Christmas

Christmas. Two thousand years of celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. I find myself depressed. Our celebrations seem so far from what Jesus reportedly said. The basic message of “love one another” has mutated into love of money and power for so long that it is trite to bring it up. I hear very little about love these days. Mostly I hear hate those who are different, or who don’t agree with me. If you dare to suggest that we should love even those who hate us (which I believe was one of Jesus’s main themes) you are called a fool, told that you totally misunderstand the Bible, and that you are in fact a subversive who is a threat to our society.

I am not pure in this. I do my share of hating. I do my share of lying, cheating and stealing to get “ahead”. I drink coffee that costs enough to support a sub-Saharan family for more than a week. I benefit from success in the world of business – a success that gives me the leisure to sit on my ass and critique the world and its problems.

My coffee shop opened a bit later this morning and I did a bit of window-shopping at the store next door. Inside there was a rack of CD’s. I laughed out loud at some of them. The titles reminded me of my days in business conference rooms.

Selling the Invisible – As a former business consultant, I am very familiar with those skills.

What Got You Here, Won’t Get You There – Hopefully, the author has a means of helping you ensure that there is a place worth getting to.

GO Put Your Strengths to Work – I wonder if the author sees kindness with no thought of reward as a strength?

100 Ways To Motivate Yourself – Does reaching out to others count as a valid motivation?

The Healthy Brain – Does the purpose for which I use my brain influence its health as much as diet and exercise?

Never Be Lied To – In my case, trying not to lie, or lying a little bit less, is a big enough challenge.

The Fine Art of Small Talk – Personally, I think I talk too much, and most of my talking is very small indeed.

Secrets of the Millionaire Mind – I wonder if the millionaire mind and the healthy brain are compatible? Does Barney Madoff have a healthy brain? How healthy is Warren Buffet’s brain? What about the brains of Wall Street and the multinational banks?

5 Steps To Successful Living – Wow! This guy has found a way to outdo the twelve steps of recovery programs, the ten commandments of the Judeo-Christians, and the eight-fold path of Gautama.

7 Habits of Highly Effective People – If I only want to be moderately successful can I settle for less than seven?

Unleash the Giant Within – What shall the giant do when it is unleashed? I think the world has enough industrial, financial, religious, and military giants – don’t you?

Okay, okay dear reader. I am ranting once again. I judge and thus am judged by my own judgments and am “hoisted on my own petard”. It is easy enough to criticize the efforts of others. Where is my book on how to live the good life and achieve success? Short answer. There isn’t one. I doubt if there ever will be such a book, or even if there ever should be.

My “success”, or lack of it, is a purely personal affair. If I ever did find a secret to happiness and success I would gladly give it away. Or at least I truly believe I would try. But I know that things change. I know that I am weak and might readily take the place of the authors of the above texts given half a chance. Like them, I probably would continue to want more and more. Like them, I would convince myself that my success was a sign of my having found the one true answer or a mark of supernatural providence’s favor. Like them, I would want to share my “secrets” in order to change the world, and of course, build a nice little trust fund for my progeny along the way. Like them, I probably would simply be human, unable to escape the pride and arrogance inbred into this simple little ape body I inhabit. And yes, like them, some days I might wake up and at least try to do an act of kindness without thought of the consequences or in expectation of reward.

But enough of this empty chatter. These thoughts only weaken my ability to feel in touch with what I hope is the true spirit of the season.

The sun will be shining soon. It will warm my skin, while I relax far from the blizzard-ridden plains of Iowa. I will enjoy this coffee in the name of all those who cannot. I will go to my daughter’s house and make mashed potatoes. I will laugh (or pretend to) when my grandchildren open their presents. I will hug my wife. Somewhere during this flurry of activity I will remember that the only answer to my suffering I know is to try and be a little kinder than I actually feel like being.

I am not a believer in Jesus; at least as a supernatural being laden with the lessons delivered from pulpits. Perhaps he existed. Perhaps he did not. But I can celebrate the message of trying to act with loving kindness. That requires no particular belief or feeling. It only requires action. One can attempt to be kind even if one is a non-believer , is depressed, and often has great difficulty feeling loving and kind. I have witnesses who have told me this is true. Today I will accept their judgment.

Merry Christmas to all. I mean that in the very best way possible. I truly do.

You Who Laugh

You lie in the arms of the man who makes you laugh. You weep with joy from the most electrifying climax you have ever known. Dean runs his hand along your hip to find the little dimple between your thigh and butt – the place you have shown him – the place that always drives you mad. You shiver. His touch borders on pain; almost as if you’ve been skinned and his hand is rubbing raw flesh. You sob out loud. He turns to you and kisses away the tears from your cheek.

“What is it? Are you sad?”

