gary hollisan & sandy cantis

for years before & years to come. no one will understand. & i cannot put blame on them for that. my mindset is not normal. at all. thats how you know your crazy. when you can't admit your ways are not right. when you feel what you are doing is the right & logical way. & it's not. it never was. & it never will. & i would love to point a finger. i really would. my first failed marriage. abusive. or even further back. my parents putting my handicapped brother on a pedestal & not loving me nearly as much. or much at all. or maybe even back further. the first love. it still upsets my stomach when i think of him. i don't know how a relationship at the age of 15 or 16 could fuck a girl up so incredibley. but i still occassionally think of his face or his habits or his hands. & i still get wet. & i still get upset. or maybe even further. the sexual abuse. from my best friend leah. could my first experience of a best friend, in which i had to touch her to keep her as a friend..could that result in my fucked up logic of dealing with relationships. friendship or otherwise. is that the root of my obsession with sex? or should we go back even further. dare i say it's all a result of that day outside my catholic school in fourth grade? the ski mask & the snow, incredibley cold against my skin as he took off my pants? i'd love to blame my reactions & directions on those "psychological episodes". but i just can't. i feel weak. i would feel like one of those girls that blames their obsession with boys, on their lack of a father figure. i think the mind is a powerful thing. it fucking scares me how powerful it is. & it can survive through a lot. & it will get you through. so stop blaming something else. thus, i suppose i can only blame myself. thats why i decided at the age of 9 that roman catholicism is not for me. my communion teacher once told our class that "if something good happens to you, praise the lord. he has blessed you. but if something bad happens to you, you can only blame yourself. & beg the lord for forgiveness." you know what, mother? that is horse shit. that is pussy shit. you either give yourself all the responsibilities or your happiness & sadness or you off yourself. because i am not going to sit there & pretend some mythical guy in a white robe gave me some luck. but when my car gets broken into or someone makes me cry. thats all my fault. he didn't have any hand in it. pointing fingers is so easy & i just can't bring myself to do it. i know & always assume im the bad guy in the situation. the few times i guilt trip people for things, it blows up in my face & somehow the knieving little bastards turn it around on me. which i deserve. but still. im getting way off track. the point is. im sorry to all those males i have hurt. by not calling back. by seeming interested & then uninterested. from anyone else's precpective..im a tease. but i know me. i know why i do the things i do. & it will never make sense. & its selfish. im scared. im fucking scared out of my mind of intimacy. out of the plethora of stupid, idiotic therapists i have been to, they all were right about one thing.."sandy, you don't seem to be close to anyone." no, im not. because it scares me. half to death. & what worries me even more, is the fact that i don't know if i can ever hack it. intimacy. close relationships. i dont think anyone would ever get me. im out of my mind. & yeah, i've tried to control it. i was married for 11 months. & then i went off of the zoloft. & then i went back to myself. the one who likes being alone. not because i dont get lonely. because i do! but because the other option fucking frightens me. & a male that i was previously involved with shoved it in my face today. & called me "shiesty". & made me cry. because i did/do care about him. i truely did really like him. but what was i supposed to do? fall for him & then move? that sounds uncomfortable to me. so i keep a safe distance. get a taste of something wonderful that i enjoy a lot. & then push him away. see. to me that seems logical. im keeping both our feelings from getting hurt. both our hearts from breaking. keeping a safe distance. but to him thats low. rude. uneccessary. there is another scenario that is under my skin, because i got under his skin. but i couldnt even discuss it if i tried. i'll start welling up again. & im so tired of crying. by myself.

sandy cantis
this is a story loosely based on you.
& him.

