a.e. hart's sketchpad

Category: sex


It can’t be this real, this intense. Im afraid that I will stare at you dumbly next time we meet, shellshocked from this language of falling, of flight. You are halfway in each of my thoughts, and under my skin in every movement.

Today my hips are aching from opening, from letting you in. I wanted your fist. Your heart.

I open into freedom, always, but you pull the ropes down from my shelf.  In the past, this was a game, for pleasure. Here, beneath you, it is a surrender. I do not let you know, but I am yours for the taking. I submit.

You are afraid of my characteristic wandering. I will not show you where you have me tethered. We reinvent trust. I call to you silently, when we are apart.



last night you slipped into my life, irrevocably. no matter what happens next, you will leave a stain. its not the storm of your brown eyes following my movements. i have been admired before. it is the thin blue line erupting between us. your ability to enter where my words begin. this terrifies both of us.

you see me now as i see myself. someone both ancient and ordinary, straddling worlds.  you stepped out to steady me there, and the entire landscape shifted.  now where there were doors, there are hands. where there were limitations, there is a precipice.  i am loving you when we sing together. i am fucking you when i lay my voice against yours.

from the bed to the piano, a dangerous symphony, no matter where we stand we are slipping deeper. i tread gravity. i somersault and float.

you fuck me like a scientist one minute, turning me over in your hands. the next minute we are two birds bargaining for the same breath.  i am holding your ribcage together with my hands. mine is re-imagining itself; a black and white photograph of a blackbird.

i havent sung this deeply in awhile. i walk tightropes with my words. you threaten thunderstorms, in a glance. i am at your mercy.

Insomniac Files

Sometimes at night, in my ritual refusal to sleep, I think about you.  My houseguests, both stricken with the ailment that has had me down in bed for days, are breathing somewhat labored on their air mattress. I am sitting in bed, crosslegged, half staring at my houseplant, half towards the closed blinds, as if I can bore through to the window behind.

I am typing on my phone.

You seem to fit in my life. My sleeping friends could testify that I do not share my life easily, if they knew about this blog, or knew that I was still awake. Despite the cold medicine, the illness, im awake. As per usual.

Yesterday I slept until two pm. It was a miracle. I left the house once today, to buy toilet paper, and have one entirely inappropriate cigarette. You  texted once or twice, to make plans, to check in.

We are not having sex. We make out like teenagers, take our time like christians. This is unfamiliar. I know your scent now like a little wild bobcat stalking prey. You are my new favorite thing. Shiny, and most likely sharp, troublesome.

We make music together like two small doves, lifting our dark secrets to the moon. Shyly, we dive into the mysteries together. We talk about getting dirty, about camping.

I can imagine us in one home. This is unfamiliar. Unwelcome. We both need space, endless space. I imagine extra rooms.

“Cause its not hard too fall, but I don’t want to scare her….” d.rice

So for now, secrets. The labored breathing of my friends, and the quiet thought of your body, here with mine. Eventually.


Make me hollow, and fill me with paint
Teach me your rage in wall eyed dominance
In darkness… I want you to know my secrets
To push me into the deeper well, where the sounds escaping
Are more animal than human
Then I want you to tell me to shut up
My shattering divide, held tight, generates an impenetrable distance
I want you to strike and withhold
To leave me lingering and cold
To empty my body with
More than an ounce of cruelty

I want black gloves, and objectification
Rope so tight that I fly inward to meet my own shadows
I want you to leave me there
Bound but not held
In a stillness beyond earth, and beyond prayer
I want you to forget me in the morning
Make your coffee
Bury my unfamiliar scent, in the earth and grime of your daily routines

I skip. I dance, and collect my reasons
I paint my life the colors of twilight, autumn, and fire
I forget about you in the morning
make my coffee
Notice your unfamiliar scent
And my tender bruises

I put on a careless perfume
I half dress and wander
collect the universe
that might stain your greedy palms



i have a suggestion,

sing two octaves down
and i
will take off my pants
and shake it

turn on the moon, the vhs
we’re kicking it old school

we’ll tap dance
when delila plays celine dion

turn heads when
weve got our day glo on

someone owns this shade of red
someone owns this texture
im sure
by now

they’ll try to pin the whole world down
but you and i
and that kid over there
he doesnt know it yet

but were gonna dance, dance revolution

no patent
on my wide curves
no sale
on the things weve learned
theyve got butterfly nets
but we
scorpion bat banana and shapeshift
through the widening cracks

well make the sidewalks
our business cards
empower every preacher
on the path of love
fuck shameless
in the backseat
with the windows down
on a sunday

were gonna turn heads
no i mean really
turn heads
beating ecstatic joy
into the moon eaten sky
this is business