You shake your head and press your face into the curve of his neck. What is it about his smell? You were doomed the first time you caught his scent. Doomed to wonder how it would feel to have his hand at your breast, how he would feel between your legs, how it would feel to have him inside you, possessing you and being possessed by you. No one in Jeff City, Missouri had ever smelled that way. No one. But you would not fully know your doom until he laughed. God! What wonderful light comes from his eyes. What joy booms in his voice. All creation is healed when Dean Bradley laughs.

He continues his caresses. He truly is worried. You know he is frightened of women’s tears. He’s told you how his mother and Laura his first lover used tears as weapons; teaching him that tears meant he should be sorry, never letting him know that sometimes tears are just the acid of anger or the sweat of passion. The bitches. If you could get your hands on them you would claw them raw and dredge them in salt. How could they not have seen the beauty of the child within the man? How could they not have cherished his innocence?

You press your breasts against him and hold him tighter, raising your lips to nibble at his ear.

“Don’t worry baby. It’s just because I’m so happy.”

He sighs and you turn on your side to spoon. You wriggle your butt to find that special spot. Spring’s breeze comes in the window carrying the serenade of crickets and Ligustrum’s heavy perfume. His hand finds your breast; you clasp it to you and shed a few more tears. You close your eyes.

Tires crunching gravel wake you. Could that be? Please God no! Surely the idiot wouldn’t keep hounding you after being warned by the Sheriff? No one could be that stupid. But there it is. The sound of the diesel Mercedes is unmistakable and you can hear something by Patsy on the radio. You can’t quite make it out, but you know it must be one of the sad ones, maybe Walkin’ After Midnight? Layton always listens to sad songs by Patsy and Loretta when he’s been drinking. You can imagine him sitting there around the corner from the house, the car window open and radio blaring, piss-ass drunk. The bastard turns up the radio, blasting “…searching for you!” across the neighborhood. Dean stirs.

“Wha…what is it? What the hell?!”

Your belly tightens. “Nothing baby. Just some drunk I guess…”

“You know better than that. It’s Layton. When will he realize it’s over? Should we call the cops?”

“No. Not yet. Maybe he’ll go away on his own.”

Thankfully Layton remembers the restraining order and drives on. Dean moves to spoon once more and soon you hear the light rattle of his snore.

You stare wide-eyed into the dark. What will you do?

Dean makes you laugh and is the best lover you have ever known. He is an up and coming manager in his firm but old debts mean it will be years before he is financially stable. And you worry about his drinking – he drinks every night saying, “Work hard, play hard!”, as he rattles the ice in his glass of Drambuie. But you know you will always carry his scent with you, will always compare any future lovemaking to the joy you feel with him. But is it just the joy of sex that keeps you coming back? No. You know that it is the laugh and the kindness that warms his eyes that draws you back every time you try to leave him.

Layton is the CFO of Dean’s firm and is stupefyingly rich; airplane, three houses, maids - if it can be bought he owns it – sometimes you wonder if he doesn’t just look at you as another purchase. He is comfortable to be with and very kind, but people mistake you for his daughter when you are out with him. When people find out that you are a couple out on a date, their eyes widen and their mouths twist into that little sneer you hate. But you don’t blame them really. You feel a little like sneering at yourself. Is it really only power, money and comfort that you find with Layton? Is there anything else? You remember the night he fell asleep crying in your arms. You held him close, brushing his hair, feeling needed and warm.

For months now you have been torn between the two - first Dean, then Layton, Dean, Layton, Dean, Layton; on and on in a cycle that is tearing you and them apart. You keep hoping that one of them will make a choice and leave you, but every time you leave one the other begins a campaign of sad letters, gifts, flowers and with Layton, even stalking. You feel like meat being torn between two dogs. You must end it. But how to choose?

You hear Adam’s wheezing from his room. The doctor’s have said he will need lifelong care. Layton certainly can make sure that happens. He has even offered to set up a trust fund for college. But Adam cringes whenever Layton touches him. He laughs at the voices and faces Dean makes when he reads the Hobbit. Adam would run to Dean’s arms forever if her were given the choice. Your thoughts chase each other through the dark.

You believe you only have the choice because of beauty’s power. Tall, honey haired, and with a figure fit for modeling, boys and men have openly stared at you since you were thirteen. You were amazed at how easy it was to get them to buy you things or do favors. You did not ask for the power. You were amazed when it worked, like magic. You often had nightmares of losing the magic and waking to find yourself as plain as most of the other girls. You never believed anyone who told you that you were smart, even though you graduated with honors. You never trusted anyone who laughed at your jokes. You never believed anyone who said that they loved you because of who you were.

Now you feel panicked. You must choose soon. How long will it be before your breasts sag, the dimples multiply into cellulite and the honey is tinged with gray?

In the dark you decide. Layton is safest for Adam. Adam will come to love him. You will find some way to make Dean understand. But that is for tomorrow. You nestle your hips back into Dean’s groin. You close your eyes. Tonight, just one more night, you will lie in the arms of the man who makes you laugh.