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Tuesday, December 11, 2001
This morning my first thought of her was tinged with a sense of disgust. Who was she, anyway, and who was I? My life was full, I had a beautiful home, a wife and steady career, lots of friends and outside pursuits. She was probably a dumb bitch anyway.
Why was I so annoyed that she had ignored me yesterday?
Why did I suddenly feel so misogynistic?
It really wasn’t this girl’s fault that she was driving me crazy
She was just sitting there
blithely going about her day
Unaware of all the totally unwarranted hostility
I had directed at her
Projecting all these feelings onto her wordless image
But like so many other hapless men
choking on our quiet desperation
seeking escape in internet porn and wrist numbing chat sessions
with girls we hope are girls, with girls we hope aren't 9 years old,
I have yielded to the shamefully trite obsession with the
silent "oriental" girl, the red lips and the black hair.
What a totally unoriginal fetish.
In considering this however I wondered why
perhaps I didn’t obsess over the more attractive
Asian women on the bus, I wondered why I had
chosen as the unfortunate object of my fantasy,
the unkempt moody one, who was shockingly alluring one day
but then childish and equally desirable (in a more perverse way) the next.
I worried a little for my current state.
This misguided anger at an innocent woman
was unhealthy, and I thought to myself, this is how the stalkers
and criminals start out selecting their victims, perhaps?
As I crested the hill I tried to shake off these thoughts
anticipating her small form dancing restlessly on the corner
She wasn't there. I felt deflated. The bus was late.
Not another shitty day. . .
And then a car drove up to the corner, and much like
the children who were being dropped off at the school across the street
it was her, she was being dropped at the corner by a young blond man.
My curiousity was piqued!
I watched as she disembarked from the car, leaning in several times
to kiss the driver on the mouth. Their kisses looked luscious and sweet.
She closed the door and waved goodbye, mouthing "Thank you!"
He drove off.
The bus pulled up to the corner and she was breathless, standing in line.
We made eye contact and she smiled warmly at me:
- I made it!
She said as we boarded.
- Good timing, I replied, showing my card to the driver
and following her down the aisle to find a seat.
I decided to be bold and sit right next to her today.
She didn't seem to mind, and scooted over to give me some room.
She was getting her headphones out, and I removed a book from my
pocket.
- What are you reading? she inquired.
- Nothing special, just "commute" reading. I showed her the book, which
was Ryu Murakami's Almost Transparent Blue
- Whoa, I know Murakami, she said, surprising me.
- Oh really? I said innocently, have you read this book?
- Actually, yes. I read it a long time ago. Have you seen his film?
She was smiling shyly and my pulse was racing from the engagement of her total attention.
- Tokyo Decadence, ya.
She nodded, and laughed, her eyebrow shooting up.
She was being so casual with me, so familiar, and I reveled in the warmth
of her thigh pressing against mine.
- That movie is a trip, she said.
She was getting so close to my dream, I honestly couldn't help
the twitching in my lap which I covered up with my folded coat.
And then she closed her eyes and I was able to look fully upon her
for a minute. She'd applied makeup today, little gold earrings, hair
tight in a bun. She looked older, yet her age was still indeterminate.
- I am a sexy business woman! she whispered, then opened her
eyes and laughed, looking at me. Remember that part?
Oh God, yes.
- Yeah, I said, laughing with her, trying to conceal my nervousness.
It suddenly got so hot in the bus, I felt like my tie was choking me and I couldn't
breathe.
- That was such a crazy scene! she said, preparing her headphones.
I gulped, inaudibly I hope, and took my chance.
- Actually, I said, interrupting her as she was putting on her headphones.
- Yes?
- It was "I am a *horny* business woman.
Shit! I felt my tone was too grave, too serious now!
I tried to smile, and opened my book, looking away from her.
I could feel her looking at me, her hands arrested in the air
in the process of putting her headphones on.
