Growl

        One of the things I love to do when I’m with a woman is growl. Like an animal. What you do is suck air in through your nose, kind of like you’re snoring while awake, and let the incoming air reverberate against the back roof of your mouth. Then you manipulate the noise with your mouth, changing the pitch so that it sounds like a growl. That’s the best I can do in describing the process. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, although back then, it’s application was in an entirely different context. I learned to do it as a way to imitate imaginary dinosaurs or tigers when I played. Girls were still the enemy then, and I never dreamed that one day I’d use the sound as a sort of mating call.
        Actually, there’s a specific application of the growl that’s most effective. I’ve always found a woman’s neck to be a beautiful, smooth, soft, sweet smelling landscape upon which to orally explore. Lots of guys dig a girl’s neck. And most woman I know love it when a man pays attention to it. Maybe because it’s so close to the mouth but yet is an entirely different erotic canvas. There are lots of nerve endings in the area, just below the ears, under the chin, and all along it’s sinewy curves. And since it’s right near the ears, a woman can hear your heavy breathing and the sounds your mouth makes when you’re going to town there. The audible dimension of eroticism is sometimes overlooked, but it’s a gorgeous and powerful stimulus that can have a huge impact on the quality of a sexual relationship.
        Lots of guys love kissing a woman’s neck. Very softly. Or more aggressively, breaking out the turbo tongue. I like to bite it, gently but with a little force, like a benign vampire, then nibble. Licking is always fun, like a yummy flesh lollipop. And I’m constantly inhaling as much of her scent as I can during all of this, because smell is very evocative. And there are few, if any, places on a woman’s body that carry as much of her natural scent as her neck. And I don’t even have to mention how much most men love the smell of a woman’s hair. Plenty of those sexy fumes are dancing around her neck as well. It’s a schmorgasborg.
        Once you’ve perfected the growl, the best place to use it is on a woman’s neck. What you do is stick your whole face right into a soft fleshy area; your open mouth gently but firmly engulfing a patch of skin, your nose resting there as well. Then growl. The act of placing your mouth against all that soft skin lowers the fundamental pitch, making it sound even more like a growl; more bassy, more animalistic, more playfully sinister. And you’re doing it right under her ear, so she can hear this loud and clear. In fact, that could be all she can hear, which is even better.
        The vibrations caused by the growling reverberate against her skin, creating a sensual rapid fire caress. And it lightly tickles her. Nine times out of ten, she’ll start to laugh. But not the type of laugh that says “What the hell are you doing buddy?”, but the kind of laugh that says “This feels really good, it tickles, it’s fun, it’s different, it’s passionate and wild, it’s turning me on”.
        The growl is playful and passionate. It’s fun and sexy. It’s primitive, reminding our modern DNA’s that we were once much more animalistic. It evokes a primal lust that’s completely non-threatening, and completely natural. Remember the old Esso (now called Exxon) ad that said “Put a tiger in your tank”? Well I say “Put A Tiger In Her Neck”. Wearing loin clothes and animal pelts is optional.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Serengeti plain of Wrongs) Reserved.

A Little Bit Biff, A Little Bit Larry

        Biff is a buff, athletic, gym rat. He’s there every day for at least two hours. From across the room, he spots a guy he doesn’t know, but sees there all the time. He doesn’t say anything to the guy, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

        Repulsive. Absolutely re-fuckin-pulsive. Fat droops everywhere, draping over you like an enormous, saggy, flesh cape. The very ground seems to grunt trying to support your mass. People practically scurry out of your way, probably afraid that they’ll be unable to avoid your girth and brush up against you. That can’t be pleasant. Even the air avoids you, appearing to rush away as you move, as though it were escaping from a balloon. Your movement looks unnatural, your very bones moving in ways unintended by God. I refuse to call that a body, and obese is too kind a word. Inhuman is more accurate.
        No self-control. No discipline. No life. You spend your nights gorging yourself on pizza and ice cream while watching Star Trek reruns. Then you call whatever few pathetic friends you have and argue with them over who’s better, Kirk or Piccard. Why bother coming to the gym? Save your money fatso. Spend it on ring dings. At least you’ll enjoy them. You can’t possibly like being here. And you have no idea what you’re doing. I watch you go through your half-assed excuse of a routine, barely breaking a sweat, not using proper technique or form. I hope you live close by. Any more than a twenty minute round trip commute would officially qualify your experience here as a colossal waste of time.
        And I can’t understand your expression. A peaceful smile plastered on your face, from the moment you get here to the moment you leave. Even while you’re working out, if you could call what you do here that. I don’t get it. Where’s the struggle? Where’s the pain and sacrifice? You talk too much while you’re here, saying hello, striking up conversations with the person next to you on the treadmill. You mock this sacred ground, where people come to work and change their bodies.

        Larry is a large, heavy, reluctant exerciser. He doesn’t like being in the gym, but he comes anyway, because he knows it’s good for him. From across the room, he sees a man he doesn’t know. He never talks to this man, ever, but the monologue in his head about him goes like this:

       Stop staring at me with contempt. I feel your eyes boring through me, struggling to get through all this fat and reach the other side of judgment. You probably hate me. You don’t even know me. But I know you. A thousand times. God smiled on you, blessed you with genetics and motivation, and physical fortune. Be grateful.
        My outsides appear hideous to you, but how I look is not who I am. I know that. But you don’t. So while the world is at your feet, you kneel before a false god.
        I did not choose this body. It chose me. My will power. My desire. My pain. None of it has been enough to free me from this biological prison. My prayers remain unanswered. But I still pray. For the act of prayer soothes my soul. I learned how to leave this body a long time ago. I learned to go away to a safe place where the words and the stares and the stones would not hurt so much. I still leave, but now I leave for a different reason. When I meditate. When I pray. I travel to a safe place within myself not to hide but to heal. And now I choose to go, instead of just suddenly finding myself someplace else without even realizing I’ve left.
        You move so stiffly my friend, as though your own body resists itself. Every movement seems strained and calculated. Every action reeks of pretense. Posing as a maverick, as a man who is beautiful and free, I see through the façade. I know your prison: unbridled vanity.
        I recognize your pain. I grasp your story. Because your story is my story, just turned on its head. An upside down quarter is still a quarter. I know that, but you don’t. Ego clouds your vision, and truth remains a hidden treasure.
        I will pray for you. I will pray that you see yourself, and free yourself. Then maybe you will see me.

