Adam did not believe in Heaven any more than he believed in the goodwill of corporations, but he believed in seizing opportunities and minimizing risk. Estate sales and comprehensive warranties were just smart ways to play the game measured in profit vs. debt - so in the game of the afterlife, the Church was really the only horse worth betting on.

So it was that Adam regularly attended Church and avoided the risk of sin whenever possible (ask for forgiveness after ogling the cute brunette, don't compare yourself to the smug, lucky Smiths and their perfect teeth). Besides, Church was a great way to network, and Adam had set some lucrative connections during some social luncheons (plus there was free food - that couldn't be overstated). All it cost him was time and the occasional donation to look like a proper member, and the former he spent reviewing his weekly diet - 'not too much fat, which meat was on sale, mix in some super veggies, what recipes would maximize taste for minimal effort' and so on.

Planning down to the detail was dull for many folk, but Adam understood that planning was preparedness. And like the doomsday preppers, he would have an edge on everyone by planning ahead. 401ks, stock market white papers, and daily news reading - Adam was well versed in future forecasts and wealthy retiring.

But like the doomsday preppers, Adam had no true insight into the future, and that was particularly true for his own. All the time he spent micromanaging his finances and heart health did nothing to stop him from being decapitated in an automobile accident on a dry summer day in July.

Perahps if he had spent more time studying traffic reports and safety data, he would have avoided the I-5 that morning.

Nevertheless, Adam followed the letter of the 'get into Heaven' law, and found himself in the fluffy cumulus expanse of Paradise after his bloody demise (emergency personnel would comment for years on how cleanly his head was severed from his neck). The air was quite pure in texture; Adam breathed deeply and found himself relishing it, even though he had no use for 'pure mountain air' while he was alive. The atmosphere was lovely, too - warm yet soothed by a gentle breeze, not far unlike a gentle tropical coast.

To top it off, the faint aroma of toasted marshmallow wafted by. Even Adam's shrewd heart found tinges of nostalgia in that.

A bricked road of gold led the way forward - and being the only discernible path in sight (he was quite uncertain what would happen if he stepped onto the clouds directly), Adam walked it, his grumblings about the unfairness of random chance fading away. Here he was, after all, and he could enjoy righteous smugness for his sensible decisions; he had covered his bases, and Heaven was clearly his just reward.

As he approached the famed pearly gates and the podium of heavenly judgment, he apprehended some discrepancies in the common narrative and his present situation.

First, there was no heavenly chorus to joyously celebrate his arrival or provide delicate ambience to the greatest place in existence.

Second, there was no endless line of departed petitioners discussing their eternity with angels. Adam was, in fact, completely alone here.

And third, the pearly gates were a twisted and tarnished ruin, torn open and half off their hinges.

If you desire to have powerful experiences with romance and kink, then no - not anyone will do.

Whether you're seeking or attracting, a 'no' does not signify what you might think rejection means.

We're social creatures, and we commonly like to see others pleased with us. It's a joy that comes from without, rather than within. The happiness of self-love, well - that actually eclipses such things, but if you're still struggling with that, then this is important.

The implication (particularly in these United States of Insecurity) of rejection is that you are not *good enough*. You are lacking, and thus you warranted a *'No'*.

This is absolutely not the case.

Powerful experiences in romance and kink will occur with enthusiasm on both sides - with mutual sparks and attraction, with fascination and lust simmering forth.

When someone says, 'No', they are informing you that they just aren't a great fit for that, with you. Given the scale of humanity out there, the uniqueness of every individual and their collection of experiences, this only makes sense - *many* people will not make a great fit for you. Our preferences vary just so much that a match in the upper percentiles isn't exactly common.

And that's totally okay.

Those powerful experiences won't occur with just anyone. The attraction and connection needs to form.

I am *happy* when I know for a certainty that someone I'm interested in does not share that same interest. It saves us both time and energy, and I'm excited to continue on without having any need for lingering thoughts there.

Is it occasionally disappointing that this cool person and I didn't connect in that way? Doubtlessly. There've been more than a few in that category. But I don't pine after them, nor stab my sense of self and identity because that happened.

There are so many perfectly imperfect people out there for each of us. Giving up or looking askance at ourselves for meeting some of the many who *aren't* a great match is like getting angry at a cloudy sky - it'll keep happening, and nothing will have changed but you suffering for it. (And not even the fun kind of suffering, really)

In the screenwriting world, we know that success is a numbers game. There are so many variables that determine whether a given project is a great fit for a given producer; no matter how well you've prepared or set up your project, *no project is ever perfect for everyone*.

Which doesn't bother me in the slightest, because I'd cringe at what'd happen to my Horror scripts in the hands of Disney.

This is the dance

I've always wanted to play

Its vicious steps

First nature

Overwhelming in the certainty

Two glittering predators

Circling hungry

Before the impact

I want you gasping in the pain

Digging yourself into me

Violent desire

Baring savage intent

Roll me with your thighs

Throw your fists into my flesh

Show me your rawness

Lurking beneath

Civility's mask

Bruising throats

Growling with want

Two predators struggling fiercely

Until exhaustion

Lays claim

I want you gasping in the pain

Digging yourself into me

Violent desire

Baring savage intent

Give me your all

Blossoming

is not a one-and-done transformation

that hits us once at puberty

Though those flowers unfurl

aching for pollination

that amounts to but a few petals

We are lotuses

transcendent and sublime

even when we've forgotten our depths

Papier-mâché walls

plastered over your darkest secrets

make no match for the scalpels of revelation

Every decade

brings the potential for new growth

waiting to be fed the tears of living

We are perennials

never content to only surge once

eager and waiting for the next chance to die

and flower again

So much of culture and its media have painted masculinity... as rigid and cold. Hard lines, grit teeth, bravery and willpower unleashed.

This epitomized archetype amounted to men who demolished their capacity for communication and eviscerated the potential for emphatic vulnerability.

"Big boys don't cry."

A novella is up to the task of addressing tears alone, but this will have to suffice for now~

Emotion is the 'color' in our lives. We can methodically, intellectually, carefully grow a garden - but it will be the emotions of satisfaction, of serenity, of accomplishment, of encouragement, of patience, and all else... that bring the 'color' to every memory we craft in the fostering of that garden.

To deny and stopper up feeling, to repress and push it down between the cracks of your foundation, to rage and wither in the basements of your self - is to seal away such color.

Feelings can be wildly intense and difficult. Anguish can shatter lives in multiplicity when it reigns, unchecked, unhealed. Yet this is part of 'color', too; the full range of the painter requires a full palette of paint.

Imagine a man taking his newborn child into his arms. His face is hard, his emotions locked away. He is proud.

But is there anything else?

Imagine the same man, but his face is soft; his cheeks are wet; his eyes reflect the awe of this creation, this union of body and soul.

Which is making a memory worthy of all the beauty life has to offer?

We don't have to be tortured artistic souls to *relish* the emotionality built into this life. Sensitivity to it, to the richness of people and nature, to connection and attentiveness - this isn't feminine, this isn't weak, this isn't foolish.

This is human, at its brightest.

There is place for hauling an injured stranger to safety, for steeling hands and eyes against assault and danger, for navigating the many, many struggles between life and death.

But strength does not exist in opposition to emotionality; the power in gentle hands cupping cheeks will never be replaced by the tense force in a fist.

Indeed, the most delicious slap can be one delivered with love, just as the most powerful strike can be one delivered in rage.

Emotionality is not the key, finale, or essence of happiness, but it is an incredible gift woven into life.

Why squander such opportunity?