- Yes. she said quietly, simply. It *was* horny, wasn't it?
A little laugh from her as she put her headphones on
and dropped her head against the window.
I pretended to read, not really seeing the words,
too conscious of her body beside me, and her thigh against mine.
I pushed a little against her side, pretending to adjust in the seat,
if only to feel the resistant heat of her body against mine.
She didn't move away or seem to mind.
She was lost in her music, guileless in her little nap.
Meanwhile I was sweating profusely under my suit.
Thank God for the folded coat over my lap.
I felt like a total pervert.
I shifted again and she woke up a little,
her mouth parted slightly, a small tongue peeking out
to moisten her lips.
I was going to see her mouth, that tongue and her raised
eyebrow in my dreams to come.
My body suddenly felt like a live wire, attuned to her breathing and her warmth.
How might I prolong this feeling, how could I remember and later recall
her frequency?
Maybe I'll ask her to lunch sometime.
Someday. Not today.
Today I am just content to relish our little chat, and her nearness.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 11:50 AM
Monday, December 10, 2001
After a weekend of sleep and necessary personal action items I remembered her Not that I ever forgot her But I'd been busy with other things And banished her from my thoughts Cast her aside Walked up the hill this morning
and waited for the express
Dressed in hues of black and grey
she paid me no heed
and I took it personally for a moment
that she should not look for me
And then I thought
what am I to her?
Fellow commuter, that "nice guy"
For one day I was her hero
A new week and we were back to nodding strangers
I boarded behind her
and passed her walking down the aisle
She didn't look at me.
She wasn't smiling at all.
How funny that I felt dejected
what a way to start a Monday
I felt like pulling on her pigtails
to get her to notice me
as if we were on a playground
and she were the little girl
in pretty dresses, playing hopscotch with her friends
I was the boy who stopped running around for a minute
to just look at her, her small silhouette outlined
against the sunshine
waiting for her to smile at me
or stick her tongue out at me, at the very least
When you ignore your dreams
do they start to ignore you, too?
I closed my eyes on the bus
Staring at the back of her head
which was again, bopping along
to whatever music she was listening to on her headphones
Trying to summon her in dreamspace
To enter into that intimate chamber
I'd created for her and me
That little box that pushed out all other thoughts and responsibility
Where I could take her and transport us both
somewhere we could both drop out of time.
These reveries are mostly pointless
Most likely nothing would ever happen
These fantasies I had of her were only
a ridiculous escape from the normal trajectory of my life
A life I had chosen, a wife I had chosen - I'd had my doubts
long ago, if all this would be enough for me, or if one day
I wouldn't want to loosen my tie, take my shoes off and run amok.
She makes me want to run amok.
She might know something I was meant to know.
But she won't even look at me.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 3:38 PM
Friday, December 07, 2001
I was finally able to dream of her last night! I awoke this morning, late, because I didn't want to lose the thread. Readying myself for work in a fog, trying not to wake up too much lest I shake my head too hard and have all the images dissipate into my subconscious. The dream was a mish mash of media influences and my imagination -
elements of the film Tokyo Decadence, images of those small Catholic
schoolgirls running to get in line before the morning bell, Mary Jane shoes,
Ravel's Bolero on a loop, various images from downloaded Rocco .mpegs,
elements of John Fowles novels.
I remember only flashes, as most dreams are often remembered.
I couldn't hold on to the thread that wove them all together.
Dream Montage (a la Gus Van Sant)
A sleeping figure of her in a large bed. The shape of her nude body
outlined by a white silk sheet. Her arms are thrown back above her
head with her long black hair loose on the pillows, another Scarlet
Woman of Lyme. She shifts, and her undulations beneath the sheet
invite me to join her.
We are in a bare room, save this bed, and a wooden chair on which
I disrobe and place my wallet, belt, and clothes, carefully folded.
