Melodramatic Stroboscopic Picture Show In Words: A Love Affair

bloody plate

She had always been unhappy. And it couldn’t be helped. He loved her. And it couldn’t be helped. She fought with him that he didn’t really love her. And it couldn’t be helped. He fought back with her that he really did. And it couldn’t be helped. For ages she told him that they needed to take a break. And it couldn’t be helped. And for ages he resisted her saying that they needed take a break. And it couldn’t be helped. To try to spice things up between them, she brought an old sex book she had owned to his bed. And it couldn’t be helped. He tried to ignore the oily stains that had been on the book’s cover. And it couldn’t be helped.

She told him all her problems she had with life the next day on the phone for half an hour. It couldn’t be helped. Unable to speak a single word himself, he listened to her problems and felt exasperated listening. It couldn’t be helped. The next day after that, she did it again, filling him with her problems. It couldn’t be helped. He felt beside himself, listening again. It couldn’t be helped. She felt that they were finally at a new beginning, that she was opening up to him again. It couldn’t be helped. He told her that they needed to take a break. It couldn’t be helped. She broke down and sobbed. It couldn’t be helped. He listened to her sobbing for an hour on the phone. It couldn’t be helped.

The next day, he sought to recant their taking a break. It couldn’t be helped. She denied his request that they not take a break. It couldn’t be helped. She skipped his birthday when it came. It couldn’t be helped. He felt pain. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him text messages indicating that she was inclined to let the whole thing go. It couldn’t be helped. He panicked and missed her terribly. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him a picture of her wearing his locket. It couldn’t be helped. He felt love seeing her wearing the locket, the same one which he wore, too. It couldn’t be helped. She messaged him a picture of her engagement ring, now carefully placed in a little house of sticks and bark and stone he had once built for it for her. It couldn’t be helped.

He felt love for her, holding onto hope from that sweet picture. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him more texts telling him she couldn’t talk. It couldn’t be helped. He felt despair. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him text messages that she felt relieved and had discovered a new, happy social life. It couldn’t be helped. He felt deeper and deeper loneliness, missing her. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him messages that said she would let him him know when she could talk to him. It couldn’t be helped. He respected her request for space. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him more messages telling him to let it be. It couldn’t be helped. He sent her messages that told her he loved and missed her. It couldn’t be helped.

She sent him messages indicating that she had no intention of returning to their relationship the way it was. It couldn’t be helped. He felt some hope, that indeed they could change the way their relationship had been. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him texts that she wanted their relationship to be over. It couldn’t be helped. He sent her messages that indicated he was lonely and missed her. It couldn’t be helped. She sent him texts that said she was worried about him but would not help him. It couldn’t be helped. He arranged with her to pick up his belongings at her house. It couldn’t be helped. She agreed and told him she did not want to see him and to be gone with his belongings by the afternoon. It couldn’t be helped.

He was stunned to find every stitch and scrap, from his tube of face moisturizer that had been in his drawer in the bathroom, to his running shoes in the closet, had been already neatly bagged and boxed in the little, dark room he had worked in down her basement when he got there. It couldn’t be helped. She weeks before had removed from her sight any sign and any remnant ever associated with him from her house. It couldn’t be helped. After packing all his belongings into his car, he bought and lay dozens of roses for her in her house—in hallways, in the kitchen, on the staircase, upon her bed, and wrote her short love notes telling her he would do anything to be with her again, and drove away. It couldn’t be helped.

After therapy and work, she came home and changed out of her work clothes to go out with her date for dinner. It couldn’t be helped. After he had left, he had turned back to see her in person and to beg her to speak with him. It couldn’t be helped. Having left the front and the back doors of her house flung open, she shouted down the staircase from her bedroom that she would be right there. It couldn’t be helped. He’d rapped on the back glass door, just open enough, and called out to her. It couldn’t be helped. She came downstairs and when she saw him, she screamed and screamed and screamed. It couldn’t be helped. He followed her outside where she was screaming and screaming to her car. It couldn’t be helped.