you'd think an affair would be fullfilling. yes, you cry in the shower about it. and every time your husband kisses you, you turn red with the thought of him tasting the other man. how they are in movies. the guilt eats away at the main character. tears her in half. because she can't evenly distribute her love and affections two ways. she's can't factor in two phallus in her heart, head, or tuat. but thats not the case. in reality daniel is radical and ten years younger and mildly exciting. but eddie is well aware of him. no, we don't discuss the details. but we don't hide it. he has rachel on the side as well. she's a pretty little thing. she was wearing the most delightful little heather grey number at my aunts funeral. but it's civilized and concurrent happening. i couldn't even categorize it as an affair, as much as my romanticized side of me would like to label it. when cynthia is put to bed. or at a friends house. and eddie is busy with work. or reading. or television. or he's inside rachel. "i'm just going to the library for a while." "okay dear." and we kiss and part ways. there's no bickering or rolling of eyes. because the sad and awful truth is most people can distribute themselves. quite evenly. across a few plains. but most people are to stubborn and stuck on "one and only true love" bullshit. they have this image of what life is like. no, what love is like. if people would stop reserving their entire body and soul for just one human being, they would realize how many people they would make happy. nothing else is as simple as cut and dry love. so why don't people revert their ways? i suppose to most of the population what we do is lude and on par with mormons. but we are just happy. all of us. sometimes daniel and i don't even have intercourse. sometimes i'll sit on his mattress on the floor and be so tired from climbing 4 flights of stairs to his apartment, so we'll just sit there and talk. and he'll make me listen to his music. watch his movies. tell me about his day. i don't sleep over for the most part, but sometimes when cynthia is at a friends house, i do. sometimes daniel will call me in advance. he'll tell me we should make tonight dramatic. sometimes i'll make myself tear up. til my face is red and soaked with crying. i'll pound on his door. he'll yell at me through the keyhole. he'll finally open it and we'll psuedo quarrel. we'll hit each other and struggle and say "we have to stop doing this. we're hurting too many people" sometimes i'll accidentally hit him across the face and we'll both stop and fall to the floor and laugh histerically. we'll giggle for an hour after that. that's usually when the sex is the best. we'll continue giggling while he's inside me. it's nice. it's nice to pretend. but some people just don't understand. like janet's granddaughters. those fucking snobs. they wouldn't know how to be happy if it hit them square between the eyes. when she was on her deathbed. with the liver cancer inside her 70 year old body, eating away at her life. with her loving husband, my dear uncle moony beside her. the little blonde brats would be in the background. in a tiny hall screaming how disgraceful and disturbing it was. uncle moony had just gotten off the phone with janets boyfriend. her sweet boyfriend of twenty years. larry. larry's wife understood. he had to go to janets side. to say goodbye. when he arrived, the blonde little brats started flailing. "this is outrageous!" the audacity of those girls, trying to deny their grandmother of her last drops of happiness. their mothers slapped them across the face and forced them out of the house. and larry walked in. and from janets pale, drained face, her eyelids peeled open slightly. her tiny brown eyes beamed like large marbles stuck in her head. her smile stretched uncontrollably. moony smiled from another room. a few days later, janets marbles were never again exposed. but you could see her smile stained on her face. larry came. with his wife. to say goodbye to part of his happiness. uncle moony was there. so was his girlfriend. with her husband. so was me and my husband. and our lovers. and their spouses. it's a continuous chain of happiness. and i dont know how else to explain it. or how anyone else could percieve it any other way.

sandy cantis
a story loosely based on you, aunt janet. in loving memory.

why not me? every woman i have ever met has been jaded. jaded by one certain lover. that scarred her heart so incredibley that she could never recover. she could never pass one single day without thinking of him. every numerical password are digits from his phone number. every online password is his last name. his favorite band. his..something. yes, i have that one that ruined me. that wrecks atleast 20 seconds of each day. tears away one more layer of my conscience. but why not me? why the fuck haven't i affected someone to that exstent?! it's always "gary, he's great and attractive. but not memorable. not worth remembering. not worth fighting for. and failing for" worthless. i am drunk and in my boxers listening to her favorite song. blink182's Growing Up. it makes me cry harder. she doesn't even fucking remember me. no one does. "well i guess this is growing up." or growing old. or growing consious of reality. fuck.

