A coworker was teasing me earlier this evening about this being my default answer to anything lately.  This being notable because I, while not being a technical member of management due to my university-dictated availability, am treated as management by the other managers.  So for me to be answering every query with a shrug and an “I don’t know” is highly unusual.  In this case, it’s not because I don’t care – it’s just, my brain is dead.  I genuinely don’t know the answer to a lot of this stuff! 

Why is my brain dead, you may ask? Well, I did just reach the end of a semester, during which time I juggled four writing-intensive courses, two full-fledged research projects for psychology, and a part time job, plus over 82,500 words of fiction.  (Two short stories, half a novella, and a novel.)  And people wonder why I don’t have time to have a girlfriend.

The semester just ended – in fact, Monday was my last exam, plus the due date on the 16+ page APA-style paper for one of the research projects – and I just wrapped up and submitted the novel today.  The others were already bought and will be out in June.

So yeah, my brain is total mush and dribbling out my ears lately.  This, however, does not stop me from attempting to bring you the dirty dregs of my mind that are still hanging around inside the abandoned cavity in my cranium.

So that novel I just finished… I’ll be sure to chat about it more when I have a release date, etc., but the point is, there’s this contrast.  There are two couples in the book–one in 1957, the other in 2007; two stories for the price of one!–and they both gave me fits.  My 1957 couple couldn’t stay out of bed.  The only way I got through one of their chapters without them ending up taking a tumble together was to separate them for the entire chapter.  If they were in arm’s reach, they were going to find a way to have sex.  My other couple?  I couldn’t pay them to have sex until the last couple of chapters.  *facepalms*

And okay, I just spent the last forty minutes getting distracted while trying to find the picture of the model-slash-artist who was the physical inspiration for one half of the modern-day couple in that novel… So for those of you who get around to reading it ever, this particular shot of Jordan Carlyle was the direct basis for my sweet, oblivious little RN, Liam Brooks.

I wonder if I should actually be giving away secrets like that… haha.  Anyway, yes.  He of the pretty brown eyes and sensitive mouth.

Oh, speaking of pretty!  Funny story from work tonight.  (In case you ever wanted to know, yes, all Starbucks baristas are incurable perverts.  At least those of us who work at my store.)  One of my coworkers – and very good friends – is dating a girl who is, let’s say, significantly on the younger side.  She’s legal.  Barely.  So she has a lot of high school friends.  Now, mind, my running joke is that I didn’t figure out I was gay until I was in college because I can’t stand high school girls.

So the gf’s friends were in the store, and one of them walked right up to my friend and said, “Hey, pretty boy.”

I may have snorted my coffee.  My other friend, an extremely handsome young man with the sort of musculature that makes me want to strip him down and take pictures — I’m lesbian, not blind — starting giggling.  And spent the rest of the evening tacking on “pretty boy” to every sentence just for the fact that it made our friend sort of violent.  The part where I couldn’t stop giggling was when there were dishes being brought back to the sink to be washed…

“Looking for some place to put that? Give it to me, pretty bo…”

And they both went sort of pale, looked at each other, and started making noises of protest while I did my damnedest to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

Ah, boys.  Endless sources of amusement.

In honor of, have a poem I wrote long time ago.  I may not want boysex for myself most of the time, but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading or writing it.

‘want’

there are corded muscles in your forearms
that i want to feel laid across the small of my back
like a warm iron bar locking me against your stomach.
your hands are broad across the palms, thick through the fingers;
rough and calloused and flexing with muscle:
i want you to thrust them into my hair and force my head back,
open my mouth with your own,
bare your teeth against my neck.

your body is long and lithe;
there would be a beauty of fumblings,
awkward ballet if you moved over me like i want,
tangled in my waking dreams.
your legs are so much longer than mine,
but i could still wrap mine around them.
your hips would still be so easily cradled
by my own,
if you only would.

i’d want you to stay the night, though,
and not leave the next morning.
i’d want you to force your fingers through mine,
hold onto me,
and stay for as long as it took for me
to learn to breathe again,
to be able to close my eyes and not watch you
as if the motion of your body fed me
and kept me alive.

©2005 m.jules