She screamed and screamed for him to leave her alone. It couldn’t be helped. He begged her on his knees, “Please! Please! Please!” It couldn’t be helped. Her date appeared behind him in the driveway and claimed the police were on their way. It couldn’t be helped. While he believed this was not true, he also didn’t care if it had been. It couldn’t be helped. She ran to her date’s car waiting for her on the street. It couldn’t be helped. Afterwards, he struggled and fought for her for weeks. It couldn’t be helped. She held her ground against him. It couldn’t be helped. He sneaked into his friend’s house nearby who had plenty of guns and put a bullet through his beautiful head. It couldn’t be helped.

The Jewel Stairs’ Grievance: B-Side

disrobed

She mourned the recent death of her fiancé by going out on dates. That is how she grieved. For there was no use hanging around and moping. There was no use feeling sorry for him or for herself. She deserved a life of joy and joyfulness. After all, wasn’t that what the tattoo on her backside read in Latin, just above her buttocks in permanent  blue: “Inveniens Gaudium”? And the truth was, he hadn’t been the showboat anyway of her life. Judgmental and cruel at times, he could walk the rice paper path like a monk and never leave a trace. But, the truth was really in his essence: boy-like, full of wonder, like an Elephant’s Child’s mind full of “insatiable curiosity.” If one were to pass out gold stars for good human behavior with strangers, many a new star-lit constellations would fill the painted skies.

Almost everybody who met him had left him blinking their eyes in open human wonder and delight. In supermarkets, barber shops, railway stations. That was how he was, touched with a lightness of being and gaiety that was like the cheerful song of birds. These ways of his would not stop her for a moment, however. She’d dine, and undress, and pull through a continuous orgasm of amazing sex without him. No use sitting on the shelf like unused bed sheets and turning gray and brittle there for nothing like that innocent lost girl folding linen warns against in that poem by Brecht, who instead was destined to live her own life to the fullest, and be a woman completely manifest. No sense in hanging onto the past. It was just as Jesus had said, “Let the dead bury the dead.”

And besides, where had he been for her? What had he done for her lately?  Fuck  Eddie Murphy! He’d done nothing. He hadn’t been there. When she was down and in need, where was he for her then? True, he had once repaired and painted white her crumbling garage; he had once patched her roof; he had once changed the basement pump; he had for a spell from time to time minded her children when she had slipped into the coma of her depressions. True, he had battled off her irrational and abusive ex (chronic guilty reminder of her past life mired in poor choices, sickness, mistakes & misdirection). True, he had protected her from her mother’s mania (who’d beaten her to tears as no child a mother ever should). True, he had amused her boys endlessly every night at supper (when at the table she had been a maternal ghost). So what!

He had been such a bastard. Her past was her past. He was always judging her by that. That was who she had been then. She had changed, she had changed, she had changed. And where the fuck was he? Last winter, he had abandoned her, abandoned her when she had really, really needed him. He had abandoned her! She had been all alone. He’d just come on the weekends and fuck her and leave, leaving her alone again. She didn’t need a man like that. He hadn’t been her partner like that. That’s not a partner.

She would find a man who loved her the way she deserved. Where had this dead fiancé whose diamond ring (which she had bought with her own hard-earned money) that she wore for nothing for the four years they were engaged for nothing who would never have married her anyway been? She was an ageless goddess. She, without him, was an amazing, powerful woman who had now become fully herself. She was an amazing, phenomenal woman. She’d enjoy her life for what it was—“Life as itself now,” and sleep with and date and fuck and love again whosoever she pleased. Whether he’d been dead two months, two years, or a day, what difference did it make?

Some Beautiful Leftover Debris

pull tiesThe forgotten and leftover things that people do are forgotten and leftover. There are all sorts of untellings of things that nobody will have talked about. Fierce, blood-letting accusations are dropped as if they had never been. Hatreds seem to disappear. Easy betrayals, like jackals crossing the grassy lower backlands with bright yellow eyes at night, go by like northern ghosts. A cobbled together clutch of new-found friends all whispering together they make quickened decisions feel right. How mobs and rabbles work is generally like this too. Jellyfish with their huge poisonous red manes bob and flow in the sea, catching the bare limbs of this and that swimmer swimming unawares. And what later washes up as memory? What comes ashore as truths? It is raked up with seaweed and debris, carted off to a nearby garbage heap, or burned under watchful eye in the sand. As for infidelities, fits, or the other small but aggressive human cruelties? At length, his final handshake with the kind proprietor after the couple’s last meal is over is all that can be left to mind to bear, after his lips have spit out a pinch of mukhwas clearing the palate and very good for digestion on the curb.

