexuality
Paper: Rape Empathy
4 October 2012

Our assignment is “Rape Empathy”. I understand the assignment and what you are asking us to write. Please explain this to me, however: Where is your empathy, your compassion for the victims of rape? Reading this assignment in the syllabus, preparing to write the paper, I gave myself more credit than I deserved. It was much harder to write considering how personal a topic this is. It has been a painful exercise in self-control. While I am going to complete this assignment as I have no intention of losing the “A” I have worked for in this class, I hope that my paper’s conclusion will be as equally enlightening for you.

"Rape” is such a harsh word; simply forming the word, the expulsion of air, the slight “pop” of the lips as the sound comes to a halt has a jarring feel about it. I can write of being raped by my mother when I was 3 years old while her boyfriends watched and also molested me; I can write of being raped when I was 17 years old, the first time I had (forced) sexual intercourse with a man. We had both been drinking. I told him to stop, but he did not. I blacked out in the middle of it and awoke to find myself still being raped. As you have stated before that you do not have female genitalia so you cannot understand or account for certain things, I will give you a bit of insight on what it felt like afterwards: urination after intense intercourse (my first experience with intercourse as an adult) can be quite painful; the labia minora feel raw and practically “shredded” without proper lubrication and arousal. When I came home afterwards, I remember biting into my fist to keep my dad hearing me in the restroom trying to compose myself, avoiding his eyes for days out of the delusion that if I met his eyes, he’d see something “different” about me. Like many rape victims, I blamed myself. “I shouldn’t have been drinking.” Many years passed before I told anyone what had happened. To this day, I never told my dad what happened.

How was I affected physically, psychologically, and emotionally by this? Well, I have many of the symptoms associated with those suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD): frequent nausea; migraines; sleep disorders; night terrors; and while I am sharing, severe gastrointestinal problems so advanced that back in 2008, my rectum muscle started to close off as a result of the panic attacks and anxiety I was experiencing. I had to have a Spinchterotomy performed, a double incision. This has a long recovery period considering a person cannot elevate, ice, and simply avoid using one’s rectum. Psychologically, I suffer from several medical issues that require a cocktail of medication to help control my emotions, my mood, and minimize the night terrors I commonly experience. I have explained this to those closest to me as feeling “bat shit crazy” at times. Emotionally, I feel damaged; I feel cheated out of the pleasures that “my first time” should have afforded me. I feel that I made a mistake of going home and “just dealing with it” when I should have ripped his scrotum off and made a cute little seamless change purse. After all, the scrotum is nature’s only seamless sack; this was learned in Chapter 5 when discussing male anatomy and physiology.

As for its effect on my relationships, I have this wonderfully cynical and sarcastic quick wit that some women find amusing and attractive. I tried being “promiscuous” thinking that if I had sex with enough men, I would eventually enjoy it. All I felt was numb. It could be the transsexualism; it could be the abuse. We are still working it out in therapy. I have trust issues. I have body and self-image issues. I am damaged. I can speak factually about the horrors, but I have issues with the emotional side of the events. I cannot feel some things; I do not want to feel them. I fear feeling anything because as soon as I do, I am going to crumble. I am going to fade away and be no more. I am handling this in therapy as well. Other than having no time in my schedule, it is very difficult for a woman to get close to me because I have to open up for that to occur. This means being vulnerable. It takes a great deal of trust for me to consider this with someone. At the time being, I am quite content to remain single.

So what have I learned about myths and stereotypes regarding rapists and victims? I have learned nothing that I did not already know. At my age, I have a better understanding of how the world works than my much younger classmates. I try not to be so jaded about things, but sometimes, it is hard to climb out of all the hopelessness and look for the good in life. I am blessed in that I have many people who do love and support me. I am fortunate that I have a wonderful medical team and good insurance to cover my needs at this time while I seek help. I have no illusions, however. Life is what a person makes of it; we keep moving forward, keep trying to smooth the edges and make the very best out of our lives.

Please understand that while I enjoy this class immensely, find many of the discussions quite entertaining, consider you to be a wonderful man and instructor, assigning a paper on RAPE EMPATHY where a person is “required” to discuss his or her own rape or the rape of someone else when it “is the fastest growing violent crime in America” (your words) should require empathy on your part. I strongly suggest that you remove this assignment from the syllabus for future semesters. The last time I was raped occurred 23 years ago, before several of my classmates were even born. I found this assignment horrifyingly traumatizing. Given that, can you imagine the 20 year old who was raped last year, last month, even last week having to write an assignment such as this? This is depraved; it is morally wrong. I happen to be in therapy currently for this, having attempted suicide because of this and other factors in my past, and I sure as hell do not need to be “graded” on it.

