Dreams of a future with no past. Dreams of a past with no future. Dreams of a present that is one long orgasm. I don’t want it to end. That’s what happens when you fall asleep watching a movie and the TV gets left on. Don’t try this at home kids.
The thing is, there is nothing that can’t be done given enough time, dedication, and persistence. Read that again. And then read it again. I’ll wait.
Your life is ending, one hour, one minute, one second at a time. But how can you do your mission unless you are eating healthy and lifting weights while beating off to some dead philosopher and getting right with God so that you can live forever?
My mission is to lie with her, tracing her spine with my fingernails all the way down to the small of her back to the curve of her ass and back up again to move her damp hair away and to lick the sweaty salt from the nape of her neck. I want to see the goosebumps rise on her flesh and feel her breath explode in my ear as she gasps. I want to feel her writhe and shudder and I want her to draw blood from my back with her nails. I want bitemarks on my shoulder. The deeper the better.
I don’t want to live forever, I just want to live. I don’t want to die in my sleep, I want to die right as I climax. I want to come and go. I want to climb into her skin, sink deep down within, and I want to devour her soul.
I want to clamp down with my teeth on the back of her neck and carry her around like a cat does with its kittens. I want to shake her like a dog worrying a bone. And then I want her to put her head on my chest, curl her body into me, and have her tell me that I’m home.
I want to go out drinking with you, but it’ll have to be beer. When you drink whiskey and get that whiskey breath going on, I have flashbacks to when I was a kid and Dad would come home drunk from some party and he would try to be cute and funny and say things like, “You know what you need? You need an ass kicking. What you need is a knuckle sandwich.” To a 5 year old kid, that’s God thundering down from the mountains. That’s your imminent execution. And for what? What did I do? I was just sitting on the floor playing a video game. And that won’t do. Whatever arousal I had for you will be gone and that’s not my mission. That’s my anti-mission. I want to smell beer on your breath because your beer breath smells sort of like bread being baked and that’s always a good smell. Plus when you drink beer, you are warm, fuzzy, and horny and I like that. When you drink whiskey, it’s a crap shoot. I don’t know who or what is going to show up. It’s the mystery meat at the buffet, a coin toss. Do I get happy drunk? Crazy spazz? Angry woman? Mostly I see weepy sad sack who needs someone to hold her hair back while she pukes in the toilet, praying to the porcelain god. And I’m too old for that shit. So let’s just stick to beer shall we?
My mission is to kiss you deeply and taste what you ate. This time it’s coffee. Better than cigarettes. Or Doritos.
My mission will be to convert you to medium-rare. All women start out with either well done or medium-well. Must be in the handbook or something. I’ve never understood your fascination with eating shoe leather. Sometimes I succeed and you become a true fan, a real connoisseur of steak. Your future boyfriend will thank me for that one. Sometimes it’s a lost cause. The key is to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Know when to walk away, and know when to run. You never count your money, when you’re sitting at the table. There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealings done. Don’t mind me, I’m just channeling my inner Kenny Rogers.
I bitch about my creativity. How I don’t know what to say and if I’ll have anything else left after I’ve said the last thing, and yet, here we are. The well runs deeper than I thought. It’s funny how it works for me though. I’ll write several things, all at once, back to back, as if in a fever. I can’t type fast enough to get it out. And then days go by. Sometimes weeks and it’s….Nothing. It’s like I blew my load and then I’m in my refractory period. Waiting to charge up so I can blow another load.
One thing I’ve realized though is this:
The more I write, the more I have to write. It’s almost a compulsion. If I don’t write I’ll explode. Mental blueballs.
There’s a demon inside, blood-let it out, blood-let it out. That’s writing, and that’s easy.
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. – Ernest Hemingway.
Kids at home, let this be a warning. Don’t start writing. Ever. You’ll give up things like video games, shooting hoops, drinking, drugs, and whoring. Writing will become your mistress, sooner or later if you keep fucking around with her. It’ll start all innocent where you can write a couple of sentences or maybe a paragraph or two and put it down for months on end, not even thinking about it. But then one day, she has you. She has you in her iron grip and she won’t let go, and you have to write goddamnit. And you have to write now. Demon inside indeed. I wonder if there’s a 12 step program for writers. “Hi I’m Rob and I’m a writer.” “Hi Rob.” “It’s been 4 hours since I last wrote and I’m going out of my mind.”
I’ve heard people compare things like chocolate to sex and saying that chocolate, or coffee or whatever, is better than sex. Bullshit. Nothing is better than sex. Not even writing. But writing is really fucking close.
I know what I want to do. I want to lick the salty sweat off of the back of your neck, have a simultaneous orgasm, and then sit and write about it with my laptop resting on your back and ass while your breasts are pressed against my body and you lie your head on my chest and run your fingers through my chest hair. That’s my mission.
But don’t giggle goddamnit. That makes the laptop jiggle and I can’t write then. And I can’t have that.
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Rob Says 
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