You Got What You Deserve (cont’d)

sports car 2

1     Dicks [continued]

…It’s more than just that. I mean what is a dick anyway? Having a big dick is partly attitude, partly blue jeans. That’s where I put more of my energy. The crotch-thing was a lot more reliable than breath-catching, which might really be just a bunch of ballooey. Face it, I myself really barely saw much for dick in high school, so what was I myself to know? Like give-away bikini tops, crotches were everywhere, and the pants a guy wore and the way he swung his legs around, these were the tell-tale signs of who he was and what he’d do or not.

Take a teacher in a nice pair of double-pleated slacks, ironed, creased, and cuffed. Kind of boring, but there is that master and servant thing going on there between the teacher and student; it’s no Night Porter, but, where does the potential for a sex scene drop out? Double-pleats. Any guy, teacher or not, who has to fluff up his lap with an air-bag, it doesn’t matter what he’s got there inside the breadbox. He doesn’t have attitude. He might have the hunger of a bear waking up in springtime, but he’s hidden the beast so far back in a dark endless cave of folded cloth, he’ll never get out of there. Guys with pleated pants, they’re born to dwindle in the background and masturbate. Appetite, yes. Adventure, no.

The flip side is a guy in really tight, straight-cut, black designer jeans. When he sits down, it’s the mumps, those two gobstopper-sized carp eyes floating to the surface. It’s just pure Archimedes. The stuff has to go somewhere. A guy sitting on his desk facing the class with his legs crossed wearing a set of these is making the day for any girl in class out for some pretty gross bird-watching that period. There he is, ass on the desk and, basically, his dick is in every girl’s eye, all squunched up there behind that inky black denim.

Even worse, when it’s so jacked up, like maybe he’s shoved a miniature valentine pillow in his underwear, it’s pretty obvious that he’s wearing bikinis, which means a couple of things: He either wants to be a Calvin Klein undergarment model, or thinks he is. When a teacher thinks he’s that, then he’s either really in the wrong profession, or there’s something borderline debatable hiding behind the stitching of that kind of rive gauche wannabe fashion dick hoisted up on the right side there.

Bunched-up power-dicks show the attitude of the guy that has to be put up with too; so, if that’s the inner-life of the teacher in question, my advice to myself was to skip it. The right look, it’s either in a pair of flat-front khakis or a pair of ordinary blue blue jeans. The crotch area, when the teacher’s sitting, with one leg draped over the knee of the other, doesn’t bulge like he’s wearing the mouth of a horse down there, nor cower like a baby bird in the nest when Mommy’s flown off for five or ten minutes. It’s got the home-made mashed potato look: A good convex scoop chucked between his legs, smooth, with a few lumps. It’s the difference between the real pearl, a little misshapen by nature, and the cultured one that wears its shapely perfection like vanity.

My taste is for the former, where a guy is cumfortable enough with himself just to be who he sits. It’s like make-up for girls — the best make-up being when it looks like there’s none at all, or when there is none at all. Wearing underwear’s probably necessary to guys, though, like a lens cap is to a camera. Mr. Bigdick wasn’t really about size, even though I did think about it a lot; it was about pants mostly.

Available now in paperback and ebook.

You Got What You Deserve

sports car

1     Dicks

Finally, I thought, I’m gonna get fucked.

Sometimes it’s really easy. Sometimes it takes like forever.

All sorts of shit gets in the way a lot. They’ve got girlfriends or they’ve got boyfriends or both of them or they’ve got political hang-ups against fucking or they’ve got std’s or they’re on some frickin religious holiday they don’t believe in.

