My Life – Page 10 – Pulling Words from the Air

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September 15, 2014September 14, 2014 by Bey

I was sixteen. You were nineteen and the good friend of a friend.

We spent the night fooling around. First at the party. Then at my house.

You threw the condom onto the roof of the shed outside my window. I cursed, you laughed.

Then at your house, we fucked in your basement. I remember it was pretty great.

The next morning, we sat on either sides of the couch watching The Transfomers: The Movie while we ate overly-sweet cereal.

"Come here," you said, putting your bowl down. I was curious and hopeful. I found you attractive.

You had me lie on the couch next to you, and you took up a pillow and put it over my face. Pressed down. Hard.

I struggled.

You lifted the pillow and looked at me, your dark eyes wide and innocent.

"It's ok," you said. "Don't fight it."

The pillow came down again. I couldn't breathe.

I pushed it away when I got my hands under it.

"Don't you understand?" you said with a gentle smile. "Just... trust me. Don't fight it. Come on..."

This time the pillow pressed harder against my face, and I had to buck with all my strength to be free.

I stood panting in the middle of the living room as you took up your bowl of cereal and turned your attention back to the TV.

I left. Ran down the street. Feet striking the pavement, lungs burning.

...

It was only when I finally slowed, finally leaned down, hands to knees, gulping in air, that I realized just how excited I felt.

I wasn't afraid.

Not of you.

I was afraid of the desire that coursed through me at the thought of relinquishing control.

Were you trying to kill me?

What if I had stayed and submitted?

Hey, Tough Guy

September 5, 2014September 5, 2014 by Bey

I wrote a post a while back about high school. I don't know if it's the bells starting to ring again this fall, ushering the return to school, but I had high school on the mind again this week.

I had a great time in high school, but it's not like it was a complete cakewalk. Not at all. I wasn't popular... I was notorious.

Folks tried to bully me all the time. I once had a whole hallway chanting insults at me. I was in my fair share of fights. I was scorned and teased and had all manner of nasty things done to me. But, it never affected me. I had plenty of friends, and I knew that the insults and bullying mostly came from fear, ignorance, and their own lack of self-confidence.

Last night I remembered a particular incident. Something I haven't thought about for a long time.

I had numerous groups I hung out with, most of them a grade or two above me. I gravitated towards the shop guys and mechanics because I had more in common with them than I did with the geeky boys (listen, I love D&D. I do. But dude, I cannot listen to you talk about your character's attributes and backstory one more time or I am going to punch something). There were a lot of "greasers" in that category. Guys that called themselves The Rebels, though the ones I hung out with—the ones from a grade higher—were pretty low-key. We mostly hung out in one guy's Studebaker listening to The Big Bopper or Elvis and smoking pot and illegally-imported Marlboros. We got along great. However, the greasers in my grade thought they were god's gift to the planet. They were hot shit. Bullied the fuck out of everyone. They all walked like they owned the fucking place. We didn't get along.

So, in my school bus, I "owned" the back four seats. I got to say who sat there and who didn't. I can't remember exactly how that came about, but I felt like a fucking mob boss back there. *grin* It was pretty cool, and I was always nice to the other kids.

However, one day some of these fucking young greaser guys from my grade got on the bus and demanded that I and my friends vacate the back of the bus because they wanted to sit there. The ring leader, this fuck that I will call Sil—because he probably looks like Sil from the Sopranos by now *points to picture above*—stood there staring at me in shock when I told him to fuck off. Then he started in with the insults. Finally, he punched me. Hard. Not in the face, mind you, but in the shoulder. When I didn't react and kept my eyes locked on his, he punched me again, harder.

Sil: *drops fist, glares at me* You're not going to move are you.
Me: Would it hurt you to say "please"?
Sil: *blink blink* What?? *confused* Uh. *thinks* Um. Can you uh please move?
Me: No, but you can sit with me if you like. *moves over*
Sil: *nervous laugh and an eventual shrug* Um. Well. Ok.

He sat down next to me, awkwardly. The rest of his crew just found places to sit wherever on the bus. I had won the little battle of wills. After a few minutes, Sil looked at me and said: "You're pretty tough."

*long silence while the bus leaves school*

"Sorry I hit you."

From that day on, it was a weird, shaky, uncomfortable relationship with the greasers from Grade 10, but they no longer insulted me or taunted my friends. At least not as much *laughs*.

So - while I had a great time in high school, I really did, it was filled with a hundred tiny battles like the one in the bus. That sort of sucked. But it helped make me who I am today. I still rarely back down, and I still don't really give a shit about what people think of me - or at least, I don't let it get to me.

+++

Man, I don't know why I've been so nostalgic lately. Part of it is definitely trying to come up with things to talk about in this blog. I keep thinking about stupid stories about growing up in the 'burbs. But while it's nice to wax nostalgic on my past, it's starting to feel like Gary King in The World's End.

