Sometimes, it’s Autism.

The girl behind the counter slides me my tray, the delicious scent of my burger and fries invading my senses. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thanks, you too.”

Oh, God. I screw my eyes shut. I’ll think back on this moment for years to come, and the embarrassment will come flooding back.

..

…

..

I get the dreaded call, which I never understood. Why call those who don’t get the job? Just let me slink away into the darkness; no need to shout, “You’re slinking into the darkness” as I go. I’m fully aware already.

“I’m sorry to say you didn’t get the job. They felt you were a little distant. They couldn’t sense your excitement.”

So I curse my inability to make eye contact like a normal person, I curse my apathy that covers my empathy, and I curse some more for good measure because I like threes. And fives and any number that creates a natural middle point. If I text someone three emoji hearts, the middle one can be another color and voilá, you have a nice pattern.

Sometimes, it’s Him.

“Kneel, girl.”

I fall to my knees and bow my head.

..

…

..

He plucks thoughts straight from my mind, molds them after his desires, and shoves them back in. A look, a smirk, a kiss, a tasty little slice of logic, a word that triggers, a touch, and then I’m spinning and spiraling with his sadistic mindplay.

“It’s okay, I’ll catch you afterward.”

I fall, tremble, and trip, out of control.

Sometimes, it’s Characters.

I could bang my head against a wall. I want them to go there, and they insist on going in the opposite direction. I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready; just obey me, you imaginary people, and they refuse. They go their own way. I write them as they wish, as they set the pace for them, never me. Never me.

“How’s the book coming along?” he asks, and I tell him to go away. Go away, go away, go away. I’m arguing, you see. I’m the one fighting with fictional characters because their minds are stronger than my own.

“I can’t argue logic, okay?” I snap. So I obey characters.

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Clutching my head, fingers digging into my hair, I rock back and forth and try to summon the right voice. I need him to speak, but the noise from another heroine is louder. Write me, she demands, and I don’t have time. I’m sorry, but I need that guy behind you; please un-gag him. I need to write him.

“Will you make the deadline?” my editor wonders.

I scream.

It's always out of reach. Topics and interests I burn for consume me. I disappear and get lost in people, stories, and fields. I can never split my time, because then, I'd be dividing my attention. You either have it or you don't. From me, you'll get everything or nothing. So balance will always be out of reach.

This Midwestern housewife and I had nothing in common. A love of family, perhaps, but we weren't blood. Her people were hardy German and Scandavavian stock. I know this because one year I did her genealogy as a present.

By the time I met Geraldine, I'd been through a litany of steps. Step-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and several step-parents. I figured there was no need to bother with the new set as either my father would divorce their daughter, or more likely, their daughter would divorce my father.

I wasn't prepared to love her. But she wore me down with unwavering acceptance and never invoking the 'step' part of our relationship. She understood that I loved her and that I just didn't show it in demonstrative ways. No one knew I had autism back then. But I was still hers and she understood me. I think the way I'd cry at the end of our visits clued her in that I cared.

We all knew of her troubles with Hepatitis C, contracted through a blood transfusion decades before. A drug trial at the Mayo Clinic put her in remission, but her body was just too tired. 

My brothers, sisters-in-law, and I drove straight through from Texas to the frozen Midwest to say our goodbyes right before Christmas.

The funeral wasn't exactly somber; it was a celebration of her life carried out in quiet prairie fashion. A picture montage was set up and I couldn't look away from the vital, energetic woman she used to be. Pictures are a thing for me. While words carry weight, pictures capture tiny slivers of a life. Moments that will never happen again. There's magic in pictures. The one of her and my grandfather dancing the 'longest married couple dance' at my youngest brother's wedding two years ago was one that hit me hard. They looked thrilled to be in each other's arms. That is what love looks like.

When the service was over, we moved to the burial site, and stood in rows, huddled together against a blustery lake wind as we listened to the preacher's final blessing. I'm not religious, but if there's a heaven, Geraldine deserves to be there.

When the time for general words had passed, we said our own words to her in single-file fashion. Watching my elderly grandfather lay his head close to her casket and whisper love and goodbyes to his wife, best friend, and mother of his children is something I'll never forget.

When it was my turn. I kissed my fingers and laid them on her coffin and silently told her I loved her. She showed me that blood is not always what makes family.

A receiving line started a few feet away so that people could give condolences to her husband and kids. I walked up to my grandfather and he grabbed me tight and told me that she had loved me so very, very much. I wanted to comfort him, but he wouldn't let me. He just kept telling me over and over how much they loved me. I cried and wrapped my arms around his neck. We simply held each other as the line of people moved around us.

He still totters around in their house by the lake. I imagine nothing has changed in Geraldine's red house since she left it. The little iron horse sitting on the mantle was one I bought at an antique fair and she loved it so much that I gave it to her. She joked that I'd get it back someday. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Back then, her passing was nearly two decades away and we could afford to laugh at such silliness. I couldn't bring myself to take it when I left, even though they tried to make me. It belongs on her mantle. Some things just don't need to change.

