Sharing food and having sex feel tightly entwined to me. There's something about offering corpses for feeding and becoming corpses for breeding that will save and damn ever soul.
Both two are extremely intimate acts.
Sharing food or eating with another human isn't necessarily sexual, but it is one of the most important human bonding rituals there is.
It is when you are supposed to let your guard down, when you let another human know you intrinsically trust and like them enough to be yourself.
Have you ever been inside an American High School Cafeteria? Who you eat with determines nearly everything about you socially.
To this day, the greatest insult I ever received was not being invited to Thanksgiving by Father, during the whole 'Everyone has to be vaccinated" phase of the pandemic.
And once people stopped giving a shit whether you were vaccinated or not, I returned that insult by telling him I would never eat with him again.
Who you eat with is absurdly important, it is one of the foundations of human social behavior.
And there is nothing more satisfying than a woman wanting to cook for you.
Sharing food or eating with another human isn't necessarily sexual, but it is one of the most important human bonding rituals there is.
Sorry to cross threads. The young woman I shared that poem with gave me cucumbers from her garden and accepted gazpacho made from what fresh ingredients I could find. I thought we had a moment. We might yet, who knows?
Have you ever been inside an American High School Cafeteria?
I ate lunch with the same 3 guys for 6 years. Our group fluctuated from 5 to 7, but to core of us 4 lasted those years. After graduation I proved the odd one out and disappeared. I got sucked into the fiction of love, the holes in my head, the emotion, the poetry, the life of dying in every line, the passion of ever searching for what was clearly at hand to find.
Now I own my business and can't get fired so I just hope I don't scare people too much.
After graduation I proved the odd one out and disappeared. I got sucked into the fiction of love, the holes in my head
Please explain
Right after graduation, well... Just after graduation my second muse chose me. I'd had my first muse at 16 and I'll post about that on another day. She would own me for better than 20 years. I fell so hard that when she needed a change I buckled down into the page so deep that I don't think I knew sleep on a third name basis. I thought I knew my future so clear that I could change her with every line I sent out into the wind. And I was on the grind to write every beat of my heart; for her, for the women that consoled me for the lose, for the guy who shared a beer while I cried, and for the whore the wore my nut on her face while I tried to feel bad for cheating on the memory.
I pissed away any thought of a future that might make money for a need to put pen to paper.
Now I just get by, write my mind, and occasionally offend young women with poetry I'm sure they wish their contemporaries could write in earnest.