I'm a creator, a maker, above all else. I make art, I make stories, I make messes, I make trouble, I make out. Like a bandit.

I was raised by transient hippies, wolves, and drag queens. I've seen all of this country from the back of a big green van. My brothers and I played Lord of the Flies in the backwoods of Oregon, neglected by self involved adults, we spent our days barefoot and barely clothed, creating kingdoms in the pits of dead trees left by the loggers. We ran wild on the crack vial strewn asphalt of Brooklyn with stony faced abuelitas watching from the stoops like leathery hawks in flowered house dresses, while the old men played dominoes outside the bodegas we'd steal candy from. We swam the blue bathwater oceans of the gulf of Mexico and watched the alligators sun themselves in our backyard. We never stopped moving. It's a habit I never thought I'd manage to shake, until New Orleans drew me in and bade me stay.

My only constant in the chaos has been my first love, words, stories, books. You can only pour so much tale into a person before it starts pouring back out again. I write because I would burst at the seams if I did not. I share it on a stage sometimes because the warm embrace of the Esoterotica community finally gave me the courage to do so.

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Come here. Kiss me.

You kissed me like sacrament. And you kissed me like sacrifice. We kissed each other like a battle, tongues laying siege in a long, long war. With you, and you, and you, it’s laughing and playful, a tease knowingly never to be fulfilled, just admiration and adoration expressed past trifling words. Sometimes it's thoughtless and liquor has loosened our ties, and sloppy, toothy gnawing will be wincingly abandoned and blessedly soon forgotten.

After a month you kissed me in the crowd at the show, while the band howled from the stage. And for the first time the sound went out of the world just like I was in a movie, and there was only us, locked together, my pulse in my ears, and that could have lasted forever, until the thrashing bodies knocked us, laughing, to the floor, and a dozen hands pulled us back up into the sweaty throng to dance. And I thought that could have lasted forever.

I kissed him in the cold of that December night, out on the Coney Island pier, knowing I’d never love him the way he loved me but ravaging refuge from his warm mouth, because, because… We had stood in the same spot months before, amoral as cats, in the blaze of the August sun. And you kissed me for the first time, and you said, never before, never before had lightning struck and the sound gone out of the world like you were in a movie. It was worth the wait. You held my face in your hands and guilelessly stole the secret kisses from the corners of my mouth until I cried, because, when you asked, you’ve never even read Peter Pan. And we returned to the across, you on a plane to the other side of the planet, me on a train to the other side of a necrotizing relationship.

When, after only three days, you stopped me in the moonlight to tell me, it was too later. I knew, because every kiss already sang the truth, because we could not stop sharing that inexorable surge, waves drawn by lunar gravity to crash on distant shores like your blood roars to mingle with mine, separated only by the soft pink vellum of our seeking lips. We conspire, breath together, swallowing one another’s gasps, the molecules of oxygen that have been in your lungs finding new home in mine, rich with the scent of your body, the spice of your mouth, invading with each inhale until I am high on that bouquet of elemental particles of you inside of me. We breathe, together, a conspiracy of lust and love. “And every breath we drew was…”

Now, when you smile at me with that threat and that promise of the kiss that awakens such a fire to climb my thighs, to burn in my belly and sear up to aching breasts, that kiss that bruises my lips swollen and sweeps away the world as I swallow your spit, a more tender cannibalism still than swallowing your come, I can see the gleam of those secrets in the corners of your lips and feel the answering echo of my own, not so easily pillaged after all.
Come here, and kiss me.