a well-dressed man.

as the number of times you say yes.

The only thing that’s bigger than my mouth

is my heart.

is dance in my living room.

Masturbating to questionable porn is embarrassing. But it’s not personal. It’s not me.

When I get back from work, I turn the lights out and roll the volume dial to 11 o’ clock.

The needle trebbles and then it sings. Music sprouts from the speakers.

Without a cue, the feet are shuffling. They kick, point, push, and turn. Arms swim through the wind. Pausing, elaborating, and extending. They reach and orchestrate the body below. And sometimes the below orchestrates the above.

Inside the sound, there’s the electric boogaloo of my imagination. Styles like clown-walking and tecktonik are blended into a movement Cappuccino–curdling then melting. I sip and savor it.

Ah.

The next time you see someone who is different than you, think about all of the events of their life leading up to that point.

Then think about their day, and think about what part of their day do you want to be.

It started online. iPhone app to be exact.

If there’s one word to describe her it was

Crazy.

Are you scared?

After asking me to pick her up in South Los Angeles. Between 67th and 70th St. At midnight.

Someone’s the money conscious type.

After I glanced at our hundred-dollar check. It was our second date. We went out for a drink.

I’m a Southern belle.

After she demanded that her passenger door be opened and closed each time. Before eating at restaurants, between drinking at bars, and after shopping at supermarkets. She was Southern alright. Southern Korean American.

But, on our first date. She changed me.

Tell me what you think.

I sipped a glass from the Sonoma Malbec. A rare grape in California.

It comes in smooth then fizzes out with a bitter after-taste, I said.

Come on. You can do better than that.

I was floored. Then contemplative.
I wanted to overcome. Then I wanted to...

is the feeling of being alone and not giving a damn.

As an only child, I spent most of my life alone. And I didn’t know it.

My favorite middle-school moments were watching World Championship Wrestling’s Monday Night Nitro. At home. Alone.

During the three-hour live broadcast, I body-slammed seat cushions to the ground, hollered proclamations from the staircase, and stomped on the living room rug. This parade of adolescent asylum continued for years. Each time, more electric.

And I could not have done it with anyone else there. To be free and primal, I had to be alone.

In my mid-twenties, I lost the touch. Being alone meant being lonely. I chased others for affection and attention. I forgot that being independent allowed me to be honest with myself. My insecurities.

I looked outward for what was inward. My innards were a gurgling slug of mush churning to absolute inertia.

And...

Last night, I dreamt like I hadn’t in years. Awaking after a 7-hour nightmare– where I fought my friend in a death duel– I desired to sleep. Real sleep. And it’s all because of

magic Brazilian coffee beans.

Th previous morning. Bobby, one of my co-workers, brought his portable coffee operation to the Thursday morning meeting.

The coffee cart, next to my desk, was filled with coffee-making machinery. Adjacent, a whole-milk brand sold at Trader Joes. A bottle of Ghirardelli chocolate. And a un-marked brown bag holding

magic Brazilian coffee beans.

I don’t like coffee. I find it deplorable. Stains the teeth, broils the breath, and entangles my bowels. Today was different. The scent of the oak-wood colored coffee beans. The sounds of the beans ground, crackled, spun, churned, and poured into miniature paper cups.

I could not deny.

One order of mocha, please.

It landed on my desk...

usually start after checking facebook.

[Continued. See part i ]

Ice.

An Arctic lagoon. The testicles shriek at the top of their lungs. I’m shaking with shivers and goosebumps.

“Dunk your head”

I do without question. Both ears are ringing. Face is numb. Eyes are open. I come up for a large breath and start to fade into the frigid.

The next phase is warm tub–to contrast it from hot tub meant for searing skin and boiling lobster. Set to body temp perfection, I enter the warm and note the re-calibration of my cells from freezing frost to jubilant jacuzzi. Slowly, I lose sensation of arms, legs, brain. And slip into the korean soup.

Human sundubu.

My legs are uncrossed and arms out-stretched. I forgo the veteran advice. I observe the nonstop penis parade.

A light-skinned Latino plays hide-n-seek. He stands behind a pillar and clutches a beach-sized towel over his man-parts. Nearby, a dark Zimbabwean engages in a...