Another Night at the Dixie Tavern. Meridian. Progress. Indians and Braves. The Girl that Didn’t Shoot Me.

--There’s the couple that swings.
He’s well rounded, kind faced, probably 42 or so.
She’s younger, with clear skin and a passé hairstyle that overly frames her face.
But she wears the right kind of bra.
And her waist is narrow.
And her ass is on the upper side of ok.
And last night she had her panties—pink—pulled up onto her back.
It was all sort of appealing.

They’ve been working on the pretty Irish girl, M.

Her lips are always so red. She kisses me on the mouth as greeting. I like it when girls do that.

“They’re going to try to fuck you,” I tell her.
“Maybe they already have.”

Fucked her, or tried to, I wonder.

--When did it happen that the lower back become a zone of desire?

I am finding myself checking out the smalls of backs the way I used to check out collar bones or asses.

--Later: there’s the woman who rented me my apartment a few months ago.

I liked her height. I liked her bone structure.
I like them again.

Against the better advice of her friends, she sits with me at the bar and we drink vodka.

She tastes like mint.
She will always taste this way, I tell myself.
You will always feel this way about the way she tastes, I think.

These are fleeting thoughts.
These are fleeting tastes.
I’m not as easy in the long run as I seem.

--On another blog written by a young woman in Colorado there is a candid discussion about sex and motivations people have for engaging in it. The young woman describes having sex with her boyfriend out of a desire to feel close sometimes, rather than out of primitive urge. She writes that sometimes she doesn’t really want to fuck, though the implication is not that she feels forced but rather that she isn’t doing it out of a burning want.

She is 16.
Her boyfriend is 19.
Or these are the virtual truths, but I have no reason to doubt them.

In the comments section, somebody wrote that she shouldn’t be having sex with a nineteen year old.

Her blog is sharp as hell, well written, the product of somebody who clearly has a fine mind. She feels wise enough, healthy enough, balanced enough.

And I’m not sure that the fact that she sleeps with a guy three years older than she is can act as proof that there is something wrong with her or will be. Or him, for that matter.

It is a false construct to say that on the day before a certain birthday a person is not ready for sex and on the day of that birthday, he or she is not.

Maybe there should be a license, something that suggests the holder is mature enough and healthy enough to have sex.

Because in truth, I have known plenty of twenty year old girls, and at least one 38 old woman, with whom it should be illegal to have sex.

--John Kerry and his big goose killing gun.
He looks ready to lead us into the future.
That’s an image I associate with progress.

--My son wants to be an “Indian” for Halloween. I know this not a pc thing. And yet, I think, if he said he wanted to be a “Brave”, would that be better. Sort of the difference between saying you want to be a Viking for Halloween instead of saying you want to be a Norwegian? Braves and Vikings. They’re artifacts of our more primitive ages.

Like Kerry with his goose killing shotgun.

--Incidentally, I’ve nothing really against guns.
I owned one.
The last serious girl pointed it at me once. She was jealous, in a rage. It was unwarranted, but then again, with the level of possesivness we shared, any jealousy was warranted.

I found it sort of sexy. And kind of charming. Naturally I didn’t much want to be shot.
But it was invigorating. Not the danger, but the fact that I’d affected her in some way deep enough for her to go over an edge, to risk ending my life and ruining hers.

I remember thinking: If that goes off, she’s going to get in a lot of trouble.

I’d rather be with a woman who heats up like that rather than going cool.

--The really viscious things she did to me she did from a place of absolute cold.
--I'd have rather been shot. Twice, even. It was only a .22.