But all around, I’m pretty patient. When I spot a random piece of guy I like, I expect it to put out over time, if that’s what it takes. And I understand the rules, the social-political ones that could really fuck someone over if I did the wrong thing. And that’s why I waited.

This guy, as soon as I saw him, I registered him downstairs in my little blond sandwich shop, thinking: He doesn’t belong here. This guy’s bony face and untamed bush of gray hair belonged somewhere else, but not in school. Even with his khakis and baggy sweater on, he had the wrong look for an English teacher. He had the big cock look. Teachers don’t have that. They don’t because they don’t have big cocks. They have puny cocks, puny cocks with a lot of hair mostly. They want to have big cocks, so they work in places that most girls don’t know the difference. Most teachers wouldn’t survive anywhere else. Anywhere else and the breath of the person you’re talking next to tells you how big his dick is.

Whenever I talk to a guy, I get up just close enough to catch his breath to tell how big his dick is. Or not. Most girls in high school just don’t know about that. And, being high school girls, they hardly know the difference in cocks anyway. So for puny-dicked male high school teachers, the set up is perfect. Christ! Any one of them who brings up in class themes of incestuous sex in Hamlet or an old guy humping a young chick in Chaucer seems to girls like it’s Mick Jagger whipping it out for his own daughter. Eew! Don’t say that! That’s nasty! You mean Nick Carraway is really thinking like that about his own cousin, Mr. Bigdick?  That’s nasty, Mr. Bigdick, that’s nasty! Sure, even though Daisy is the guy’s second cousin once removed and there’s like zero blood between them, girls get totally grossed out by Nick having the hots for Gatsby’s slutty Daisy and the double or treble ambivalence this causes Nick as narrator slash participant; hence the stifling vocabulary with the mid-western twang.

But, truth be told, they love it, girls love it, really, inside their pants. And they love it mostly because of the erroneous fantasy that Gatsby isn’t clean. Girls who go eew!, the same kind who go down on every guy they can but hardly ever swallow the cum, the first to fuck and the last to have abortions, they love The Great Gatsby because it is dirty, because they think it’s nasty, because they’re getting off on their perverted fantasies of Nick wanting to fuck his cousin Daisy. In high school, basically, any girl who’s more than vaguely aware that her pussy is more than just of fissure for urination, what they want is to feel the breath of any puny-dicked teacher who’ll even say the word “sex” to them. And, as a sort of a whore of the English department, not literally, just an after school flirt mostly, what I learned mostly from high school was that being a high school teacher was mostly all about puny-cocked guys trying to impress the daylights out of hardly experienced girls. And how are the girls to find out or not?

The bravest of teachers, the most brazen, who’ll slip a semi-avuncular arm around the pint-sized waist of a boppy girl coming back next year for a flattering college recummendation, he’ll still say to himself and his small dick, “No pair of tits is worth my pension.” How do I know this? I just know. It’s a sense of smell. It’s all from learning to catch a guy’s breath up close. It tells you everything. And they’re all just chicken-shit to show their little high school dicks to girls that hardly even know the difference really, even the whoriest of them. And make it sound like it’s an ethics thing, that they can’t. It’s all bluff. And the teachers all know it. But not this guy, no way. He had a wad in his pants. I caught his breath. I could tell. He was Mr. Bigdick…

Available now in paperback and ebook.

Geewhiz! (And it’s free!)

bluestone

Hey, Geewhiz,

You’re just the kind of trouble I like. Behind your sado-masochistic array of words, I know you’re just a romantic angel falling headlong first into the lap of love. You can’t feel or fool me for a second. But, you’re really wrong about the dating bit. Are you kidding? This place is a paradise for successful daters. Even Stephen Hawking could make girls pine and yearn here. And that, basically, is the lost art of romancing, isn’t it? Some dude with the right amount of DNA to thrill your shot glass with, who’s witty and smart enough to make that little rictal smile of yours appear and wander off into the desert the same way that that poor great fool Enoch with God did. I am looking, prowling, a big Virginia Woolf-sized lighthouse on the lookout for an “adjective whore” just like you. Come on; come to Papa, and crash your vessel upon my rocks.

