Pasties?

I say YES!

Burlesque is making a resurgence all over the country. Although, in my opinion there's nowhere better primed for it than San Francisco. This city is constantly penduluming the spectrum from flamboyance on a grand scale to a subtlety bordering on annoying. Yes, I know. Penduluming is not a word, but this is my blog, and if you're going to ready it then you should immediately get comfortable with me making shit up. Like penduluming. You get the point don't you? Swinging back and forth like a pendulum. It's effective. Moving on.

So the DNA Lounge http://www.dnalounge.com/ does a monthly burlesque review that is amazing, to say the least. At least if you're in to beautiful women in amazing costumes shakin' what god gave 'em while wearing pin curls and otherwise looking like they'd bake you a pie and put you to bed. Which, I absolutely happen to be.

These shows seem to be popping up all over the city. I'm making it my personal mission to start touring every one of them. Maybe I'll see you there.

I shaved my pussy for this...

I shaved my pussy for this.

All at once and not at all the realization hits that empty is all there is. That all the joy and feeling has been sucked out of life in the shear living of it. Every needling, itching hair follicle constantly blaring this knowledge from the nerve endings between my legs to be processes by my brain. But nothing travels through the interior. The annoyance slides up the surface of my skin until it skates over my consciousness. Like dull blades carving ice.

The razor comes out in the bleak hope of some human connection that I’m beginning to believe is just the stuff of fairy tales. Even just a consistent fuck seems out of reach these days. Not that I’m capable of handling more than that. But the sex. The sex I’m good at. So, the razor comes out. I carefully pull the skin in the right directions and with a sharp blade I erase the evidence that I suffered through puberty some 16 years earlier.

This is a hopeful ritual. So often, I prepare and nothing happens. It’s always when you’re unprepared. When there is no stubble to catch the knit on my panties and remind me of earlier plans. Those nights when I meet some other lonely soul in a karaoke bar. When I’ve had enough vodka soda’s, or whiskey that I’m stumbling like a teenager who’s gotten in to Moms liquor cabinet. Those nights when I’ve soothed myself for a moment by singing someone else’s song in front of a room full of strangers who chant my name and love me for a moment. Those nights. Those nights you nameless fucks walk up to me like groupies and buy me drinks that I don’t need. Those nights I take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. All the while I’ll never know yours to forget it in the first place.

You’re reading this. You’re watching me. This is where you get sanctimonious and tell me I’m wasting my life, my gift. That smoking is bad for me. I do shitty things when I drink. That I should know someones name if I’m going to let them stick their cock in me. This is where you tell me the things I say to myself in the mirror every morning. Those mornings when I wake up with last nights make up smeared across my face. With my hair matted, and whiskey still on my breath. These are the mornings I hate myself a little. Every morning a little more. Every morning.

And sometimes all of this comes together in such a way that I’m able to just forget for a second. Just forget how you hollowed out my insides and left me an unrecognizable mess. Sometimes.