gary hollisan.
loosely based on fuck women.

i don't like cuddling. i just don't. you have to conform your arms and legs to intertwine with someone elses limbs and both attempt to accomplish a mild state of comfort. can't we just sit next to each other, thigh to thigh and hold hands? it's physical contact. same difference. and i especially hate it right after sex. after sex, i hate the world. you've gotten off. i haven't. i just want to go to sleep. i don't want to lay there in your arms and pretend it was fantastic and sigh and grin like an idiot. i was sitting in the bus station waiting for the 3:15 and an adorable tan younger boy was carting his large psuedo dumpster around filling it with the remains of the sporadically placed garbage bins all around the station. he seemed to frequent my side of the station a little more than the other. but im not one to think highly of myself. so i continue reading like the old woman that i am. then the tall, stretched out piece of leather of a man cleaning the floors with some sort of mopping monster, which resembled those machines that smooth over the ice on a rink, but smaller, he introduced himself as curtis. hi curtis. curtis says "my friend bryan wants to talk to you, but he's a weasel." "why is he a weasel?" "because when you scare an animal, they run for cover. like him" "oh" "or no, no. a chicken. thats what he is. a chicken." bryan was so nervous to meet me it made me nervous. i echo whatever the person interacting with me is doing. when a boy is cocky and forthright, i am as well. if he's nervous to approach, im nervous to recipocate. not even in those kind of terms does my mimicing seize. oh no. when im around deaf people. and they have that weird voice that sounds muffled by cotton balls in their throat and poor annunciation. yep i do that. someone has a lisp. i do for the rest of the day. southern accent. its mine. and even in pretty much every single god damned social situation. i will despise a coworker for one reason or another. they just get under my skin. and not one of those people that aren't even worth fretting over. you just knit pick them and have to circulate them in your head and discuss them. they are a disease. or maybe no, not that severe. but a head cold. and they make your forehead feel heavy. and they ooze out of your orafices. even when those types come up to me and have a smile stretched from ear to ear, i feel i need a smile stretched from ear to ear. i don't even think it's a politeness factor, although it could be a conrtibutor. but i just find it appropriate to be doing what the other person in the circumstance is doing. maybe i want them to feel comfortable. or maybe i want to relate to them. i don't know what it is. it's a sickness. im sick. but i enjoy when a male is fearful of me and in turn i am fearful. the heart beating in my chest. the blush rushing through my cheeks and neck. my nipples getting so hard. and the goosebumps. i love the goosebumps. the fumbling words. the awkward motions. it's so unchoreographed. so rough around the edges. sure, feeling cocky and good about yourself is fantastic and reassuring. if its easy to get a guy hooked on you, the validation is sublime. but i prefer the awkwardness. it's like running in sand. no one looks good doing it. it's hard. and you don't get anywhere very fast. but its fantastic, because then if there is sweetness in the future. it's whats in pandora's box. it's forgetting anything else exsists for an instant. and all those fumbles and artless moves and blunders were simply teases for the unfathomable excitement they all culminate to. one of my favorite moments ever was when a boy got a nose bleed all over my face. he bled on my face. and it was nice. not that i like blood or anything. or drinking or something absurd thats showcased at the continental on certain evenings. but it was redundantly awkward and could not be helped or guided in a different direction. but it made the kissing afterwards so sweet. so sweet. but there's one thing i am afraid of. one thing that terrifies every fiber of me. its on par with the death of loved ones. something that scares you so much, you pretend it doesn't exist. you lock it away in a tiny jar in a tiny room, with no windows. in a tiny nook, in your tiny brain. only on those dreary days when you daydream and it seeps from under the door does it come out. or your standing infront of a reminder of it and it feels like youre one of those cartoons. those cartoons that have those big safes fall from the sky and land on them. then they open the safe door with a huge lump on their head, their eyes crossed and stars spinning around the lump. thats how i feel. when i think that sometimes those tiny fumbles and little teases that hint around about maybe a moment of bliss. they have always, for the most part..lead to something fantastic. that one moment of bliss. those jumbled words. they have always lead to great hours of making out. mediocore sex (which is very good for me). or even just the most perfect kiss. but what if one day. it doesn't lead to any of that?
sandy cantis
a story loosely based on you and you and you and me.