Egbert

More online letters, dates you won’t believe happened, eye-popping stories that did…

Free download today, April 27 :

arrow-orangehttp://www.amazon.com/Match-Egbert-Starr-ebook/dp/B01E98WP88

Match

Pinkroadster

red bricks

The first thing Jean—aka Pinkroadster—was concerned with when I met her for coffee in White Plains was how she appeared to me; that is, did I mind that she was much plainer in person than she had been in the picture she had put up of herself online. That is, until she had changed her photo for another the night before. That is, did I mind that she had done that? That is, could I like her this way?

Before that, she was absolutely, drop dead stunning. In person, she was attractive enough, but no head-turner. Still, it’s embarrassing when no sooner than two people from Match do meet, they start analyzing Match itself. It means it’s dead in the water: if that, Match itself is the only thing two people can muster up to talk about together, if the only common denominator between two people is the online dating service they used to bring them together, and to discuss their past experiences, all of which ipso facto must not have worked out, then there is equally as little promise they will either.

Still, I remained intellectually curious to hear Jean, a well-paid accountant, break down in percentages the men she found eligible candidates. Just by showing up, by my not cancelling at the last minute, or wishing to change the date, I realized, by her reckoning, I was already in the top 10%.

From there, though, the odds seemed to decrease exponentially. There, in that last 2 1/2%, by keeping to schedule and my word, is where Jean let me know I happened to be. Somewhere there she was being saved, by her own calculations, it seemed, for some lucky sonovabitch who’d give her the whole farm and a promissory note for collateral.

She told me a tale of being taken out to an expensive steak dinner by a Wall Street executive. When he asked her, she related, “Do you like sex?” she stopped at appetizers, claiming to the gentleman that she was no longer hungry. Her point, I suppose, was to show me she had morals, and that she would not take a man for one single steak if she found his values repellent or unattractive.

“What,” she asked me, “do you think about a question like that?” Naturally, hoping not to just as abruptly end our date at the cafeteria-style coffeehouse we were seated at, not at some fancy joint where the big boys pumped up their cholesterol and balls over a thick slab of Angus, I concurred with Jean’s assessment; without, at the same time, wholly condemning my own semi-salacious and libidinous tendency, so as not to possibly, however slim the chance, find myself in a contradictory bind of logic I could not surmount should the evening pan out in such a way that I was questioned again by Jean over wherefore my fingertips were prowling at the top of her underpants.

But this, I doubted, would ever happen: for by her bringing up the past steakhouse episode and the serious affront to her character it had caused her then, now being displayed as a lesson to me through symbolic narration meant clearly that her response, had she responded to the gentleman in question over her liking of sex, would have have to have been “No”; and if not “No” itself, then something punitive for sex with her, something like offering to her the stars and moon and one’s firstborn’s toenail clippings drowned in Aramaic vinegar and then sealed forever in amber in order to get her pants off, would be required.

She took me entirely wrong when I suggested we go somewhere else to continue our talk. She felt interrupted, dislodged, and altogether, I suppose, minimized. My forehead was hot from all the intellectual fervor. I just needed a change of location, I tried to explain to her, along with an unnecessary apology, as she now stood on the curb of the sidewalk and pointed to the direction she was crossing to, and pointed to the direction perpendicular from hers, where she told me I was to go.

More stories, letters, dates . . .

Free download today and tomorrow (4/26-4/27) :

arrow-orangehttp://www.amazon.com/Match-Egbert-Starr-ebook/dp/B01E98WP88

Match

 

Match me if you can . . .

Match

On sale now!

arrow-orangeKindle:

http://www.amazon.com/Match-Egbert-Starr-ebook/dp/B01E98WP88

arrow-orangePaperback:

http://www.amazon.com/Match-Egbert-Starr/dp/1942839030

Letters & Stories . . .