you and  i
will be the bonnie and clyde
of unacceptable joy
well have to cross

i came home so happy tonight i took of my pants
before i took off my motorcycle helmet
pulling out my most regal garment

it must be that time again

howl spit and sing…
we’re remembering
there was that divine invitation
the drunken celebration
someone’s sacred lover laughing
mine too!
when we folded the damn thing
paper airplane style
left it circling

saturn, was it?
doesn’t matter
i’ve got it

were going home
no matter where we lay our feet
in the meantime
there are stars to eat
gods every bone
and eyes for the witnessing


back to stalking the sacred prey
back to the business of love
we’ve got strangers to serenade
empires to undermine
three misshapen meals to eat

we’ve gotta sleep
wake the dreaming beast songs too
they want dragons?
we’ll give em’ dragons!
true: anyone can raise heaven like us
find me the one who does

i just really, really want to wrestle god
i really want to hold her heart
out of my chest

lets just keep this simple:
if you’re looking for sanity
remember it’s colors are electric
if you want the great grey sleep
trust me, the forgetting is
impossibly easy

we get windows.
lets break some,
you and me.

remembrance #1

back then we wore cutoff jeans without irony, and wore our hair wild and long. i knew you by the length of your arms, exquisite, as teenagers go. you didnt smoke, but you drove haphazardly. we spent long nights memorizing the curves of huckleberry road, driving backwards with no headlights.

its not that i dont think of you now. this moment is evidence enough that you stained my fingertips, the dim edges of my subconscious. its just that these days you drive too cautiously, and your body grew into itself.  you married me in thought, again and again, over a stretch of ten years. no matter that i was in love with a woman, and came to your bed for solace from her rejections.

we would pretend we were in the movies. our lover christine tossing her lit cigarette at the gas station, expecting chaos. my face lit with fear and laughter, but nothing happened. the hiss of cinders in a puddle, and we should have felt relief.  instead our faces fell, in your crowded jeep, as though cinema had betrayed us.

we spent sunny afternoons at the cemetery with a home movie camera you stole from your mother.  along with that her gas card, and her signature.  i stole my mothers voice, called myself in sick to school.  you were a liar, and i despised reality. the arrow straight path of life in a white, wealthy suburban town. as we grew older you thrived on inheritance, and i moved west.

the last time i saw you, you were walking your dog on 14tn street in manhattan. i had been up half the night on the sidewalk, waiting to buy radiohead tickets.  we embraced, and i watched you walk away. it was casual, like all of our comings and goings.  you always believed that life had  tossed us together irrevocably, so you didnt bother to call. i grew tired of creating fates, let myself roll farther and farther from you, from your bed, the soft white linen.

almost ten years later i can imagine you, sitting in your studio, a guitar propped on your knee.  an angry lover in the next room, desperate for your attention.  you have sex for the sake of sex, but throw around words like love, and daydream as stories unfold behind your studio door.  a slim body pacing and smoking, too proud to knock.  when she finally leaves, she doesn’t lock the door.

you are an editor. cutting things into workable segments. creating the same fictions that betrayed us at that gas station in the late nineties.  you remember my smile, my ass and my teenage breasts.  you edit out the arguments, the disconnection, the bad acid trips and our screaming mothers.

these are livable fictions.  the stories that did us little harm.  in the backdrop there were the deaths of our fathers, and the grim silences. we comforted each other the way boys do, sitting quietly over a drink, coughing and sighing.  there was the crack in your windshield from a thin skinned lover, and the tears we shed when we finally asked christine to leave, after one final sleazy afternoon. there was anne’s cancer, your surprising friendships, and the lies your family told to keep your mother young.

there was the dinner party, your mother and i casting sideways looks.  celebrating your shared birthdays, no one guessing your relation, the guests shared salacious details over burgers and champagne.  expecting you both do the same, there were the horrified and private exchanges as she gabbed about sex, the mile high club, the back seat.

you were a liar, and eventually i grew enamored with reality. your real estate in my heart lost value, the cinema billboards rusting and peeling.  standing here, i tune in to the creak of a swing, and wander through the truth of things. i step off the set, to the chair i once occupied. one to the right of the director.  you stare at the empty scene, light a match, betray your sensibilities.  you do not notice when i slip away.

5 minute sketch; #2

you have a strong arm
and no bones
a wet towel
and a shark bite smile

i have a weakness
for girls that know how to hit

you, in cowboy boots
the perfect dancer
i am a girl on the dance floor
where it matters
to boys like you

we switch partners like
railroad tracks
change genders

like costumes

i would
take you bone for bone
you tip your hat
frozen always

to the same damn side