the world and writing of a nyc writer

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Category: writing (page 1 of 81)

how it starts

I bumped my head the night we met and never saw things the same way again.

The second day I saw him, we walked down a boardwalk along a salt-scented Brooklyn coastline. He wore sweatpants and a baseball hat and we talked about him being first generation and me having left for a decade. We comment on the different shades of green blossoms in each other’s eyes. He kisses me at Cony Island, on the subway and all other kinds of pubic places.

“I love that you don’t give a fuck,” he says before shoving his tongue in my mouth while I nearly tip off my bar stool leaning into his clean, tight shave. I end up getting a chin rash from our faces devouring the other and we agree that he’ll shave closer next time.

And then we kiss again, here. And more, there.

We were born in the same year. The year of the horse. We have secrets that we haven’t shared yet, and some that we’ll never tell. Out of respect, we don’t call when the other disappears. Instead, we wordlessly exchange a youthful trust that one of us will always appear again. Somewhere.

He stands better than half a foot above me, and there’s something that melts me when I have to look up that high. When I actually have to tip my head back to focus.

He acts like Italy and sounds like love. He’s a stranger who is my family and when we talk I say things like, “I care about you and your family very much.”

He smells like Paris and dresses like Soho. When he asks, I agree. And that’s how it starts.

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magnetic incitement

magnetic incitement

I became a magnet on 2nd Ave;
I turned to attraction, drawn to his core.
Becoming who you are, not what you have.
Exceeding physical with pull and lure.
I awoke the next day, drawn to the sky.
My thoughts, soul and heart – a new direction.
Grounded at last, a reborn style of flight.
Perpetually stuck to this reflection.
We fit like spirit with facts of science.
Every thought magnetic, every heartbeat.
Becoming vital with no reliance.
When opposite dissipates truth can meet.
Our body’s attraction, merged into one.
Eternal connection. Never undone.

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outside (of) me

outside (of) me

it is
like…
i can. feel…
and when?
he approaches…
i have this
extension.
i am stretching
while he pulls
i am twisting.
(and i suddenly
_________________view lifetimes in—)
side. his eyes.
like i do not
have to tell
you.

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transport delivery

Transport Delivery

“Thanks for not having sex with me.”

There’s nothing quite like a 27 year old lover scorned. We started sleeping together when he was 24. I ended it recently for someone who is 52 and speaks French. Someone who appreciates shoes, smells like tangerines and tastes like vanilla.

Certain things are worth the sacrifice.

I’m on the corner of 44th Street and 3rd Avenue at 8 in the morning, when midtown is just as hopping as the meat packing district at 4am. Every creed and color pours up and down avenues, in and out of transport hubs. There’s so many of us, it’s like no one even notices each other.

“You’re welcome.”

We kiss on the cheek in the amicable style we’re each trying to adjust to. This is what it means to make friends with someone you used to fuck. I’m 37 years old, I haven’t done this to date. I’m still uncertain that I’m going to start now.

There’s something beautiful to me about standing in the center of Manhattan wearing sweatpants I slept in with messy bed hair. You never know where life will take you.

The cold February prick of winter stings my cheeks as I turn to walk home. I try to be a good host and always escort guests to their destination. That’s part of why I love living in my neighborhood, there’s 24-hour transportation that can literally get you anywhere in the world. That’s how I ended up living in Australia for ten years.

I originally left New York City for love and I came back because of heartbreak. Both times I was saved, for different reasons. There was at least one solid lesson that came of it all, anyways; your heart only breaks once.

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French Stilletos

I’ve never made coffee in platform stilettos before. The French Connection pair I’m wearing are black velvet with pale pink bottoms. I stand close to six feet with them on. My legs are lean and long like the trunk of a young, growing tree. Oh, and speaking of French…

There’s a French painter in my bed. Since I live in a studio apartment, in a midtown east luxury building – the bed isn’t too far from the kitchen, where I’m preparing his espresso.

I’m acting like I don’t feel his seaweed green eyes tracing the shape of my shoulders, curving down my thin elbows while I make him a breakfast drink – scanning up the back of my legs, back down to the bottom of my heels.

Last night, when I first put on these shoes – his back was turned. His tall, lean body slightly dipped toward a glass wall overlooking the east river. I traced his silhouette’s outline in the distant glow of the Queens Bridge. He turned, about a minute in to the touch of my stare. He took a step back. And then another; backwards, away from me.

“I’ve never seen you like that before, baby,” he whispered. “You’re so tall…”

His name is Alexandre. He works in fashion. The first night we met, we hand fed each other crème brûlée and raspberries. He asked me to be his Valentine and said I should let him be my third husband. “Lucky number three… mon amore…”

Alexandre sat on my vintage love seat, about thirty feet from where I stood in red lace lingerie, thigh high stockings and these black velvet heels.

“Walk…”

I did what he said, which is rare for me. I stepped forward. My thighs barely brushed when the weight of my left foot swung in front of the right one and I took a long, slow step toward him.

Je suis toujours avec toi mon trésor, je t’aime…

I took a second step in his direction, and a third.

“I see women in heels all of the time. You know how to walk in those. You’re an entirely different woman. I can’t believe I didn’t see this before…”

My apartment is filled with morning light and smells like strong coffee. I’m not wearing the stockings anymore, but the heels haven’t left my feet. The stretch of my spine, strutting across the room to start a new day with my future, is making me smile.

“You have a beautiful smile, baby…”

I’m perched on the end of the bed after I place Alexandre’s coffee on the night stand beside him. My shoe is dangling from the toes of my right foot, crossed over my left knee. He moves close to kiss me, and I realize I’m about to start life all over again.

Only this time, I’ll do it wearing French stilettos.

 

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