My own entry into my own challenge. Part truth, part fiction, something to help me work through it all.

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Two years ago, I went to Italy. It was my last college summer, and my first time out of the country. When I'm being honest, and maybe a little dramatic, I'll tell you that it was the last time I was really, truly, happy. That isn't much of a stretch; I was happy, incredibly so. I traveled the world, stepping further out of my comfort zone than ever, and I had a boy back home I was completely in love with. I spent my days soaking up all the sights of Europe, and my nights staying up way too late talking to him about my days, making up for the time difference. I can still look back on that summer so fondly, although it is a little shadowed by him, as many things were when he left.

I'm thinking about Italy tonight. A specific Italian dish, to be precise. Spaghetti Aglio e Olio, which is basically Italian for spaghetti with a shit ton of olive oil and garlic. A simple recipe for a perfect meal. Simple, delicious, and for those of us who enjoy our pasta on a deeper level, incredibly sexy. It is the dish I chose for tonight, for him. The first meal I've made for a man in well, two years.

So here's the recipe. I'm not one for exact measurements, I measure by eye, so, as I said, we start with a shit ton of garlic and olive oil. At least five cloves of garlic, thinly sliced, more if you're tenacious, and enough olive oil to cover it, drowning it a little. Use the good olive oil, not the cheap kind, we're trying to impress with this dish. I throw the two ingredients into my beloved cast iron skillet, letting them dance together until the garlic is lightly browned. In the meantime, pasta is in the pot boiling. Salted water, of course, always salt the water! I add red pepper flakes to the garlic and olive oil, for a little bit of spice. Fresh parsley and lemon juice sit to the side, to be added to the skillet with the spaghetti and a little of that salty, starchy pasta water. The bottle of white wine chills in the fridge. A tiny splash in the pasta, the rest for drinking. The pasta is almost done, as is the garlic, and I look up at the clock. 7:25. He'll be here in five minutes. I look around my studio apartment. It is cute, but small, all mine. The scent of garlic fills the entire place. I don't always cook with it much, as it ends up making my apartment garlic-scented for a couple days, but hey, special occasion. My eyes linger on the bed for a moment. A downside of a studio apartment is that the bed is always out, on display, essentially the center of attention. I know it will catch his eye as well, maybe make him wonder. It's fine, I thought about it too. I cleaned the place from floor to ceiling, lit candles, put a record on, freshly cleaned sheets on the bed, condoms in the nightstand. We've been on a few dates, so, maybe it is time. First time in two years...

The timer beeps, bringing me back. The spaghetti is done. And then, as if on queue, there's a knock at the door.

I open it. He comes in, and looks around for a moment. His eyes don't linger on the bed, but on the cast iron skillet.

"Hey!" He leans in for a kiss. "It smells wonderful!"

See first post in book for more context for these stories!

"I turned eighteen earlier than all of my friends. I got a camera for my birthday- a nice one. I had always been intersted in photography, and while I did use it to learn photography, and take all kinds of photos-I also used it to start a porn blog, on Tumblr. I don't have that account anymore, but I kinda wish that I did, it was, uh, an interesting time."

- A college neighbor, and friend.

It felt like a dare. The camera, sitting there, wanting more. I had all this pent up tension, curiosity. I'd stumbled apon some porn blogs many times, and lingered on them longer than I should've. I know its not a great thing- as a minor, ideally, legally, I shouldn't have been exposed to that, but with the internet age, its unavoidable. I never uploaded anything of my own, and although a part of me wanted to, I knew I shouldn't. But then there I was, 18, with a Nikon. A young body and a nice quality lense was all I needed. So I jumped. At first it was innocent, well-angled shots, showing enough to be sexy yet hiding enough to have an air of mystery. Then the comments started. People wanted more, more of my body, more of me. More, more, more. Most of the comments followed the same theme; hard, wet, ready, turned on, gasping, more, more, MORE.. So that is what I gave them.

Shadowy shots in dark rooms turned into clear, fully lit, full body ones. Then videos, and the videos turned into a following. They wanted more, they wanted me. They wanted me. Men, women, everyone. The creepier comments didn't phase me, I was admired. I was wanted.

The comments from women surprised me the most.

I imagined the thought of being with a woman, the parts of me doubled, reflected. Being able to desire those parts of me that had so often, oftentimes aggressively, been desired by men, but for me, for my desire, it felt more gentle, softer, more admiring. I came to terms with the idea that I was okay with the idea of loving women, being loved by them in returm. I knew I still loved men, but for the first time, I fully admitted to my desire to love both, love whomever I found myself loving, or wanting, no matter who they were.

I came out as bisexual my freshman year of college. I had thrown the term around in my head repeatedly for months, but never said it out loud until one night in my neighbor's dorm. It was during my first month of school, and she was the only friend I made on my hall. Some older friends of hers had snuck in alcohol, and we made a night of it. It didn't take long until the rum and cokes in mismatched cups led us to share bits of ourselves that we never would have sober. Our thoughts ran deep, the questions deeper. "Who do you see yourself becoming?" "What is something you hated about high school?" "What have you realized now that you are on your own and free?" I confessed that I was bi, and although I had never been with a girl, I wanted to. My friend looked at me, with an intensity I had not seen in her before, and said, "me, too". We hooked up that night, and a few times that year, then lost touch. I see her on campus sometimes, and we smile.

