CHICKEN KILLER
Feb 01
I had decided, after Byron stood me up, again, that I wanted no part of him, and that I would never answer his calls. If I softened and did pick up the phone, I’d tell him I didn’t want to see him anymore.
He called, I answered. He was on his way. He could spend the night. My intention transmogrified into “yes,” as I thought about the sex. Which was great; aggressive, intense. Above the river, unseen, but heard, surely, from the midst of a bamboo thicket. Underneath us, smooth hardness, the raised wooden meditation platform, perched on a precipice.
His age matched his ACT Score. Young and bright. And educated, confidently insinuating “Wahhabism” -the strict interpretation of Shia, -into my ”Studies in Terrorism” white paper submission, for the Department of Defense. He was at home with the works of my favorite late nineteenth century Russian authors, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Even Turgenev.
I further queried his knowledge of spiritual avatars from the same period. He didn’t know Ouspenski, but recalled Rasputen. I spoke of Gurdjeff.
Byron was blond and slight of frame, but had been an effective tight end for a north Louisiana high school football team, during a stellar season. He had evenly distributed musculature, like a boxer, not a lifter. Bantum weight.
He had a beautiful, perfect…everything. It made me sing and squeal. I discovered what I’d been missing that other women thrilled to, being on top. He went so deep in me, hitting my g spot, mind blowingly.
Anxious for a replay, in the morning, focusing my breath, and resting in his arms, images from the previous night gripped me. I anticipated, tremulously, how he’d roll me over some way and enter me and just rock my interior, my psyche, making me weave and weave and weave.
I’d trip; our sex opened chambers, rock face split suddenly revealing hidden passageways, treasure troves spelunkered along neural pathways not consciously known. This morning’s stimulation ignited parts of my brain decidedly distinct from the Jeopardy-esque category of “Russian authors and avatars.” Now, unveiled, dancing like gumdrops in my hippocampus, were scenes from the unvented laundry room of my childhood home.
I remembered with such vivid clarity, chickens, baby chicks, one black and one yellow, in a shallow rectangular Easter basket in the cold washroom. It was a bright cold Louisiana April morning. My father took my hand in his, and led me to a dry cleaning slip he’d “found” on his pillow. The marks, blue ink in loops, glyphs, were instructions, from the Easter Bunny. ”Look in the laundry room for your present.” The Easter Bunny.
I tore down the hall in foot pajamas and found an Easter basket, neatly woven strips of thin light beige, chartreuse faux “grass,” hard boiled eggs (I never knew why anyone would eat them) dyed sky blue, and these two tiny chicks which fit, one at a time, in my four year old palm.
They lived in a box in the wash room, and then were ensconced in milk crates, one inverted on top of the other, in our back yard. Beyond our yard lay a ravine, a Shetland pony farm, and beyond that, fields studded with pecan trees, that extended to the levee between the Red River and the Cane.
One evening, there was a sudden, terrible racket in the back yard, punctuated by gunfire, and then, silence. My mother’s gaze was riveted, staring out the kitchen window, as the salmon croquettes began to burn. A dog, a wild dog, a mongrel came in our yard and killed my chickens. We called him “Chicken Killer” and, even though my father ran outside and fired repeatedly at the dog with a shot gun, the threat, terrifying and delicious, was there, that any evening, at dusk, Chicken Killer might appear.
He was lean, a hound dog, brown, with spots that belied his lack of breeding, and a large skull, ravenous. Incisors, maybe foam. In my child’s mind, rabid. Wild.
I lay in Byron’s arms, he is so still, and I see these chicks and feel the fresh cold that made me shiver and am aware of the scent of Tide, boot leather and saddle soap. It hits me like Flaubert’s petit madelines in Swann’s Way.
How was this part of my brain stimulated ? by his scent? His sex? My response? Hyperbole aside, did the sex or the attendant weaving equal the thrill of racing down the linoleum floored hall in foot pajamas, rounding corners, touching and turning the brass knob, revealing baby chicks delivered to me, from the Easter Bunny?
What part of the weaving is unearthing of memories? Is the weaving part of natural selection? What does it mean when it is this potent, pheromones or limbic system bingo? What part reality, the reading of another’s heart energy, or of one’s own, long buried, and what part wishful?