It's not like I've been up to nothing in the last twenty years. I'll think of something more recent to write about.

(Oh fuck - I just looked up "Sil" on Facebook. Yup. He's got the whole Silvio Dante thing going on)

Thanks, Joe Hardy.

September 5, 2014September 4, 2014 by Bey

A few months ago when I started talking to my now-editor, I joked that I was Tom Hardy's twin brother Joe (due to my habit of using Hardy as my icon online... not that he has a twin brother for real ). Fast forward to last week when, out of nowhere, I was reminded that my first love just happened to have been named Joe Hardy.

Yup. Joe Hardy from The Hardy Boys books.

This is how he's described on the wikipedia page:

Joe Hardy is 17 years old, with light blond hair, blue eyes, and a muscular frame.

Dreamy, right? *laughs* That's him and his brother on the spine

Ah, Joe. I don't think I pined longer for any other fictional character (sorry, Rick Hunter from Robotech and Dusty from GI Joe... and Spiderman). He just seemed so perfect to me. Not as bright as his older brother Frank, certainly... but Joe went with his gut, something I really admired.

I met Joe when my mother's youngest cousin—we'll call him Richard—dropped off a big box of books at my house one day when I was around eight years old. I really idolized Richard. He was the coolest guy I knew... I wanted to grow up to be just like him: he was 6'4, looked a little like David Bowie, had gerbils, read comic books, and had a computer. He even had a really cool fake fur rug in his room. So you can understand my excitement at inheriting a box of his stuff. I looked inside and saw nothing but blue books. They looked sort of dull from the side, a little like a set of encyclopaedias, but the covers were interesting when I pulled them out and, when I cracked open that first musty book... I fell in love.

I had the first 37 books in the series - The Tower Treasure to The Ghost at Skeleton Rock. I must have read them all at least a dozen times.

Now... not only was I in love with Joe, but I discovered something about myself over the course of that first year. And it was due to this cover:

There was something crazy interesting about this cover for me. It was the look on Joe's face. The fact that the gag pressed into his skin. The way he was restrained. It made me feel... excited.

I would lie in bed and think about Joe tied up a lot.

Eventually fantasies grew out of it.

Joe and I would be alone in the room together. He was tied to the chair just like in the cover, but it was me who had tied him up. I would start to touch him - his face, his neck, his shoulders over his shirt. He would struggle, and his eyes would plead with me. I would laugh and shake my head. Sometimes I would straddle him so I could hold his head steady while I forced him to look into my eyes. I wanted him to know that I was the boss and that he had to do what I said—to let me touch him and maybe even kiss him (hey I was nine)—and I would let him go. I often wanted to punish him for struggling. Sometimes I would take out a knife and start cutting his shirt off. Sometimes I'd cut the gag off too so I could hear him beg and promise to be good...

It was intoxicating.

Now... looking back, the fantasies were a bit on the abuse/non-con side, but I was just going on what was making me excited. In fact, in my fantasies, Joe always realized that he was in love with me and it would be a mutual happy ending.

It would take another eight years before I made the stunning discovery that there existed people out there that wanted to be tied up. That enjoyed begging. That got off on giving me complete control.

And that, my friends, was a glorious, fan-fuckingtastic day for me.

So... a big thank you to Joe, the first Hardy I obsessed over, for introducing me to my kinky side. *grin*

Who me?

August 25, 2014 by Bey

I'm ridiculously bad at talking about myself. I am. Always have been. I'm much better at sculpting a conversation... turning it into an interesting discussion on philosophy, religion, art, or science.

I am also good at making people talk about themselves. I'm a good listener. I keep secrets. I give brutally honest advice.

But about me? I feel like there's not much to say. I'm just... me. I do my things.

Was talking to an old friend yesterday who happens to be a writer. They asked me about my writing. Cue my scrabbling to find the right words to explain just the gist.

I look like I'm in pain when I'm trying to explain what I do and quickly manage to shift the conversation to another topic.

Phew.

Am I embarrassed by what I write? Not at all. I think it's great. I just don't have the language to talk about it.

Writing is an intensely personal thing, more so than painting ever was... and I need to learn to write about writing.

Baltsaros and Jon

August 22, 2014 by Bey

My Head

August 21, 2014 by Bey

People always want to get inside my head. Women more than men, but they both say the same sorts of things:
"What's going on in your head?"
"I want to see what you see."
"Can I take a look inside your brain."
"Give me a look into your mind..."

Went out the other night with friends to pub quiz. Got asked a variation of the above by a slightly-drunken S.
B: Why does everyone want to see inside my head?
S: Because! I need to know...
M: Ohhh that's not a great idea. First off there are far too many walls in there. Then, if you do manage to get in, you'll never make it out alive. You'll stay trapped in there. Forever.

I like my friends.