It is night, it is dark, and her skin is illuminated only by
moonlight which streamed through a large window with
a painting of a red bullseye (or was it a mandala) painted on it.
I watch the rise and fall of her breathing from the foot of the bed.
She doesn't seem to know that I am there.
Have I done it? Have I penetrated, astral-projected, into her
dreamspace? Is this where she is right now? Sleeping quietly,
dreaming peacefully, unaware of the danger that lurked at the foot of her bed?
Another mood detected in the dream: Danger.
I was the dangerous one. She, an innocent prey.
In the dream, I look at my hand and I am holding my leather belt.
Cut to next flash:
We are in a high rise office building, on a top level floor.
She is perched on the sill of a window that looks down
to a 20 story drop. She is wearing a small black shift, her hands placed
against the glass. Her hair is slicked back and pulled into a tight bun
at the nape of her neck (as I have sometimes seen her on the bus).
She is covered with a sheen of sweat. I am watching her, seated behind
my desk, having a drink.
- Tell me what you want, I say.
She shakes her head, unable to speak.
She makes no sound but a whimper, hands against the glass,
legs spread and bracing her knees against the window.
- You get nothing until you tell me what you want, I say.
I get up from my desk, approach her, feeling her
tense as my hand makes contact with her bare ankle.
Her skin is warm, moist with perspiration, and I palm
her ankle, her calf, sweeping up the back of her knee
to the inside of her thigh, where I feel nothing but slick.
A small gasp as my hand barely grazes her sodden panties.
Her wetness brings an involuntary moan to my throat.
I look up at her, and she is now looking down at me,
breaking character, no longer shy.
Dark eyes stripping me of my power as her honey
drips onto my hand. Dark eyes reflecting my desire.
She smiles tightly, and contracts inside.
I can feel it without having to penetrate her.
She laughs at me and I don't know why
until I look down at my crotch and there's a tent in my pants.
One husky whispered word formed from that red little mouth:
Gimme.
The intoxicating scent and silky texture: the power of her honey.
The bubble bursts and I lose the thread. Looking up at my reflection
in the bathroom mirror, I am brushing my teeth. My image is
somehow different, as if I had a new dimension to my being which
never existed before, or perhaps one I never knew how to access.
I was running late so I drove in to work today. Perhaps it was for the
best that I did not see her that morning - I was a little afraid she might
see through me, that she might know what I was thinking, what I had been dreaming.
I thought about offering her a ride home at the end of the day, but
I had no idea how to approach her - would I drive by the bus stop
to find her waiting? Would I seem like a dirty old man trying to pick
up this young girl from school? What would we talk about on the ride home?
I made the decision to put her out of my mind for the day,
for the weekend. She was only a distraction, after all.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 3:47 PM
Thursday, December 06, 2001
A long day yesterday and I boarded the bus home in a foul mood.
I hadn't eaten all day, except for a Power Bar or two, and the stop and go of the bus
was making me nauseous. I let my head drop against the window of the bus, feeling suffocated by
the crush of bodies, wet umbrellas, foggy windows. I just wanted to get home, my head was throbbing and I just wanted to decompress.
A tap on my shoulder and I look around to see who had touched me.
My heart jumped a little as I turned around and looked
right into her eyes. She was smiling, red lips, and she looked
equally bedraggled by the wind and rain.
- Need an aspirin? You look like you could use one.
she said, halfway shy and halfway assertive.
She was all bundled up and had taken off her headphones.
I took that as an enormous compliment.
- No thanks, what I could really use is a drink!
God, I sounded stupid.
She looked at me and said sympathetically,
- Long day, I guess?
- Yeah. Long and hard.
What am I saying?
Quizzical look from her as she reaches to put her
headphones back on. I swore she raised an eyebrow
for a second.
- Well, we're almost home now.
She leaned back in her seat, I turned back around.
I'm a grown man - why I am talking to her like
an awkward college freshman?
Closing my tired eyes I settled back into my seat,
a warm feeling knowing she was sitting right behind me.