It is the most powerful thing I do, the weaving, bringing its essence into awareness. It is where my babies came from, energetically, beyond birds and bees. It is who they are, the essence of the DNA I did read and combine, strand upon strand. I wove it; I continue to weave, entwining that which I discern, with my own, and that knowledge filters through my awareness when there is potency.
My friend Jane says she is just hopeless. Hopeless. She says all she wants is to be at home with *****, to wear an apron and bake for him, and for him to deftly undo the apron strings, and have sex with her in the kitchen. Everywhere. All the time. We love to weave.
I hate to ruin the poetry of this post with a non-poetic comment, but this is exactly what’s supposed to happen when women hook up with men that turn them on.
The whole idea is to drive you, not to where we know we can take you but to create the environment where you take yourself wherever it is that you want to go or need to go or were longing to go but couldn’t get there by yourself. If you CAN get there by yourself, more power to ya!
Unfortunately, there are lots of women that aren’t moved AT ALL by hooking up with their guys, which is a damned shame. Maybe they get something physically out of it and maybe they get a feeling of being useful or wanted or depending on their role in the action, powerful.. but they never reach the point that’s beyond their ability, thus never understanding how good sex COULD actually be for them if they were to just let go and let someone drive them….
Woo hoo! Bravo! I think we are both noting that the bread has mold and discovering penicillin! Of COURSE it is supposed to happen this way. If we can help eliminate barriers to “it” happening through honest assessment, think what a happier world we would inhabit!
You just explained that men actually desire women to weave. This is groundbreaking.
YOu go on to say…
“but they never reach the point that’s beyond their ability, thus never understanding how good sex COULD actually be for them if they were to just let go and let someone drive them….”
Is it an exclusive “tribe” of select women who are capable of responding fully or can it be achieved if women are simply willing to allow someone to drive them???
I think it is innate. But I’ll keep writing to nudge, hopefully, all women towards the goal. I think it requires being totally, unflinchingly porous, which is waaaay too poetic for you! But, you feel me!
Not an exclusive tribe…I also think it’s innate. All women are capable of responding fully although why they have strufuggled for years with emancipation is to NOT allow themselves to be driven by men and to be strong and unyielding.
Works great in the outer world. Although, since this belief permeates the core of a woman’s very being, confusion has its heyday as the nasty core belief weaves itself into the body fibers, holding back an orgasmically potential event where a man is wanting to drive them.
Unless of course he is a familiar trusted lover. Here, safety sits with a smile like a little Buddha – with hands crossed right there in her g spot arena – who lets it all in and directs it up the kundalini serpent wave explosive channel. Maybe that man driving is in touch with the Buddha within…
Oh yeh, I almost forgot about Chicken Killer. Where did he pop into the picture, after sex with Brian? Jeeze Louise! The memories of those soft little chicks that fit perfectly in your hands? Or was it the lean body, ravenous appetite. Rabid and Wild. ???
the juxtaposition of the two. That’s what I call limbic system Bingo! The sweetness and the rapaciousness, cradled between the two. After Briar, not Brian. That broken picker of mine has had its rewards!!!!
Maybe there is no control to the connection of memories.
It could be as random as bingo. But it doesn’t sound quite random. Easter chickens – fertility – potential. A fragile precious moment small enough to hold in your palm and enticing enough to need to protect from wild dogs.
It could be your consciousness focused & hitting a primordial target through the act of sex. It then bounces off like a ray of light in any direction. A prismatic arrow shoots through layers and layers of memories and reflects, refracts, until one memory feels familiar to now, and glows back in your mind’s eye.
Could have been anything. This time you got chicks!
Like primordial.
I can envision a conversation with women friends, in the future, when we talk about just naturally going for the experience within the experience, everytime. Sex becomes that which could yield… anything! from our psyche.” Limbic system bingo!
Now I see William Hurt emerging from a sensory deprivation tank, (the film Altered States) going deeper and deeper until he IS primordial!
Nice poetic prose. Great synergy. Thank you for helping all of us gain clarity on that which women weave! I wonder if we will be accused of using men! We only wanted them for OUR minds!
HaHaHa
The “funny” thing is that I believe that it’s a residual effect of “The Cycle Of Nothing”, which is the cerebral jockeying for position and power struggle that women often engage in, sometimes necessarily, in order to maintain control of themselves and influence in their relationships.
