I used to have them—before the nightmares started.
I dreamed of nice guys, love…normalcy.
Things like reading the Sunday paper in bed with my
But who needs dreams when your reality is filled with a string of faceless dominating men in uniform? Men that pack a thick bulge and are only too happy to satisfy my deviant sexual cravings.
Me. That's who.
And then HE walked through the door and shared with me, a total stranger, his intimate dream of love. Damn him for verbalizing every single detail of the dream I buried long ago.
And now I don’t know how I'm going to live without that dream.
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I must've been 5 or 6 when I started writing "stories". I would write them and hide them. Not wanting anyone to see my "secret" thoughts. I needed to write -even back then. Now I'm just not hiding them anymore. Is that a sign of maturity? Nah ....
Writer, photographer, insatiable wanderluster, edge-player, foodie, music addict, pop culture fanatic, animal lover, warrior for the rights of people and planet, and avid cusser (am a Native New Yorker, so very little offends me ... and if I am offended, it must be pretty freaking bad .. like bad grammar!).
I am big believer in signs and if we keep ourselves open, there are guideposts all along the way. Stay humble. Be true. Be you.
Life is not a dress rehearsal ...
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Henry was deeply ensconced in his own head, making resolutions about moving on, not paying attention to his surroundings, or seeing the man, as he approached his car. He was leaning against the hood, his thick muscled arms folded across his chest. Calm, cool, collected, in charge and so damn freaking handsome.
“Your place?” was all he said.
Henry felt the sharp stab in his heart as his adrenal glands shot a release of hormones into his blood stream. Shaking his head no, he was shocked at how cool and calm his voice sounded, when he was anything but, “No. I don’t think so. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”
Walking around the big Marine to the driver’s side, Henry hit the remote, unlocking the door.
With a palm to the solar plexus to stop him, “Where are you going?” the Marine asked.
“Home,” Henry was very matter-of-fact.
“I thought you wanted me to buy you a drink?”
Stepping around the Marine, Henry opened the door to his black BMW and got in. “I do…” and he closed the door and started the engine.
Rolling down the window, he added with a smile, “… on Sunday.” Gunning the Beamer's engine, he left the Marine in the dusty parking lot with a smile on his handsome face.
Well played, Henry congratulated himself. Let him ache for me as much as I’ve been aching for him.
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