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Old 04-03-2014, 12:20 PM   #1
rparker's Avatar
Location: Minneapolis, MN
Posts: 59
Default One for Nirvana/Hole Fans

I recently had an essay published, "A Conversation with Myself About Why Kurt Cobain Blew His Brains Out." I hope it's ok to share it here?

Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. Hemingway too. Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven, and Ann Sexton—wearing her mother's fur coat—drank some vodka and started her car.

In the garage.

With the door closed.

And Virginia Woolf—she filled her pockets full of stones.

What the fuck were they thinking? What were you?

I can find no meaning in your death. I see a discography cut short by a flawed perspective. I see a man in chronic pain with a heroin addiction. I see a man who made an impulsive, selfish decision at a fixed point in time that can never be undone, can never be made right.
Read the rest here:

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Old 04-03-2014, 01:25 PM   #2
Minion of Satan
soniclovenoize's Avatar
Location: Minneapolis, MN
Posts: 5,475

Cool bit of prose. I liked it. I also appreciated you didn't go into bullshit conspiracy territory, which is what I thought this was going to be. Well done.

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Old 04-03-2014, 03:05 PM   #3
rparker's Avatar
Location: Minneapolis, MN
Posts: 59

Originally Posted by soniclovenoize View Post
Cool bit of prose. I liked it. I also appreciated you didn't go into bullshit conspiracy territory, which is what I thought this was going to be. Well done.
Thanks. And yeah, I'm tired of the conspiracy theories too... which are immediately brought up whenever I share this on directly Cobain-related forums.

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Old 04-03-2014, 08:42 PM   #4
slunken's Avatar
Posts: 39,340

The shower fills with steam, but the water isn’t hot enough. I rub the rough grains of a sea salt scrub over my skin. Slow, deliberate circles—your tongue. The texture tormenting, teasing—your beard. I can still feel both against me even now as lavender and eucalyptus infuse this small, warm space.

I miss you already.

I slide down to the shower floor, the spray splashes against my skin—tormenting, teasing—and my hand slides too—slow deliberate circles—and it feels good, but it isn’t enough.

Isn’t you.

I can still see you in the bathtub yesterday, hear your voice, yet it already feels a lifetime away.

Or a thousand miles.

The water still isn’t hot enough, will never be hot enough to erase the feel of your hands—confident, deliberate, knowing precisely how and where I need to be touched. My most secret places your fingers found, and I needed them, need them still. And the words you wrote that made me wet when I had wanted to be mad—

I can still smell you on my fingers.

My hand moves faster—confident, deliberate. I know precisely how and where and by whom I need to be touched, but I’ll settle for this instead.

I can still taste you on my lips.

I step out of the shower, turn off the water and pick up my phone. I write the words you expect, because when I come we both know that I must tell you.

The photo you expect as well—the bruises on my ass. And another of the one on my thigh, in the shape of your mouth.

Smack. “What did you say?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Smack.

And I did not answer.

Smack. “Yes?”

“If I answer, you’ll stop.” I stare at your lips, inches from mine, and all I want is to kiss you, but what I need is to feel your hand again—

You caress my shoulder, and we do kiss before I whisper, “Yes, sir.”

Smack. “That’s better.”

“Thank you.”





Already I wonder when. I dry myself, rub lotion onto my skin. Slow, deliberate circles. Lavender and eucalyptus.

You allowed me to massage your thighs, to rub the oil into your skin, to stroke your asshole with my finger, the way I had been wanting to—slow, deliberate circles. And you allowed me to explore your body with my tongue, your most secret places my tongue found and will find again. I took you into my mouth—teasing, tormenting.

“Sit on your cock.”

And I did, and I kissed you because I wanted to, because I cannot not kiss you when you’re inside me and moaning my name. Your hands on my breasts, and I moved faster, and you commanded me to come.

You know me, know what turns me on. You know that I love imperative sentences.

“Clean your cock, take it in your mouth.”

“Thank you.”

Your taste. The texture of you under my tongue. Tasting myself on you.

The slow, deliberate circle of your hips as you pinned me to the bed.

As I rose to meet you, pulled you toward me, begged, “Fuck me.”

I can still see you standing on the opposite side of a busy street. I remember wanting to run to you, waiting for the light to change, and then forcing myself to not touch you until we were alone even though what I wanted more than anything was to kiss you then, on a crowded street corner.

But of course I couldn’t.

The door closed behind us, and I knelt before you, took you in my mouth. You cried out my name, and when you came I swallowed.

Your held me through the night. The way only you have. And you hold me still, yet you don’t understand why I’m the way I am, why I can’t decide, why seeing her words hurt me, why I want you. You can’t see yourself through my eyes. And I can’t make you happy.

So why stay?

I’m alone in my bed. My phone buzzes against the mattress—the difference in vibration subtle, slight and signaling that the incoming text is from you.

A heartbeat.

Kiss. And a photo—you, asleep, exactly as I remember, yet you only ever see yourself this way in the photos you send to me.

I hesitate, because I say I can’t help it, but I write the reply I know you need, that we both need, because I think I understand.


You say you’re strange. Every time we part, you remind me that you’re lousy at goodbyes and apologize. You hold me more tightly than anyone ever has, you kiss me the only way I’ve ever wanted to be kissed, yet still you say you’re terrible at goodbyes.

I don’t understand, but I miss you already.

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Old 04-03-2014, 09:50 PM   #5
Trotskilicious's Avatar
Location: I believe in the transcendental qualities of friendship.
Posts: 39,643

"People who say it's the "coward's way out" are insufferable parasites."

spot on

you can get e-published for this hacky shit? i gotta get writing again

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Old 04-03-2014, 11:28 PM   #6
rparker's Avatar
Location: Minneapolis, MN
Posts: 59

Wow, Slunken, I'm flattered that you liked my (non-fiction) erotica enough to copy and paste it here in its entirety. (A link to the actual page would be cool next time.) It never occurred to me to share that particular piece here, since it's a bit off-topic. I have another one about tits you might like, featuring a photo of mine that made its online debut years ago as my avatar on Netphoria and other SP sites. I had totally forgotten what a friendly community Netphoria was ;-)

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