       We're all a little bit Biff. We're all a little bit Larry.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Biff & Larry amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

The CVS of Broken Hearts

        Saturday, I was at a local CVS picking up a prescription for my sister. In front of the store, there stood a couple having a discussion. From the look on their faces, and their body language, it looked pretty intense. I had to walk past them on my way into the store, and I really didn’t want to hear what they were saying. But it was impossible not to, unless I pulled the old third grade audible denial technique of putting my hands over my ears and making loud, inhuman sounds with my mouth. I knew how to do that, physically and metaphysically. I’ve watched people in my family do it for decades.
        I heard a little as I walked by. “Relationship”. “Love”. “Lies”. The rest of what they were saying was a blur, and that’s the way I wanted it. But those powerful words leapt out at me like frogs from a lily pad. And right before I got past them, the guy walked away, and the woman turned into the store. Without knowing anything else, it appeared there was some serious hurt going on. I felt this energy as I walked through their collective space, and it literally plucked a heart string that resonated in the key of pain.
        The woman was in front of me, and happened to be going towards the back of the store, just like I was. In another life, I stopped her and asked her what was wrong. Sensing my infinite empathy, compassion, and healing abilities, she broke down, opened up, and told me everything. I held her, wiped away her tears, put my hand on her chest, and instantly mended her broken heart. She walked away smiling from ear to ear, now crying tears of joy.
       That was in another life. In this one, I said a silent prayer for both of them and kept walking.
        It was now official. This was The CVS of Broken Hearts. Eight months ago, my heart got broken there too. Even now, every time I go by the place, I think of that night. God knows how many more hearts have been shattered within the negative love zone of that seemingly innocent pharmaceutical and beauty supply store.
        Last summer, the night before the Falmouth Road Race, which I was running, I had gotten together with my ex-girlfriend, principessa. During the course of the evening, I drove her to this same CVS to fill a prescription for her because she wasn’t feeling well. On the way to the store, I said how madly in love with her I was, even though we had been broken up for two and a half months. I hadn’t been in the situation of being in love with somebody I wasn’t with since I was twenty years old. And just like then, this discussion wasn’t exactly flooding me with dopamine.
        This conversation on the way to CVS was probably the most painful discussion of my life. It continued on into the store, where she started to cry. I tried to comfort her, and then through her tears she said the worse six words I’ve ever heard: “I’m not in love with you.” Actually, it was the worse twelve words I’ve ever heard. She said it twice.
        As I reeled from this machete through my heart, I turned away, the look on her face burned indelibly into whatever area of grey matter is responsible for the storage of devastatingly painful memories. That area’s retention ability was pushing maximum density by now, having received trillions of synapse shattering neurotransmissions within the past hour. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I wish I could say that I was able to find humor in the moment and respond with “Oh Yeah?!” But no, I couldn’t. I had to process what I just heard. It was the first time she had ever said that to me.
        All of sudden, my whole insides caught fire, and I felt like I was being cooked from the inside by the flames of agony and despair. I walked around the store because I had to keep moving or I would have burned to a crisp right there in the make-up isle. Nothing I had ever felt hurt like this. I would have preferred the pain of a white hot, razor studded catheter jammed through a raging erection.
        Previously, throughout the course of the evening, no matter what she said to me, even if it hurt like hell, I didn’t shut down. I didn’t resort to my normal protective M.O. I didn’t get defensive or put up a wall. In fact, I returned whatever she threw at me with words of love. With understanding. With kindness. With nakedly vulnerable honesty. And I have to admit, it felt good to do that. It was different. I was different. And that was wonderful. Even if everything else about that night totally sucked ass.
        So as I walked and burned, my course of action became clear. Just go back and tell her the truth. So I walked up to her, pushed her soft hair away from her head, and whispered in her ear “I still love you. Whether you love me or not doesn’t affect how I feel about you.” Now those were some words that I had never said to any woman before. Ever. Even if it was how I felt.
        That’s all I could do. I was done with not showing how I felt. I tried that, thinking it would save me from heartache. It didn’t. It just kept me further away from whoever I was with. I had nothing to loose now anyway. Even if she was lying about how she felt, what good was it going to do if I lied about how I felt? Then all you’ve got is even more space between us. And if I was ever going to pole vault over this emotional chasm, I’d rather do it over a shorter distance. I had no control over how far she’s going to push me away. But I didn’t have to do the same just because she hurt me. I had done that before too. It didn’t make me happy either.
        So I kept her close, even if it was just in my heart. That was a lot more difficult than putting up a wall, or staying mad at her, or any number of defense mechanisms that I got good at. More difficult, but it didn't suck energy from me. It gave it. It’s like working out. Going for a run is harder than staying on the couch, but it fills me with an energy that affirms my life. Not diminishes it.
      I got absolutely no sleep that night last August, but I still ran the Falmouth Road Race the next day. All 7.1 miles of it. Like I said, life affirming energy.
        But I still don’t like going into that CVS.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and, you guessed it, a CVS full of Wrongs) Reserved.