I, like others I have spoken to regarding this assignment, struggled through it and found the anxiety and slew of emotions heartbreaking. Some missed work; suffered emotional breakdowns; sought help from family, friends, or professionals they have worked with in the past—if they were fortunate enough to have sought help because so many do not or cannot; and some, like myself, took additional anxiety medication, toughed it out, and sat in righteous anger.

It was during that time of reflection that I simply could not let this go and decided to include this rant. I seriously considered submitting the following instead:

-------------------------------------------------
Nicholas ________
FHS 2450 – Human Sexuality
Paper: Rape Empathy
4 October 2012

Fuck you. This is much too personal for anyone to write as an assignment. I will receive full credit for this, or I will be discussing the matter with our school's administration.
-------------------------------------------------

In the future, I would recommend that alternative “Rape Empathy” assignments be provided such as: Increasing Sensitivity to Rape Victims in the Medical Field, Educational Reform and Sexual Sensitivity, Thoughts on Rape Culture in America, or Views on Rape During Times of War. Certainly a man with your credentials should be able to devise suitable alternative assignments to ensure that your students are learning the content you feel is necessary without re-traumatizing those unfortunate enough to have experienced this firsthand.

[s0litude]

I discussed posting a preview with a friend of mine, and she really liked it. She liked how I described parts of the gay district in Dallas, TX. If you're familiar with the area, you may know of or have been in some of these establishments.

---

Trudging down the rain-soaked sidewalk past the “Throckmorton Mining Company” and “JR’s”, I hurried across the street as the timer ticked down and traffic waited. Baristas at the “Crossroads Market” were wiping down tables, diming lights, shelving stray books, and setting chairs upon tables. The bars were still in full-swing, and apparently, “Sue Ellen’s” had a live performance that even the muggy weather couldn’t halt. Their patio was filled with laughter, smoke, drinking, and acoustic guitar. But me? I was feeling more honky-tonk than folksy, so I continued over to the “Round Up” and made my way into the bar.

I was having another of those nights where my thoughts simply would not slow down, figured that I’d step in for a beer or two, head home, and try again to rest. One of the things I loved most about Dallas was the “District” and the fact that the city never seemed to sleep. Living a few blocks from Cedar Springs meant never having to worry about parking or calling a cab.

Over the past several months, I’d hidden away basically, worked as much as management would allow, slept when my body permitted it, ate “on autopilot”-- just enough to keep me going, but life offered little pleasure and no real comfort. It was about time that I pulled myself “out of my shell”. At this point, if I didn’t do something, I feared I’d never venture out of my safety zone again. That’s not living; that’s merely “existing”. You have to feel it to heal it, have to live outside of your comfort zone, or what’s the point really? So here I was.

Music roared out of the bar as I pulled the door open and retrieved my wallet for my ID and cover charge. It’s always much too loud here, and it used to reek of cigarette smoke until city ordinances were put into place and forced the smokers to the back patio under the awnings. Inside the club, it smelled of beer, whiskey, sweat, and fragrances of cologne and perfume applied much too heavily, too… well… “eagerly”. It was after midnight, so the baby-faced doorman just smiled and waved me in after stamping my hand. Men with men, women with women, and combinations of every gender in between moved around the dance floor under a rainbow-assortment of lights as I adjusted to the bass from the speakers ricocheting off of my body, others pressing and moving here and there by me, against me, and made my way to the bar.

A few beers, some “people watching” which I considered a hobby of mine,… hell, maybe if I saw a friend or two, I might even loosen up enough to get in a dance or two? I ordered a Sam’s [Adams] and turned on the stool to scan for familiar faces as I brought the bottle up to my lips. But then I saw her and everything froze.

Her smile, her eyes, the way the corners of her lips had a slight lift to them as she was talking to another femme over by the pool tables. Suddenly, the music didn’t seem too loud anymore, the place wasn’t nearly as crowded, and I wasn’t too sure I hadn’t fallen asleep in front of the television at this point. Was I imagining her? I had to be. In a bar this bustling, music this loud, there was no way I could hear her laughter over it all, but I would swear on my life that I could decipher her voice and laughter from the rest of the din.

---

I'll be driving up the intensity from here, so....

I'll post again when the story is complete. This is a rewrite from a similar story I did years ago. Ten years later, more sensual, less blatantly sexual,... more mature, and... well... perhaps a bit less frustrated?

