Tag Archives: energy

“I’m Outta Time, And All I Got — Is Four Minutes, Four Minutes! Yeah.”

Another day spent in infinite bouncing between two self-disciplines:  hard work and running.  Because what else IS there?

Well, there is also eating, which I sometimes forget to do.  And sleep.

And then, there is the less disciplined pursuit of making a living.  It’s fine, really:  I’m one of the lucky ones, I continue reminding myself; because most of the time, I get to shuffle my schedule around as if my hours were those shiny marble pieces on a backgammon board.  And it’s an ancient game:  this pursuit of an artist’s life.  Too many have done it before me, but only some have succeeded.  I want to be one of the some; so, I’ve narrowed my days down to two infinite self-disciplines:  hard work and running.

The work has become an anti-anxiety prescription of my own invention.  I hold it up, against my griefs — with time or other people, or even against my departing loves — and I say, “What else IS there?”  But even though I’ve learned to shuffle my hours, when it comes to success — or accomplishment, at least — they still don’t move fast enough.

And I’ve heard it all:  “Impatience is a lack of self-love.”  “Impatience is just energy:  Use it!”  “Meditation!  That’s what you need!”  But when actually in the midst of the hours, with nothing but hard work in sight, these opinions fail to give me any consolation.  So, I wrap up the work — and I go running.

And that’s just another bargain:  running.  Just another bargain I had made with time, so that I can continue doing the hard work, for a little bit longer — after the success happens, or my accomplishment, at least.

And so, the infinite bouncing continues:  I work in order to stop flaunting my impatience toward time and I run — to speed it up.

And in the mean time, there is life, happening in between.  I am not idiotically blind to that.  I see it.  I chip in.  I participate:  in friendships, loves; in my tiny adventures I can afford for very short periods of time (because I always must come back to the less disciplined pursuit of making a living).  But as soon as I am alone again, the infinite bouncing resumes.  And if it weren’t for my comrades — in the midst of their own living, always somehow committed with a lot more patience than I myself can manufacture — it seems I could easily forget about all that life, happening in between.

The other night, one of them had dragged me out:

“I bet you haven’t eaten today,” he said.

“You’re crazy,” I began whining, listing all the work I still had to do.  I’m a pain in the ass:  always hoping for my loves to distract me from my stubborn disciplines; to convince me that there is way too much life, happening in between — and that it’s worth putting the breaks on my infinite bouncing.

“It’s Saturday night,” I carried on.  “Everything is already booked.”

“So, we’ll get take-out!” he said.

I considered.

“Good.  That way, I can get back to work.”

My comrade chuckled and knowingly shook his head:  What a pain in the ass!

We walked into the nearest sushi joint, already packed to the brim.

“See,” I began whining.  “Everything is booked.”

The waitress who got stuck at the host stand that evening, looked up at us, past a million fly-aways in front of her face, and said, “Did you have a reservation?”

I slid out of the way and let my comrade handle that little situation.  I, instead, began studying the floor filled to the brim with families, lovers and comrades.  There were four sushi chefs behind the packed bar, and they seemed to have figured out some sort of a time-traveling trick:  They were moving so fast, the snapping of bamboo rollers in their hands, in between each order, sounded like an orchestra of quirky percussions.  And they were all so serious, in a typical sushi chef fashion:  serious but graceful — total zen masters! — finding the time to answer endless questions from the mesmerized clientele at the bar.

My comrade came up from behind me.

“Would you look at those guys?” I said.

“Zen masters,” he responded and stuffed me under his wing.  Suddenly, my endless bouncing seemed to let up, and I fully surrendered to the temptation to lose track of time.

“How long — is the WAIT?!”

The shrill noise came from the packed lobby.  It echoed past the bar, above the heads of the four serious, graceful sushi chefs, and onto the floor, jolting the first half of the restaurant to pay attention.

I looked back.  She was chubby, with a face full of make-up.  I bet on any other day, I would find her pretty; but the shrill noise made by her lipsticked mouth shocked the shit out of my kindness.  Her man hung back:  Tall, portly, he had crossed his arms and took on what seemed like a habitual expression of resignation.

The waitress looked up past the million fly-aways in front of her face and calmly said:  “Thirty to thirty five…”

She didn’t get a chance to finish:  The shrill noise interrupted her verdict, and jolted the other half of the restaurant to pay attention:

“I CAN’T WAIT THAT LONG!”

She stared at the waitress.  The waitress stared back at her, calmly, past the million fly-aways in front of her face.  The shrill noise-maker turned on her heels and made it over to her man who by now was attempting to camouflage himself into the corner.  He’s no use, she seemed to decide, half-way across the lobby — and marched back over to the waitress, at the host stand.

“Is there another sushi restaurant here?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”  I finally uttered from underneath my comrade’s wing.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” was what the waitress’s face seemed to say as well, from underneath the million fly-aways, in front of her face.

The shrill noise-maker scoffed, turned on her heels again and, again, made it over to her man.  By this point, the camouflaged portly creature stuck in his predicament of a relationship seemed to want to vanish.  Loudly, his woman did the negotiation to which the entire restaurant was meant to pay attention.  And when she marched out, into the night, followed by her defeated man, he gently caught the door she meant to slam shut and closed it, apologetically.