_____________________________________

Dear Izabelle:

To the extent that you “don’t like talking about yourself,” I love talking about myself. I’m a born egomaniac. Fortunately, I’ve learned to curb my voracious appetite to take over and subdue an entire dinner table with my tales and wanton arrogance, with an attentive ear. But, alas, most people would, in the end, prefer to hear my ridiculous yarns and bombast over the grayed-out tales of their own lackluster lives. You don’t seem like you’re much of a talker at all, really. I can understand that, with your looks and intelligence a sure bet every time. Me, I just went berserk, long ago and far away, with making myself smart. Sure, it got me into some interesting spots in Budapest & Saint Petersburg & Prague, but it never got me home. That was just dumb luck.

Egbert

_______________________________________

Freddy Steiner

country cabin

Most often I had been subordinated by my Dinkelacker. It had been one too many at the fair. My English was very good by this point in time, and my voice had still sustained an excellent baritone in manner. However little the folk coming knew well the Müllerin and its subversive themes of love and the hard lives of such a young man apprenticing, I sang out my heart from the bandstand. I did catch the eyebrows of a woman twice to my count. I sang even louder. There had been plenty of bratwurst and garlic and onions and sauerkraut for all to share if that had been the calling of the people. My overall girth I could see in her eyes was not a thing to spurn me for but spoke well of my success and overall self-comfort. In my homeland I had once been a professional. I had sung there Brahms and Schubert at taverns that had permitted such besides a spinet piano. Here, there had not been the same spirit naturally. And I had already become a curio if not without some original talent. The one who had seen me with her glances walked to another area of the fairgrounds with I believe another. And I continued to sing my heart out over the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia to her where for decades I had resided now alone and personally willing.

Match Guy Aptitude Test (MGAT)

If you want to succeed at online dating, everybody’s got to pass a test.

Sometimes, during my six month Match.com dating extravaganza, I just wrote the test myself:
Match

(Click here to peek inside the book!)


Please complete the following Match Guy Aptitude Test (MGAT). When finished, please submit your answers to me for correction.

1. The guy on Match is

a) nice but insincere

b) bright but not brilliant

c) dull but not dumb

d) forward-thinking but not revolutionary

e) eager but not crazy

2. The guy on Match lives

a) too far away to commit

b) too far away to love

c) too close for me to see other guys

d) far away enough to miss me when he’s not here

e) around the block

3. The guy on Match is probably

a) a faithful and romantic man at heart

b) a two-bit sonovabitch at heart

c) a tranny

d) a trust fund alcoholic

e) a dangerous sociopath

4. I like the guy on Match because

a) he will eat of my hand, night or day

b) he’s cute enough for now

c) he’s original and daring, even at his own expense

d) he’s rich and famous

e) someone I know dated him already

5. Most guys on Match

a) suck

b) have great six-packs

c) are virgins

d) are cultured, worldly, and speak several languages

e) know how to make a girl laugh

6. The guy on Match probably likes me because

a) like me, he’s thinking about law school

b) like me, he’s thinking about medical school

c) like me, he’s thinking about becoming a chartered financial analyst

d) I wrote him back already one time

e) he just thinks I’m beautiful, funny, and smart

7. Going out on a date with the guy on Match would probably lead to

a) the feeling that I was being listened to by someone who cares about what I have to say

b) both of us seeing what the other is like

c) my talking to him about stuff that makes me happy as well as concerned

d) unexpected sex with him all night long until the pigeons are cooing

e) a belief in love, even if it doesn’t seem practical

8. Even if in the end it doesn’t work out for me and the guy on Match, I will be happy to have known him because

a) he will have been kind and gentle to me

b) he will have been a solid lover with a great body

c) he will have made me feel good about myself

d) he will have made me realize or affirm that not all guys are shitheads

e) all of the above

9. My number one reservation about going out on a date with the guy on Match is

a) I actually think guys are pretty yucky

b) he’s way older than I am

c) I don’t think he can really be serious about me

d) I’m actually afraid of finding a really good guy

e) I’d like to keep this Match-thing at a distance

10. If I were to go out on a date next weekend with the guy from Match, I’d tell him I’d be comfortable going to

a) that falafel place on Avenue A

b) the Pegu Club in Soho

c) Katz’s on Houston for pastrami sandwiches

d) just anyplace uptown for coffee

e) to dinner somewhere in the Meatpacking District


(Click here to peek at more inside!)

Match. Coming out soon!