[s0litude]

No, this is not a Physics lesson. Chemistry, perhaps? I wrote a short story years ago for another site I frequent that was similar to this-- but "younger", trashier, raunchier, more "Ooooooh, Fabio, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter". As I cannot recall the specifics, it seemed interesting to me, at least, to rewrite it, seeing that I am about ten years older than when I wrote the original. I honestly DID try to tone things down. I'm older, hornier, BUT STILL need more sleep and more coffee. Oh well. If you live in or have ever lived in Dallas, you may recall some of these spots in the Cedar Springs area. I haven't had a chance to write in a long time, and I still don't have a great deal of time now to focus on such tasks. I could be blindfolded with dental floss, but as I'll procrastinate, I wanted to finish it tonight

=====

Trudging down the rain-soaked sidewalk past the Throckmorton Mining Company and JR’s, I hurried across the street as the timer ticked down and traffic waited. Baristas at the Crossroads Market were wiping down tables, diming lights, shelving stray books, and setting chairs upon tables. The bars were still in full-swing, and apparently, Sue Ellen’s had a live performance that even the muggy weather couldn’t halt. Their patio was filled with laughter, smoke, drinking, and acoustic guitar. But me? I was feeling more honky-tonk than folksy, so I continued over to the Round Up and made my way into the bar.

I was having another of those nights where my thoughts simply would not slow down, figured that I’d step in for a beer or two, head home, and try again to rest. One of the things I loved most about Dallas was the [Gay] “District” and the fact that the city never seemed to sleep. Living a few blocks from Cedar Springs meant never having to worry about parking or calling a cab as I was firmly against drinking and driving.

Over the past several months, I’d hidden away basically, worked as much as management would allow, slept when my body permitted it, ate “on autopilot”-- just enough to keep me going, but life offered little pleasure and no real comfort. It was about time that I pulled myself “out of my shell”. At this point, if I didn’t do something, I feared I’d never venture out of my safety zone again. That’s not living; that’s merely existing. You have to feel it to heal it, have to live outside of your comfort zone, or what’s the point really? So here I was.

Music roared out of the bar as I pulled the door open and retrieved my wallet for my ID and cover charge. It’s always much too loud here, and it used to reek of cigarette smoke until city ordinances were put into place and forced the smokers to the back patio under the awnings. Inside the club, it smelled of beer, whiskey, sweat, and fragrances of cologne and perfume applied much too heavily, too… well… “eagerly”. It was after midnight, so the baby-faced doorman just smiled and waved me in after stamping my hand. Men with men, women with women, and combinations of every gender in between moved around the dance floor under a rainbow-assortment of lights as I adjusted to the bass from the speakers ricocheting off of my body, others pressing and moving here and there by me, against me, and made my way to the bar.

A few beers, some “people watching” which I considered a hobby of mine,… hell, maybe if I saw a friend or two, I might even loosen up enough to get in a dance or two? I ordered a Sam’s [Adams] and turned on the stool to scan for familiar faces as I brought the bottle up to my lips. But then I saw her and everything froze.

Her smile, her eyes, the way the corners of her lips had a slight lift to them as she was talking to another femme over by the pool tables. Suddenly, the music didn’t seem too loud anymore, the place wasn’t nearly as crowded, and I wasn’t too sure I hadn’t fallen asleep in front of the television at this point. Was I imagining her? I had to be. In a bar this bustling, music this loud, there was no way I could hear her laughter over it all, but I would swear on my life that I could decipher her voice and laughter from the rest of the din.

Auburn- and copper- highlighted BEAUTIFUL is what she was; her hair rained down her shoulders, freely flowing along her back, swinging along the top of her backside as she moved her head in conversation with another girl. Don’t ask me what her friend looked like. I couldn’t tell you. I was locked into the vision of her as she turned those eyes towards me, ice blue, colder than the beverage I struggled to hold as the full weight of her gaze crashed into me. And her smile broadened over perfectly white teeth, a walking Colgate commercial. Long, delicate fingers—a pianist, perhaps-- flexed along the shaft of the pool cue she held. I felt the bottle slip in my hand and grasped it with my other as my eyes shifted to the bottle. Sliding my hand back to the bar to sit it down, I looked back up to search for her again, but she was gone.

Sleep deprivation or…? Maybe I did imagine her. I scanned the area where the pool tables were, but I didn’t see her. Frustrated, I reached back for my beer, and felt fingers brush my hand, looked up and met her eyes. I jumped, felt my breath catch, and knocked the beer over. Nice. Very smooth, Nicholas.

That perfect smile curled higher and a laugh escaped her lips, the sweetest sound, and offered, “Perhaps you should try a mug, y’know, with a handle?” I felt my face burning as my own—surely goofy-- smile met hers and offered, “Maybe a sippy cup even?” That earned me another laugh.

She motioned to the pool cue in her hand and asked me if I played. I do, but not well, and especially not well against beautiful women. The more attractive they are is proportional to the number of IQ points I lose while attempting to play them. She took the first win effortlessly, the second win was more of a challenge, but still. I assured her that I dance better than I shoot pool, and she smiled and allowed me to lead her to the dance floor-- and around it. A few numbers in, and a slow song started, and she slid her hands along my shoulders, pushed back, when I was going to move her along for another song.

