Wishing on a Blue Star

by Kris Jacen

“Kiss me.”

  I did. A quick peck on the lips. He caught me by the back of the head and kept me there, his lips moving smoothly under mine, his tongue probing, and just like that, the light came on.

  “It can’t be this easy,” I managed after a few minutes.

  “Can’t it?”

  I shifted a bit and before I knew it, he was straddling me, sitting there looking down into my eyes and tracing my face with the pads of his thumbs. “I’ve known who I’ve loved for six years. I stopped trying to pretend there was something else going on a long time ago.”

  Love. I was not there yet. I was barely past the getting hard part and the sex. But there he was, looking into my eyes and just being. How was it so easy for him to just be? To just accept that any moment I might stand up and dump his ass on the floor. There was no going back to roommates now I knew what his tongue in my mouth felt like, but love…

  “I’ve never been in love,” I told him.

  “And I’ve never fallen for a straight guy, but things happen. You can’t predict life.”

  “It sure as shit would be easier.”

  He shrugged a shoulder and made a non-committal noise. “Would it? All this time, you’ve been predicting what I would say when you told me you wanted to nail me. So was convincing yourself it wasn’t worth the risk better than just saying what you want and letting the rest take care of itself?”

  “I could be walking around with a violin bow up my ass right now. It doesn’t count to say it’s easier this way because this time it worked out.”

  “It counts.” He moved so suddenly I was completely off guard and pinned against the mattress, the breath knocked out of me. “It all counts. Life is too short not to count every second.” As he talked, he kissed, first my lips, then down along my jaw and he kept going, undoing buttons along the way. “Most of the time, you don’t get to chose. You get swept along, not even realizing you don’t have your feet on the ground until they snag you and you’re tumbling, ass over teakettle.” His lips trailed across my chest, his tongue slithering over my nipple. “When life hands you a choice, make it.”

  I couldn’t stifle the moan when his tongue laved lower, along the bottom edge of my ribs and down my side. I was so engrossed in the sensations of warm tongue and cool air on the slick trail it left behind, I didn’t notice he’d opened my jeans until his lips nibbled at my hip bone and the chill of exposure sent a ripple of uncertainty through me.

  “K-Ken–” I blinked and touched his hair, not sure if I wanted to guide him or pull him away. “Kennedy.”

  “Breathe,” he whispered against delicate skin, “or don’t breathe.”

  His fingers curled under the waistband of my jeans, ready on either side of me to pull them down.

  I lifted my hips.

  He didn’t give head like he played the violin. Or if he did, I didn’t notice. I was too busy immersing myself in the feeling of rightness, of relief, to pay a lot of attention to the details. It wasn’t that the physical sensation of Kennedy’s mouth on my cock felt all that different from a girl’s. It was the knowledge it was him, that he wanted it, wanted me, as much as I wanted him that pushed me up, higher and higher every time I let myself think about it. His deep, satisfied moan when I said his name dropped me into freefall I never wanted to end.

  He was still licking tenderly at my softening cock when I did, in fact, manage to finally breathe. His silky hair flowed under my fingers and his eyes glowed warmly from where he watched me.

  “You still don’t feel like talking, do you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Then after a minute, when he had moved to lie beside me, I turned my head to watch him. “Love?” I asked. “Really?”

  He just nodded. He didn’t seem nervous or worried. He didn’t give me any indication that he expected anything from me, wanted me to say it back, or to reciprocate the fantastic blow job.

  “I don’t understand,” I confessed after a while, just assuming he’d know what I was talking about.

  He stroked my face, and the calluses on his fingers caught on the stubble on my cheek. His arm was tucked snugly under his head and his glasses magnified his gorgeous eyes. “Me either. I just know how I feel. I know what I want.”

  “Me?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Crazy. I know. I can’t explain it, either.”

  “Thanks.” But I couldn’t just accept it. “What if I never realized?”

  “Wouldn’t change how I feel. This is just who I am. I can love you. You don’t have to love me back. You’ve never asked me to be someone I’m not, and that’s all that matters, really.” He pushed up onto his elbow so his head rested on his hand.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you. Aren’t you ever afraid of anything?”

  He nodded. He didn’t tell me what he was afraid of, but somehow I didn’t think it mattered. One thing he wasn’t scared of was being, and that was an amazing thing.

  “How do you do it? How do you wake up every day with the possibility the thing you want most might be the thing you can never have and not just want to hold it all in? Stop? Not even try? How the hell did you get me to stop holding my breath?”

  “I didn’t make you do anything.”

  His next kiss took my breath away, but for the first time, I knew I was alive. I knew I was me, and I could do it because he played the violin badly, and loved without worrying what it cost him. It took him six years to teach me how to live, and if he could do that, anything, anything was possible.

  Sunday, October 25, 2009

  We knew it wouldn’t last. :)

  Third day after the second session. Started out pretty good, and that should have been a warning. lol

  When I went to bed last night, I was disappointed to see how much water I retained from my bouncing around yesterday (Water retention is sort of an immediate indicator of how well or poorly the occluded lymph nodes are functioning.) But much of that can be blamed on simple gravity. and indeed about half was gone by morning. Still good news, at least.