Zen — and the Art of Going Down

I’ve done some research for you, my male comrades.  I did that!  Having heard enough of women’s tales of woe titled He Just Won’t Go Down on Me—always followed by the eventual and unavoidable dumping of the unskilled lover, by the way—I’ve decided it was time to get a man’s opinion on the subject.  Or better yet:  Why not get a tutorial, I thought.

And who would be better suitable than the Young Latin Lover type I’ve known since my very first days in LA-LA-Land six years ago?  The kid is in his twenties, yet, as I’ve overheard from his satisfied customers, is highly equipped in the lip service.  He and I have never hooked up; because despite standing at 6-feet tall and then some, in a body of a Giorgio Armani model lives a heartbreakingly sweet kid.   Gullible and funny, always up for a game or an improv, he used to dangle off of the workout bar installed in the doorway between my former roommate’s and my own bedroom—for hours.  Sometimes, I would come home to a BB gun warfare of the two men-children at play; and while ravaging the furniture, the walls and each other’s backs with yellow plastic bullets that I would continue to discover for years to follow, this kiddo would leap out of his hiding place at my arrival, as if I were his mother and he were a 5-year old in love and I’ve been gone for way too long:

“Hey, Rara!”  He would engulf me in his embrace, and warmth, and beauty.

“Hey, Rara!” he said yesterday, leaping off his black vintage motorcycle and shaking a head full of Miami-sun-kissed hair out of his eyes.  His eyes—so dark they appear pupil-less—remained locked on mine while he walked toward me.  And then:  he smiled.  God damn it, I thought:  Youth!

That’s just the thing about the kid:  No matter his hustle in this city, or the struggle as a young artist, or the heartbreak of his recent love affair with an insecure creature who knew nothing about her self-possession, his heart—alas, his magnificent, generous, childlike heart!—has remained unscathed.  Oh, to what gods must I pray to protect my friends from losing their innocence?!

What followed was an afternoon full of uncensored laughter and words and stories, old and new, as if no years have passed since the beginning of our friendship.  He was my kid brother, my fellow artist.  A co-historian of human love.  A beautiful soul I wish to spend my lifetime deserving.  As the sun crawled through its habitual trajectory, we sat on the patio of our regular joint famed among actors, musicians, writers and other LA artsy types (yet somehow seemingly immune to duches).  When the meal arrived, we both chose to ignore our utensils; and while I was licking my fingers, the kiddo put on his best James Dean expression and said:

“So, what’s the deal with going down?”

I’ve warned him, you see, that he would be expected to co-author this piece; but just like I could not predict that an hour-long interview would turn into three hours of my uncontrollable laughing into this kid’s lap or the lapel of his black leather jacket, I failed to predict the manner of his contribution to the subject.  First, there was zero embarrassment or crassness.  Instead, he began with poetry:

“The thing is:  I just l’ove to do it.  Period.”  (He said “l’ove” like a Latin speaker would:  slightly softening the tongue on the first syllable.)  “I want all of it!  And I don’t care how long it takes!”  He bit into his medium-rare burger which made his lips glossy with its juices and oil.

Apparently, gentlemen:  It’s all in your intention. Just like you can sense when a woman is faking her pleasure during her oral performance, she can pinpoint a bad actor in her bedroom as well.  You must find pleasure in pleasing her. If you think the job too hard—just imagine the mere mechanics of fellatio that she suffers through:  much more rhythmical and forceful, it may cause a crick in her lovely neck or a lockdown of her jaw.  If your sympathy for her part won’t get you to dive—then, just go down a checklist of what the job entails:  a naked woman, moaning and grunting at your every move, whispering or screaming your name, and losing complete control of her censored behaviors.  Hmm.  Not to shabby, if you ask me—or my kiddo pro at yesterday’s conference on the subject:

“It’s kinda like…  I don’t know:  energy?” my “Jaime” Dean continued, searching to express a now seemingly god-given skill of his.  “You have to be in tune with her.  Gotta think about what it feels like—to her.”

You have to be in tune with her.” It’s not just about the moves; because the moves will have to be customized to fit your lover’s habits, histories, fantasies and anatomy.  Also, as in any artistic endeavor, there must be room for improvisation.  But something that cannot be taught—is empathy.  To get there:  First, you must be comfortable in your own body and mind (and hopefully, your lover matches your maturity).  Once the baggage of self-consciousness is out of the way, you must carry on as if the two of you were a part of one body.  Yes, there are signs that she may grant you:  moans, back arches, hair pulls, etc.  But what’s more crucial—is your capacity to identify with exactly how she feels, in that moment.  “It’s kind like…  I don’t know:”  Being her; being a part of her, as if a single entity.  Fuckin’ poetry!

“It’s a beautiful thing,” my Latin comrade smiled yesterday, with his eyes departing for a moment into what had to be a memory of a woman.  “It’s not just sex.  It’s something you do to get close…”—he got intense, channeling his inner Pablo Neruda.  “There’s nothing you can do wrong if you really want that person.”

It may be just sex, gentlemen, and she may even be on the same page with you.  But my beloved comrade hit a bull’s eye yesterday:  No matter the duration or the objective of your affair, in the very moment of every physical intimacy—you must be in love.  You must be in love with that person—your lover—in complete empathy with him or her.  In your sex act, you must worship their body and honor their humanity; and remain fully present and aware of their needs, finding satisfaction when those needs are fulfilled.  That, I believe, is the only way to beauty and art and, as confirmed by my Jaime Dean, to successful love-making.  Or, in his cunni-lingo:  “L’ove-making.”