You can’t do both… You can’t simultaneously stay in control and relinquish control. Your choices are to remain coherent or submit to the ultimate release. Unfortunately for women, there are too many parameters to controlling a relationship, which distracts y’all from your own pleasure. Guys don’t have that problem because we’re not trying to control anything.. We’re trying to get off. We’re focused on what matters, which is enjoyment, statisfaction, gratification.. We’re not burdened by “what this sex means” and the future blahblah of it.
Meanwhile, women are so preoccupied with future ramifications as well as how they’re perceived in their relationships and to themselves and to their friends that y’all miss out on the pure pleasure of going with the flow. Guys don’t ever think about being labeled “sluts” after the fact. Guys don’t have to worry about being pregnant in case condoms fail. Guys don’t have to worry about whether a gal’s going to respect them in the morning. All we have to do is enjoy the moment.
So I don’t think it’s an exclusive tribe of women that are ‘capable’.. However, the way women select men has nothing to do with their physical and sexual gratification. If a guy’s a Herb in bed but makes enough money, gals will hook up with that guy to ensure their financial security. So what that the sex is horrible? You have a roof over your head, money & credit cards. After that, women want to complain that they’re not getting off with their men. So what? You didn’t choose him for that. You chose him for your wallet. Everything he was supposed to bring to the table, he *IS* bringing to the table.
So, No.. It’s no mystery to me why there are so many women that are sexually dissatisfied in their relationships or have never achieved “The Big O” in their entire lives. All guys can’t produce that. If you didn’t select him for his ability to turn you on and get you off, enjoy what you hooked up with him for and leave the sexuality and sensuality to the professionals.
“However, the way women select men has nothing to do with their physical and sexual gratification.”
Say what? At this moment the attributes above are the ONLY criteria I think I employ when choosing a date or a mate. I can sense it from 20 feet away the first time I see them. I’m been honing this detecting device and observing cause and effect for a long time. Hence this site.
When I say “women from my tribe,” I am speaking about all the women I know from different parts of the world who feel the same way about sex and men as I do. THose for whom physical attraction and sexuality are potent, yet sublime. Powerful forces.
These woman are open and eager to discuss it all. For it intrigues us and pleasures us and amazes us beyond anything else!
The women you refer to who choose guys to ensure financial security are a different lot. I don’t generally like them very much. I sure don’t resonate with them. If they were completely incapable of supporting themselves, I guess the sell out is understandable. Having said this, for those women whose criterium, money, insures unimpeded consumerism,there doesn’t seem to be much difference (and it’s been said before) between marriage and prostitution.
Supply and demand. Ha Ha:D
There is something else interesting about my “picker.” By many societal markers it would appear to be “broken.” At the end of relationships I have often felt incredulous, as if awakening from a daze, finding that I was with a particular man.
But I wouldn’t go back and do it differently. I learn about the world through men. I love men.
I don’t think the other type feels as passionately as “we” do. I don’t think attraction and magic and everything going squiggly in the air as soon as your man is around you happens to the others.
I sure am lucky!
allowing a man to drive us where we long to go takes a huge amount of trust- in the guy, in the universe or at least in ourselves (deep beyond our controlling conscious minds).
Right, Carmen,
and what a relief it is to get our fingers off of the steering wheel and through that trust experience something deeper and richer than workaday consciousness.
In retrospect if my trust was misplaced, I’m still awfully glad it was, as it facilitated the experience! If you dream a marvellous dream and wake up luxuriating in the emotions and experiences from the dream, it tends to positively impact the day. Expectations, mood, affect. Meaningful sex is like that, for me. I effortlessly replay moments and attendant epiphanies. I just weave and weave and keep weaving!
“Unless of course he is a familiar trusted lover”
In an ideal world, Dorisse! But I recall, when we met on Red Sands Beach on Maui in the early 80’s, two women who might not have had that qualifier!
It is kundalini energy. It is belief systems. It is the ability to let go!!!!!
I am a woman who weaves and would like to thank the women on this site for their honesty and openness and beauty. And I’d like to use this venue to also thank all of the men who have made love to me so magnificently, bringing on the Big O AND synergistically helping me touch the numinous. OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH YES!
you are quite a writer. this is a neat site..peace…
Hello LeRoy! Thank you so much for reading some of my stories! I am eager to hear your own. Amazing, to me, that we have such a common thread in our histories and didn’t even know it. To surviving!!xoxo