  Crashed and burned late morning, didnt surface until 2pm or so, but that got me enough steam to play in Ethan’s Gay Day chat (Last sunday of the month) and that was fun. Ethan Day has some of the most energetic, involved fans and authors participating in his Yahoo group, I swear! Playing with those folks would wear anyone out!

  Steroids are doing the “eat everything in sight” thing again, but as before, the stomach may say “No more!” even though the brain says I am still very hungry. Learning to listen to the right signals this time, at least.

  That will pretty much be squashed in a day or so. I can already feel my throat, mouth and esophagus being “chewed on” by the chemo. Once that pain starts, I wont be eating much of anything, thank you very much.

  I’m guessing the reaction is so early because things werent exactly healed from the last onslaught. This time, however, I know how to deal with the shit so with luck (and a lot of eggs, blech) I can get a faster response and maybe get caught up.

  Something new tonight. Pain in places I dont expect. I’m really getting to dislike all this new shit, and though Google is my friend (except for its insistence at serving up the most pablum covered “easy to understand language” pages for what I want to find) I’m rather tired of researching, already.

  That means more digging because I’m stubborn and I want to know for myself before I go haring off to call the doctor, or worse yet, going to the emergency ward. (And before I get comments like “See the doc!” I am compelled to point out that I’ve been fairly accurate at diagnosing my own problems, and presenting him with my findings for corroboration or correction. I even staged myself based on the findings of the latest CAT scan, though I wasnt as precise as John was because frankly, I got tired of looking up all the weird words. Grin)

  Stage three, by the way, which means I ain’t completely hopeless, except for being stubborn, maybe. :)

  Notice how rambly this post is? That’s exactly why the writing goes so slowly. I
f I let rip, (assuming I even could) my poor guys would be humping even before they met each other.)

  Consequently I got a whopping 73 words worth keeping, though I did have a bit of time to clean up some of the mess I left behind yesterday, so count a few more, I guess.

  And we wont go into how cranky that few words made me. Laugh.

  Tomorrow is gonna be fascinating. What new worlds of wonder shall we explore, hmm?

  Thanks to the new followers. Sort of cool to know you’re keeping tabs. :)

  Cheers!

  Patric

  Monday, October 26, 2009

  Rage

  Okay, I have to admit, we have a pretty comprehensive cancer treatment center around here.

  When I first showed up for a consultation, (and by that time we already knew the problem, just not the variety) I was virtually inundated with all sorts of helpful people, each armed with mountains of literature.

  Very little of it applied to me. I’m just not the sort to need support groups, constant hand holding, and folks telling me they understand because they’ve been there. (Okay, correction: a LITTLE hand holding, once in a while, maybe.) :)

  Reading through all that paperwork, I was struck by what I considered a kind of cruelty, fostered not by the support people who look after the sickie, but by the sickie himself.

  Big freaking deal. He’s got a disease. Where does that give him the right to snarl and lash out at the people who are trying to help him? All the literature aimed at the supporters counsels patience and understanding and all that tripe, and I dont agree with any of it.

  What’s so hard about warning my friends and others that I’m crabby, cranky, whatever, and telling them I’ll be offline for a while? I did that today because I could feel the frustration and anger at having to constantly navigate my way through strange waters building up faster than I could blow it off. Was anyone’s feelings hurt? I hope not. Would they have been if I answered the messages? More than likely. Why on earth should I subject anyone to that mess? Especially folks who are simply looking to lend a hand?

  That’s probably not a politically correct way to think, but too bad. As far as I am concerned, the only time you are exempt about caring for other people is when you stop breathing, and the last time I checked, I still was.

  So for you whiny, “feel sorry for me” weebles wobbling around behind your illness, grow a pair, mind your manners, and have the decency to let your helpers know you arent communicative that day. Jeesh.

  And why was I uncommunicative today? Rage. Flat assed tired of all this nonsense. It’s like being a hurdles jumper, and occasionally tagging the gates. You can go pretty good for a while, maybe grazing the dang things, but sooner or later as the race progresses, you’re gonna get tired and crash into one. And when you do, ouch. Then you get up, (rest up in my case) and go again until you hit the next one. I’m pretty lucky in that my crashes are fairly rare. :)

  I took advantage of the situation though to get on the phone with the Apple folks and grump about all the dropped calls my phone gets. Papa will chauffeur my sorry butt out to the Apple store to get it swapped out tomorrow. The Apple techs didnt even argue with me. Wise beyond their years. (Though I have to say, the one named Phillip in Kentucky was bloody awesome!)

  Which means, because of all the backups I had to do to get ready for the swap, I didnt even bother trying to write. Maybe tomorrow. :)

  I’ve come to the conclusion that the “new” pain (and oh how I hate to even use that word!) is nothing more than the Neulasta ache that I didnt get last time. It’s well documented, though not everyone gets it. Weird that it’s more in the ribs and back than the hips as I expected so I cold be wrong, but it fits the descriptions.

  Now, with that understanding, (and understanding anything is always more of a comfort to me than some nice lady (or guy!) holding my hand) I can move on, get up off the track, and run a few more hurdles.