My head is in a slightly weird place these days. I was planning on continuing with Sword but Stripped, the third book of the Baal's Heart trilogy, wouldn't let me go so I started writing that instead. I'm about a chapter in and so far so good. However, the weather's been fucking with my sinuses again so I've got a headache half the time which sucks.

It took me 82 days to write Caged. Sacrificed took me 173 days to write. I wonder how long Stripped will take me? When I wrote Caged, it was the only thing I was working on. I had two other projects on the go during the time I was writing Sacrificed. This time around... oh I have too many projects competing in my head. I should really focus on one thing at a time.

Locke

August 16, 2014 by Bey

Got my copy of Locke in the mail the other day. Great fucking movie.

Fan Mail Wednesday – picture-post edition.

July 30, 2014 by Bey

Welcome to another round of fan mail Wednesday!

I just received what is probably one of the oddest questions so far, so I thought I'd turn my answer into a blog post.

Ann writes: You probably get asked what you actually look like all the time so I will ask a different question. What do you smell like?

Hi Ann! What do I smell like? Hmm. Well, most of the time I smell like:

and:

and, if I'm being honest, probably a little of:

Thank you for writing to me, Ann! I love random emails. I'm glad you enjoyed Caged.

High School was a Blast

September 5, 2014July 28, 2014 by Bey

I recently got an invite to my twenty-year high school reunion.

Twenty.

Twenty fucking years.

Jesus.

So, since high school has been on my mind for the past few days, I figured I might as well write a post about it.

I liked high school. I think I might have actually loved it a little. Yes, you heard me right.

The actual lessons were always easy. I'm intelligent and a quick study; I was in a special program where I did intensive science classes for the last three years (bio-chem, intro genetics, college-level physics and gen chem), and I was tutoring advanced math. My English classes were largely Latin courses and Shakespeare. I was my art teacher's favourite student. I was on the honour roll. I won a bunch of awards at graduation.

I also held the record for the most absences in a year. Two years in a row. I was constantly in detention... mostly for creating mayhem. I was suspended. I was put on academic probation. I had to see a guidance counsellor twice a week for the last two years of school. Why? Because all my report cards said approximately the same thing:

Brilliant student when motivated. Does not play well with others.

When watching The Breakfast Club, someone asked me who I was in high school, I said: "Why do I have to pick?"

Death metal t-shirts, ripped jeans one day. Three-piece pinstripe suit the next. In the chess club and on the yearbook team. Organizer of fights off school property where I also acted as bookie. Was nominated to position of Peer Counsellor* for my grade and interviewed by a newspaper. Chronic stoner that helped to run acid and hash through the school.

I was suspended and forced to come into school over a holiday once, but the principal gave me the keys to the school so I could go work in the dark room instead of sitting in her office.

I wasn't popular, no, but I got along with a lot of people.

I was either a teacher's favourite student or their worst nightmare.

I got away with so much shit.

I had fun.

I tend not to remember the bad parts.

It was a time when I had no responsibility other than getting my school work done... the rest of the time was a barrel of laughs. So many good memories.

Getting stoned and skipping class to trip in the woods where I told ghost stories.

Hanging out with my friends, smoking our cigarettes, thinking were were all that.

All the art projects... plus getting really stoned and watching The Wall in art class.

Drunken school dances with furtive fondling.

But... am I going to my reunion?

No. I'm not interested. I'd like to leave the happy memories where they are... anyone that I wanted to stay in contact with, I have on Facebook. I don't get off on talking about work, kids, diseases, mortgages. And, while I got a little nostalgic writing this post, I'm also not one for talking about the Good Old Days™. I'm still right in the middle of them...

High school was a blast though.

*where I used my powers to pull students out of class to snag a friend of mine so we could go to my place and get so high on hash that I lay on my bed and came hands-free. Then was promptly sick.

Tears

July 25, 2014 by Bey

I don't cry a lot. In fact, I can't remember the last time it happened. I can think of one time, and that was nearly three years ago.

I don't like crying. Some say it's catharsis. To me, it's just a stuffy nose and a slight headache if it goes on a bit. I have other ways of relieving tension.

I have an ex who used to argue that I was heartless because I don't find certain movies sad.

Just today I was talking to someone about how I don't like endings, so here are four movies I can't watch the end of for fear that they'll make me cry... because it happened before:

1. Brokeback Mountain - watched late at night at the office along with too much to drink. Cried like a baby.

2. Terminator 2 - need I say more?

3. Armageddon - ok, I may have daddy issues.

4. Dances with Wolves - Ugh. Two Socks.

I watch these but turn them off before the Bad Things happen. Cowardly or just avoiding a stuffy nose? Take your pick.

What movies make you cry?

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Hey, Tough Guy

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Thanks, Joe Hardy.

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Who me?

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Baltsaros and Jon

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My Head

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Locke

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Fan Mail Wednesday – picture-post edition.

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High School was a Blast

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Tears

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*Not all my titles are available at Eden yet as of 25/09/23 - I'm working on it.