Almost home, she said. That's a pretty familiar thing to say.
I wasn't even sure where her house was, or if she knew where I lived.
Commuters rarely ask for names, acknowledging one another
with nods or the occasional good morning.
What was her home like? Did she have a boyfriend?
No wedding ring, nor did she have the air of a married woman.
I wondered if it would be possible to follow her home,
how I could do that, if only just to see where she lived.
Did that make me a stalker? A bad person?
I hadn't *done* anything yet, I was just curious about her.
I had fantasies, those brief daydreams of wrapping my
hands in her long black hair and pulling her neck to the side,
exposing the smooth tender flesh to my teeth.
I'm not weird. Even a married man sometimes just needs
something or someone to project his fantasies onto, if
only for the exercise of the imagination.
And the small woman sitting behind me, just happened to
pique my curiosity. Had I intrigued her as well?
I shifted in my seat, opened my eyes and looked at the streets.
I had missed my stop. She was gone.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 2:23 PM
The Objectification of Dope J. Part II The weekend, and I did not see her. I spent time with my family instead.
Thoughts of her though, in my periphery. I tried to dream of her, but
when I awoke I couldn't hang on to any of my dreams.
* * * *
Monday it was raining. She wasn't there.
I felt kind of depressed.
So I tried again, to dream of her.
I couldn't though, it was as if she locked me out
of her dreamspace; I couldn't invoke her image.
* * * *
Tuesday and I walked to the bus stop trying to
deny my interest in whether she was there or not.
I forced myself to think of more serious matters -
projects at work, buying my wife a new dress for
my office Christmas party, wondering if I should
sell my car and buy a new one, or right, that other
hot Asian woman that might be on the bus, the
one she was always looking at.
Back to her, right as I crested the hill to the stop.
There she was.
Today she was in a more "grown up outfit"
and looked more serious than usual.
Humming to herself with her headphones on,
watching the kids again.
She had on the shoes I like, little platform Mary Janes.
Light blue socks with little white stripes.
Gray tailored pants that grabbed her ass
in a way that registered in my suddenly twitching cock.
- Quiet down there! I said to my crotch, trying quickly to
think of something to despoil the waking chubby.
She was looking for change in a little pink coin purse,
dumping it out into her hand, looking through pennies
and nickels.
I took action. Walked straight up to her and held out
a dollar coin.
She was startled, looked up at me, and I could
see myself, slightly ridiculous, reflected in her dark glasses.
Her face lit up into a surprised smile.
There was a brief moment of contact and I put
the coin into her palm.
- Wow, thanks! That's very sweet of you.
Her voice, a little deep, slightly cool rasp, warm timbre, not too sweet.
- No problem.
I decided to keep it simple, I knew she'd remember me from now on
as that "nice guy" who gave her bus fare. It was a standard ploy I'd used
many times before.
She turned to board the bus, and I was right behind her.
Her hair was down, long, black, silky shiny. When she turned
her head I caught a few strands, brushing across my face.
I closed my eyes for a nanosecond and caught the bus driver
giving me an odd look.
- Good morning.
I said to the driver, who only nodded.
She was arranging herself in a single seat,
pleased that she had gotten one.
I didn't want to sit too close, but wanted
her in my line of sight.
I walked towards her, intending to pass her,
when she looked up at me and flashed me
an honest smile:
- You're my hero today.
She said, and smiled again.
I shrugged it off and laughed, trying not to
betray the again, ridiculous feeling of having pleased her.
I walked past her without another word, hoping to
have made some sort of impression on her.
Now perhaps, she would wonder a little about me too.
She slept on the ride. I could tell by her head lolling on her shoulders,
the give of her body with each sway and bump of the bus.
Think about me, think about me, think who is he, think about me.
I chanted in my head, willing her, entreating her silently
with energy I felt I could send to the back of her head.