  Yep! I’ll crash into one again sooner or later, guaranteed. We’re in for the long haul, baby!

  But when I do, I’ll warn folks that I’m going off line so as not to hurt THEM, do whatever I need to pick back up, and be profoundly grateful that the folks around me understand the situation.

  Yeah, that’s you guys!

  Thanks!!

  Patric

  Wednesday, November 11, 2009

  Riding the Roller Coaster

  Wow. I’m a bit behind.

  Probably because there is nothing new to report, really. In preparation for my third chemo session, the doc confirmed my suspicion of doing all eight treatments, instead of the original six. Not getting as good a response as we were hoping for, I suppose. Which isnt all that surprising either. That’s why I adore my doctor, my hired cancer killer. He doesnt mind that I insist on keeping my eyes wide open and he *never* talks to me like I am four years old.

  In keeping with the roller coaster theme, I had some ups too. Writing a little bit after a long absence might be just a fluke, but I’m hanging on to it!

  But I have to tell you about the best up that was couched in the worst down.

  I’ve been pretty good at keeping a good outlook, but if I was the machine some think I am, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Instead, I’m pretty much human and shit gets to me sometimes. A few weeks ago, I flat got tired of having nothing to say that wasnt negative in some way.

  One of my overriding concerns has been that I’d turn into someone who only existed for or because of their health issues. You know, the ones who can go on for days about all the things wrong with them? I get that, really, but I dont want to BE that, so in an effort to get a grip, I decided I was not going to use the words “I, me, or my” in any of my correspondence for the next twelve hours.

  Fuzzy though the logic might have been, that was a pretty effective stop to saying things like “Neulasta is making my bones ache.” or “I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.” or anything else that sounded like whining when folks asked after my progress.

  Of course it never occurred to me to warn anyone, so for twelve hours, I had a number of people wondering why I was being such a dick. (I think)

  However, one exceptionally clever soul tumbled to the trick, and not only did she take it in stride, she joined in! Taylor Lochland touched me so deeply by simply hanging out and going for the ride on my bizarre roller coaster that I am still astonished even now.

  For the rest of the day we conversed as we often do, each of us avoiding those words, and for twelve hours or so, I wasnt sick anymore. Might only have been because the concentration needed to maintain a meaningful conversation without using those words is that much of a distraction, but I think it was more the simple fact that she wasnt trying to comfort or commiserate or anything. Just hang out and go with the flow, and that was enough to forget for a while.

  Believe me when I tell you that unless you’ve been here/there, you cannot fully grasp how invaluable that surcease truly is. Fingers crossed you never know. :)

  So in what was a total downer, I found a jewel of an upper, and the roller coaster kept right on rolling.

  As we wind our way through life and living, it’s pretty much a given that to really appreciate the highs you have to at least be aware of the lows. Sounds corny, but danged if it isnt true. Heres hoping your highs are just a bit higher each time you crest that hill. And here’s hoping you got a friend like Taylor sitting beside you.

  Taylor, thank you so much for hanging out, and hanging on, and for riding the roller coaster with me. Muaah!

  Patric

  Patric Michael Hates AIM

  Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Yes, Patric hates using the chat-program AOL distributed free that started a social-networking revolution. But he has a good reason.

  You see Patric is a visual person. His whole personality is organized around organizing. He is all about the artistic element called “Composition”—and the essence of that element is elegance.

  An artistic “compositio
n” must have nothing extra, nothing non-functional. Everything in a composition has to do something important to communicate its message.

  AIM software just does not pass the test of elegance. It takes too much memory, it’s full of stuff you don’t need or want, and it gets in the way of image-handlers.

  But its user interface is handy and available, so we designated AIM the official method of communicating with simegen.com staff.

  Patric is a professional in the Image World—from film to web to book covers. He sometimes uses several computers to process images while doing other tasks. There’s no room for clunky AIM in his life. He knows how things work inside, and loves elegant design even when you can’t see it.

  I first met Patric when he submitted a writing sample to me for a writing course I was running online on WorldCrafter’s Guild on simegen.com. The sample was words. Text. But it was nothing but images, vivid images that just sizzled with the need to be made into a film.

  Okay, that sample was lacking in a bit here and a tich there, but it just screamed WRITER IN THE MAKING!

  This man was full to the brim with stories, and the only medium he had not yet mastered was text. We exchanged a few notes, and first thing you know he was explaining how to organize our brand new writing school, WorldCrafter’s Guild.

  So even though he was a student for this first course we offered, he ended up webmastering the course’s technical underpinnings. Then we got to talking on AIM and he pointed out the short-comings of our web-design. Next thing you know, he’s the simegen.com Art Director.

  The image and design layout for major pages of a domain really is an integral part of the mechanism visitors don’t see—the server and the web-server. We lacked in elegance.

  Before you could shake an electron, Patric was our sysadmin and has been ever since, building and rebuilding the simegen.com domain and minding a long list of domains we host on our server. To this very day, he’s still hatching plans to redesign and update the “look” of simegen.com, to migrate the domain to a newer hardware setup, to upgrade our “elegance” from the inside out.