i turn on ryan adams come pick me up. on repeat. i fit myself in to that old leather chair. that chair has seen many memories. of her. and of me. and of hate. and of love. and the coming and going of many other once seemingly perfect women. but none of them compare. instant gratification sometimes feels sweeter than anything else. but then after that instant is gone..it reminds me of fucking. not having sex with someone with a face i can remember. but fucking. it feels like heaven. juicy, sweaty, sticky, moaning heaven. but then after i secrete. after that milky fluid oozes out of me like a leak in my manhood. i feel like shit. i want to slap the cunt across her face and throw her out immediately. she's useless after i cum. she needs to leave. but my father brought me up well. i kiss her forehead and tell her "that was fantastic" and hold her for the obligatory ten minutes or so and wait until she stops talking about her past lovers and past experiences. i wait til her droning conversation of what had occured in the past hour or so. i was there, too you stupid bitch! it's never worth the pleasure beforehand. but you always forget and before you know it, youre tangled up in some hussy's arms again, on your favorite leather chair. its obnoxious is what it is. but i sit down in that leather chair. the one thats back never breaks, no matter how many times i use it for comfort and rest. and fucking. and love. and moments. i light a havana cigar up. i twirl it and suck in the sweet air. and it reminds me of her. she reminds me of sweet days in the woods. she's not a little delicate, feminine flower. she's a sturdy piece of oak, with a wafting delicious fragrance. ryan adams still playing. i toke in the silky smoke and exude it out. i sit there for a moment, before i start to get hard. not only can i not help it. its a kind of ritual. me. my chair. ryan adams. a cigar. as pathetic as it sounds. i cant fantasize about some silicon mounds and shaved and pierced tuats. they just remind me of swedish poodles or something. something i could never comprehend becoming a fantasy or even catch on as an asthetic trend. i dont rub my dick about that tiny redhead with the cute small nipples that seemed to always point in my direction at work. yeah, sure the head she gave me in the mens room was pretty fantastic. and yeah, i like looking at her tits throughout the day. but she doesnt exactly keep me tossing and turning all night. after she looked up at me, with that frothy fluid, my sperm swimming all over her lip and chin. i just want to put her head in the toilet and slam the seat down. but not her. anything she does is divine. my solid oak. she keeps me intrigued and guessing. and keeps me tossing and turning. and she keeps me cumming (little to her knowledge). i stroke the staff of my cock and think of her smile. think of her sitting next to me in the car. on those cold, dark, numbingly quiet winter nights. just the outline of her face and the blinding snow shooting down where the headlights hit them. i stroke harder and a little faster. i lick the inside of my left hand, put it back on my staff and continue. i pinch the head of my cock lightly. i think of her arm grazing mine and how it felt like tiny spiders were crawling up and down my scalp. goosebumps spread like the plague over my arms. even my stomach. then those little pinches of excitement happen in my lower stomach. and i feel my ears turn red. and my dick grow harder and harder as i think more and more of her arm rubbing against mine so slightly. and my cock in that moment. in that chair. my chair. where she used to sit on my lap and kiss my neck. i explode. i keep rubbing. harder strokes. but more spaced out. til my face is cringing. im biting my bottom lip. i bite so hard i think im going to eat it. then i go limp. everywhere. my hands fall to the arm rests. my head nudged into my own nook of my left shoulder. my legs spread straight out, with my toes, still in my gold toe socks, pointing opposite directions. my ass barely still on the seat of my leather chair. i realize i was so overwhelmed. i forgot to keep quiet. i hope my wife didnt hear me.