Before I could help it, an obscene fantasy of her came to life,
of her little body stripped to the waist, arms tensed and holding on
to the overhead rails, on an empty bus, except for her and the driver
and then me, simply sitting back and watching her exposed tits
(with those shoes and socks and pants, but topless with her hair
loose and wild around her shoulders and back)
bounce and vibrate with the bus going along the road.
Wait no, the road is too smooth.
Switch fantasy to cobblestone. or a rocky dirty road.
Something more bumpy so I can really watch her bounce. . .
An actual jolt of the bus broke my thoughts.
I laughed a little at myself for indulging in these daydreams.
I looked over at her, and she was still there, head propped against
the window, with her headphones on.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 2:12 PM
[Dopamine Junkie as a boy, further objectifying herself. Part I(?) ]
I said I was just going to write without regard to the quality of my content,
because too much pressures on "talking smart" is boring and keeps me from writing.Her journey began every morning.
I watched her walk from her house to the bus stop.
Always with headphones on.
Always singing.
The skin of her face and her outfits confused me a little.
Sometimes she looked older,
sometimes she looked younger,
sometimes she walked with a jaunty gait and a smile for
the world, other days she dragged her feet slowly up the hill,
head down, hands jammed in her pockets.
I followed her always many paces behind.
To her I was just another commuter,
someone she saw all the time but never spoke to.
Every now and again, we'd exchange a hello or good morning
nothing more
She waits at the bus stop, often dancing and singing to herself,
sometimes staring at the children who are crossing guards in the morning
Little girls in Catholic School uniforms
I wonder what she thinks about them?
Somedays it is easy to look at her, in her long black braids
and dress her up in an identical school uniform.
White socks that are pulled up mid-calf.
Knee Length plaid skirt.
I've seen the stripper's schoolgirl ensembles
but there's nothing like the real thing
The thought of her sitting on my lap
her gaze fixed innocently on my face
as I told her stories of stars and constellations
or countries I've been to, books I've read
Her small face raised to mine
Intent, dark eyes flashing with recognition
as she consumes my choice packets
The thought of her sock clad legs
dangling, the thrust of her chest against
the white fabric of her blouse
As she morphs before me from child to woman
small pout mouth curling into a little grin
Winsome, teasing, feigned innocence
playing at the little girl
But her womanhood is betrayed by the growing heat from
her bottom on my lap
And the grind on my growing hardness
I shake myself out of this little reverie
board the bus 3 people behind her
Her habit as I have observed is to put
on her headphones and fall asleep
or take out a little notebook and scribble furiously
Sometimes she snores a little, like a little purr
Today though she is wearing dark glasses
listening to music
I can see her eyes though, from where I am sitting
she stares mostly at other women
She was less put together than normal today,
sleepy looking, hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail
I caught her stroking her neck absentmindedly
I wondered what she was thinking.
She rummages through her backpack and retrieves
a small notebook
Looks out the window
then starts to write for a few minutes
Looks again at the women on the bus
in particular one beautiful smooth faced tall asian woman
very stylish and beautifully made up
She writes some more
She rips a page out and puts it into her pocket
puts everything away, falls asleep
She never looks my way
She seems engrossed in her own world
Women like that usually piss me off right away
But this one, her head was not full of herself, it seemed
the brain waves she emitted were palpable
She gets off on the first stop
I see a little slip of paper tumble to the ground
I slip into the seat she vacates, warm from her body
and pick up the paper before anyone else sees.
Her handwriting is barely legible, a strong script:
"Funny how fantasy can elevate even the most
despicable MUNI ride to the sublime."
I fold the paper and put it into my pocket,
now I have something of hers.
Something that she was thinking.
Something like a little amulet
Infused with her essence
And I was going to keep it and use it
To pick the lock on her brain
To see what was inside.
posted by Dopamine Junkie at 1:57 PM
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Dopamine Junkie's Red Door. 