#storiesfromthearchives #nsfw #lgbt #shortfiction

We couldn't say I love you, not in those words, at least. We found little ways of saying it to eachother, ways like "you make me happy," or, "I like how you're wearing your hair today." Little things that would seem so innocent on the surface, so platonic in the way we pretended to love each other for so long. There were times, admittedly, when it felt more heavy, teetering on the surface of something more, a breath away from the words we kept hidden, from eachother, from ourselves. I remember when I finally admitted it to myself that I loved him, and it first felt like a rush of fresh air. Fresh air that I then realized was coming from the ocean, at the edge of a cliff I was standing on, unsure to jump, unsure if there would be welcoming waves beneath me, or angry, sharp rocks.

"I turned eighteen earlier than all of my friends. I got a camera for my birthday- a nice one. I had always been intersted in photography, and while I did use it to learn photography, and take all kinds of photos-I also used it to start a porn blog, on Tumblr. I don't have that account anymore, but I kinda wish that I did, it was, uh, an interesting time."

- A college neighbor, and friend,

It felt like a dare. The camera, sitting there, wanting more. I had all this pent up tension, curiosity. I'd stumbled apon some porn blogs many times, and lingered on them longer than I should've. I know its not a great thing- as a minor, ideally, legally, I shouldn't have been exposed to that, but with the internet age, its unavoidable. I never uploaded anything of my own, and although a part of me wanted to, I knew I shouldn't. But then there I was, 18, with a Nikon. A young body and a nice quality lense was all I needed. So I jumped. At first it was innocent, well-angled shots, showing enough to be sexy yet hiding enough to have an air of mystery. Then the comments started. People wanted more, more of my body, more of me. More, more, more. Most of the comments followed the same theme; hard, wet, ready, turned on, gasping, more, more, MORE.. So that is what I gave them.

Shadowy shots in dark rooms turned into clear, fully lit, full body ones. Then videos, and the videos turned into a following. They wanted more, they wanted me. They wanted me. Men, women, everyone. The creepier comments didn't phase me, I was admired. I was wanted.

The comments from women surprised me the most.

I imagined the thought of being with a woman, the parts of me doubled, reflected. Being able to desire those parts of me that had so often, oftentimes aggressively, been desired by men, but for me, for my desire, it felt more gentle, softer, more admiring. I came to terms with the idea that I was okay with the idea of loving women, being loved by them in returm. I knew I still loved men, but for the first time, I fully admitted to my desire to love both, love whomever I found myself loving, or wanting, no matter who they were.

I came out as bisexual my freshman year of college. I had thrown the term around in my head repeatedly for months, but never said it out loud until one night in my neighbor's dorm. It was during my first month of school, and she was the only friend I made on my hall. Some older friends of hers had snuck in alcohol, and we made a night of it. It didn't take long until the rum and cokes in mismatched cups led us to share bits of ourselves that we never would have sober. Our thoughts ran deep, the questions deeper. "Who do you see yourself becoming?" "What is something you hated about high school?" "What have you realized now that you are on your own and free?" I confessed that I was bi, and although I had never been with a girl, I wanted to. My friend looked at me, with an intensity I had not seen in her before, and said, "me, too". We hooked up that night, and a few times that year, then lost touch. I see her on campus sometimes, and we smile.

#storiesfromthearchives #nsfw #lgbt #shortfiction

I’ve always felt a little strange.

I have embraced my individuality more, as I’ve gotten older. I’m closing in on my mid-twenties now, that age tends to have that affect; its easier to embrace the weird things, quirks, about yourself, or so I’m finding.

Specifially, in this context, I have always felt a little strange due of my tendency to remember tiny little things about people, things said in passing, probably forgotten.

But I never forget.

They repeat these little things, anecdotes, and I act surprised. Play along with the “wow, really?” They forgot they’ve already told me, and I follow.

Why should I remember these things, when they don’t? Do we both know we’ve had this conversation before--or is it all a lie to us both?

These little things pop into my head, from time to time. They tend to linger.

Sometimes it is memories from people I still talk to often, other times from people far gone, friendships moved on, but still dear.

I’ve decided to remember some of these moments, stories, little anecdontes and honest, drunken rants-- and use it as inspiration. For characters, short stories, whatever strikes me and stays.

As I work through that, I’ve decided to post them here.

I’ve been here before. I get this idea, this concept, and I feel as though it will help me write more again. Then life happens, and I tend not to keep up with it. I’m hoping this time, it sticks.

If this strikes your interest, please comment, share, let me know--encouragement helps, as all you fellow writers know, we all love validation, even though we often claim not to.

See you soon, I hope.

#storiesfromthearchives

trying to write more--I have been saying this for awhile, but, I'm doing better! This is a great place to have a platform and a bit of accountability. I won't post every day, some days I'll start something and sit with it, but I will write a little bit before bed as a wind down from my day.

I'll post little things that I think of, no themes or rhymes with reason, at least for now! It's just for me. Not for likes, reposts, comments, I'll be fine if no one seems to like it--- but, for those of you who follow me and see my writes, if you see something that strikes you, let me know! I love to hear it.

That's all.

Goodnight, and happy March!

I fell in love with the way you sometimes hold your breath when I speak. I never ask why, or draw attention to it, I just notice. I love the way your hand shakes a little as it reaches out to mine then quickly steadies in my grasp. I love how you tap your fingers together when you're working through a problem and your excitement when you solve it. I love your up-to-no-good smirk and your adventure filled eyes and the way you run your fingers through your hair when you're tired. I love sitting with you surrounded by the smell of morning coffee and I love how you take your time with it, even though it always gets cold at the bottom of the mug. I love your passion, your hands and fingers callused by hard work and guitar strings, your daytime toughness that turns gentle towards me in the night.

#loveletter to how I would love to love someone, one day