We fell into a rhythm of middle-school-rocking-back-and-forth, and the feel of her pressing into me made it a wise choice. My hands slid along her bare back where her shirt ride up; her hands along my shoulders and the back of my neck slid along the back of my head as her fingers stroked my hair, still neatly shaven a few days previously. Her nails dragged along my skin, and I lowered my head along her neck, breathing her in, the smell of vanilla and beneath it, her. I closed my eyes and hung on that scent for two songs before she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Waiting a few minutes, I felt myself watched and looked up to find her near the service hallway of the bar. Her hands were behind her back as she leaned back into the wall, and she greeted me with a smile, tilted her head to the side, then motioned for me to follow before slipping inside. I casually set my drink down and followed her; far be it from me to deny a lady.

As I stepped inside, I noticed it was not a hallway but rather a storage room. There was a pool table in the middle with a tear along the green top and cabinets and boxes lining the wall. She stood inside the door, closing it securely and locking it behind me, and I stopped scanning the room and looked at her. That Colgate smile was back but had an edge to it.

Stepping in close to me, her hands slid up over my shoulders, and she told me that she’d been waiting for me to make a move, to at least try to kiss her. I told her I was being a gentleman, and she explained that while she loved that side I had shown her, right now, she wanted me to… ah… not be so “gentlemanly”. Her eyes held mine a moment, and I leaned in and kissed her, brushed her lips softly at first, touching her, tasting her, as her mouth found mine more eagerly. Her teeth lightly bit my bottom lip, tugging slightly, and pulled a growl from my throat that was met by a harder push of her body against mine.
Sliding her hands down my chest, her fingers began to unfasten my shirt, and I breathed hard along her mouth as her hands found my skin, slid along my chest, and her fingertips traced my nipples, her nails lightly dragged down them as they tightened, hardened at her touch. My fingers dug into her hips, kneading them, pulling her in against me more fully. She whispered about the table behind us, and I guided her back, pulling softly along her mouth, teasing her with the tip of my tongue, nipping and tugging along her lips…. Another kind of “dance” was about to begin.

Unfastening her pants and slipping my hands in along the sides, I shifted her pants and panties down her hips, slid my hands back behind her thighs, and lifted her up along the edge of the table as I pulled them off.

By this point, I was no longer thinking. I was feeling, smelling, tasting, hearing, seeing, but not thinking: the feel of her hands on me as I climbed up along the table, her thighs parting, her hands pushing my shirt and vest back off my shoulders and down my arms, and her hands along the belt of my jeans. The feel of her skin beneath my lips, my tongue parting to taste her skin, the sweat and heat of her, that scent from earlier beneath the hint of vanilla she wore, my teeth lightly dragging along her skin, slowly seizing her flesh, drawing it gently—at first—between my teeth, an almost purr escaping my lips as it just felt that damn good to me. Moving down her body, her figure pushing and moving up against me, her thighs parting further as I dragged my teeth along her abdomen, the smell of her arousal calling out to me as I lowered my head, her breath catching, my breath catching in response, her hips shifting, pushing along my mouth, my tongue teasing, coiling along her, tracing, brushing the length of her treasures, then back up, exploring her, attentive to the signs of what she seemed to enjoy most. Fingers, slick, sliding along those soft, pink folds, pushing in slowly, curling into those special places, a “come hither” along a ridge, along the top, slightly inside… beckoning her release.

Moments later, I found myself being pushed onto my back, her hands along my belt, her efforts having been halted by my desire to get to her. Button unfastened, my zipper slid down, and her hands sliding along my skin into my boxer briefs….

“Want another beer?”

“I’m… sorry? What?” My head whipped back to see the bartender looking at me, grinning, having caught me in a daydream. My hand was still holding my bottle, and the drink looked completely alien to me. The bartender paused and asked again if I wanted another beer as last call was being made soon. I took a second to get my bearings, shook my head, politely declining, and turned my eyes towards the pool tables again. She wasn’t there. I’d… well, I’d imagined it, but…. I thought I had imagined it before and then….

I stroked my face and then my forehead as I set the bottle down; I must be losing it. I desperately must need sleep to feel this out of sorts, to imagine things this vividly.

And then, she was there. She and the girl she’d been talking to when I entered were walking towards me, and I tried but failed to keep from staring as she approached. And then vanilla. I smelled vanilla as she stepped beside me to the bar, brushing against my hip as she asked for a napkin. She was speaking to her friend, but caught my gaze and held it as she wrapped up her inquiry:

“Why do jerks hit on you all night, but the really sweet ones, the ones you want to sweep you off of your feet, are always too shy even to say hello?”