❤️

Underneath the stars and dust clouds of the Milky Way, he left his comfort zone and pushed me toward insanity. This wasn't supposed to happen. The first kiss turned me into his secret, and I was powerless to stop it. Weak, greedy, hard as a fucking rock.

"Did you hit your head?" I sucked in a breath, trembling beneath him. "You know I'm not a woman, right?"

I was the funny guy. Comedy brought smiles to people's faces and concealed my loneliness. Now my jokes were going to fall flat, because this bastard was breaking me down.

"Mm. Very aware." He deepened the kiss.

With the fingers he touched my jaw, there was a wedding ring that warned me about how badly this could turn out. He's heading for divorce, my weakness pleaded with me. Nothing's for certain, my brain argued before it short circuited.

"More." I groaned and gave up.

~Casey, Uncomplicated Choices.

Please excuse me, as I describe for you

the multitude of feelings I have

when I see you smile.

But equally and more so, 

when you walk away from me.

A contradiction I know, but what can I say

I find myself giddy inside,

when I see your tight jeans

and especially your leggings.

How I have wished you would 

straddle me with just those on

I'd say, "Giddy up cowgirl!"

Hope you don't mind

the garter and hose I just bought

but they were calling you

Begging to accent the 

luscious thighs and 

the round and wide

of your spread...

Ever-longing lasting

Not quite past

The stage where she gave up

Would anyone find

This contradiction

To their liking?

She doubted it

But kept an open mind

One day, she might find

A soul who echoed hers

And the bad years

Would be nothing

But blurs

Like windshield wipers

Against a Sunday downpour

What’s more, she

Finally admitted that

“Being strong” was nothing

More than a warning, a wall

Saying to everyone

“I’ll not let you in, not at all”

Shaking her finger at them

Full of sass

But never forgetting

Her nose pressed up against

That glass and how it felt

To be reminded that

She had a shelf-life

Of a month, maybe two

Because they didn’t understand

The very contradictions they spurned

Would be turned into

Giving until she was spent

Repent at your leisure, I say

For she’s gone, baby, gone

Your rear view mirror can’t reflect back

The one no longer there

So have care with her

When she’s in front of you

Actually, don't. I bite. But there are other buttons I like, and since I'm slightly OCD about certain things, I need them to match. I couldn't find a Prose button for my website, so I was forced to make one. Look what you did, Prose; you forced me to do something. Ugh.

I got my buttons now, though.

:)

You scratch and claw

Inscribing my back with a litany of sins

As I feast up the feral kiss

Drinking in your sexual wrath

The fires of Hell wash away shadows in the crude candle glow

You slap me

As I tear at your hair

You bite

As I make you a sex puppet

Licking the sweat from your neck

Fucking you with my fingers

And my brain

And finally fucking you as though your life depended upon it

Watching, amused, as you fight against me

Against my grip on your throat

Fighting with me

Fighting to me

Fighting for me

Waiting until your breathless, purple face bulges with veins

And as you rock and writhe

And struggle for breath

As I succumb to your delicious lust

Whispering your name as I lose control of mine

While your shuddering body sweats pools

Splashing sex upon me

And marking me like Cain

With a final trail of succulent agony

Ripping a single nail down my rasping chest

"Dance with me." The man extends his hand.

With a blush, the girl looks away from the breathtaking view of the city, and she lets him sweep her off her feet. They dance in the darkness of the mountains to a song that goes unheard. She can't place him, but she's seen him before. She's certain of it.

"Something's troubling you," he murmurs.

She nods, peering up at him. "Who are you?"

He smirks faintly. A knowing twist of his lips. He knows something she doesn't. Is that it? He knows what's troubling her. As of late, she keeps seeing destruction everywhere. Disease, death. It's in what people eat, the air they breathe, the political matters on which they vote, the water they drink, and in every indulgence.

"We're destroying ourselves," she says quietly. "We're dying."

He twirls her once, then brings her close to his body. "Are you destroying yourself?"

The girl averts her eyes, biting her lip. Is she? She's doing her best to quit her vices, but maybe the progress is too slow. Life makes her happy, and she wants to do everything in her power to enjoy the little time she has on this planet. A trickle of anxiousness seeps in, and she vows to work harder. Life is too short.

"I'm trying not to," is her honest answer.

"That's a good girl." The man sways them gently. "But you should know, my dear." He presses a kiss to her temple. "Death...will always dance with life."

I drink a cocktail of moonlight, full of your memory.

Sitting idle as you intoxicate my blood.

You pump through my veins like a tantalizing mix.

Drenched in the dreamy night sky of wet lust and tingling love.

Left with the sweet after taste,

of the moonlight at midnight.....