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shrug

March 10, 2010

i told her
i have
three kids
with
four women

she oh yeah’d
and looked closer
at my jacket

the backspace key
all my idea
i yawned

she told me
i, like, totally
had to follow her
on twitter

i yawned
again

she asked me
if i liked
piercings

i told her
no holes
on women
should be strictly
ornamental

she looked at
the clock
and at me
and at the clock
again

do you want to take me home
she offered more than asked

i do
i said
because
well
i did
but i’m not
going to

what
she was
genuinely
confused
look at me

i did
i had been
all night

take me home
and fuck me
she fumed

thanks
but no

why not

what if she calls

what if she doesn’t

what if she shows up
late
and i smell like you

fuck me
in the shower

you’re a talented negotiator

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smut – part deux

March 9, 2010

Hi.

I decided to do another steamy post down below here.

[Peter points.]

And this one, I think, is even naughtier than the last.

Possibly quite a bit naughtier.

You’ve been warned.

Like last time, e-mail me (peterdewolf@gmail.com) for the password.

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Protected: lagnolalia

March 9, 2010

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


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didn’t really land

March 8, 2010

She’s chewing on a pen and it is… awesome.  And I know that you’re
thinking that I’m thinking something dirty and maybe I am but it’s
still awesome and I… don’t… fucking… care.  I really don’t.
Those lips… I’ve dreamed, you know.  And I can’t wait to dream
again.  Soon.  Please.  Oops.  She caught me staring.  Haha.  Yeeeaah.  Hiiiiiii.  Yes I’m looking.  Sorry.  Not really.  Not at all actually.  Have you seen
you?  Come on.  OK.  She’s reading her book again.  And she must be at
a good part because the slightest little smile…  Brightness!  Unless…  You think she was thinking about me looking at her?  Even a little?  I’m going
to believe that’s the case.  Just for a minute, OK?  It could be one
of the best minutes of my day.  Or life.  Do you have any idea how
much I want to kiss that girl right now?  Seriously.  I want to hold
her.  For hours.  I want to know what she wants to do… and be…  I
want to know who she is… and was…  I want to exist in her orbit.
Even if only briefly.  Yeah, I want to hold her.  I want to hold her…
And I want to know what kind of underwear she’s wearing.  I want to
be the last face she sees at night.  And I want to be the first thing
she touches in the morning… every morning… tomorrow morning…  I
want to hear the story behind that charm on her necklace that she
keeps playing with.  I want to like her as much as I think I could
like her and would like her and… I want that chance.  And I want her to
like me too.  I want to be frazzled by her.  Fucking frazzled.  I want to not
be able to say the right things all the time.  Even when I’m thinking, “If
awesome had a face… it would still be jealous of yours.” I want to stumble
on my words and tell her that they didn’t come out right and for her to say it’s
OK, but laugh a little, and then I want to ask if I can kiss her, even though I am going to anyway,  and for her to say she supposes with a fake hmmm face and then I want to pause for a second, if that, just to savour, you know…
And then I want to kiss her.  Fuck… me… I want to kiss her.  Softly.
Sweetly.  And I want it to be better than I ever dreamed because I know
it would be and will be.  And… And I want her to put her hand on my
cheek.  Her delicate, perfect hand… I want her to put her hand on my cheek,
look in my eyes, smile and ask, “What took you so long?”  Then I want to
kiss her again.  For real.


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it’s about the writing, future wife

March 5, 2010

So, hi.  It’s been a while.

I was starting to miss you, you know.

I FINALLY got on a little roll with the new novel.

This is a good thing.  You see, I am a bit of a crankypants when I want to write something and it just isn’t happening.

Periodically I even begin to slightly question whether or not I have any business trying to write at all.

I crumple up my notes.

I close my laptop.

I throw my hands in the air in disgust.

I curse writing.

I curse anyone who reads my writing.

I curse man-made fibers.

This happens, oh, once a week.

It’s a lot of fun.

I know me well enough to know that trying to force it (or anything, really) never works.  The moment when I finally knew what my novella was going to be, hit me while I was in the shower.  I was letting my mouth fill with water, and then trying to see if I could sing Jim Croce’s “New York’s Not My Home” when a realization smacked me.

I can’t sing for shit.

But also that I had the novella idea all along.  It was actually a couple different ideas.  But when looked at together…

I started writing an outline while I was still dripping and wrapped in a towel.

I’ve been jotting down notes for the new novel for ages.  I even tested some of my ideas for bits of it here in the form of little fiction-y pieces.  I’m cagey like that.

But there was something missing.

I had no idea what it was, but knew I’d recognize it when I found it.  (Like love… or the perfect ass.)

So I was gchatting with a friend the other night and it suddenly occurred to me.

And it seemed so obvious.

I had the idea I needed to go ahead and really start writing.

Dialogue and scenes and all sorts of little ideas began bouncing around in my head.

And you know what?

The novel is sort of going to be about you.

Or these letters.

You’ll see.

Actually, if I could find you, I’d want to send you little excerpts at points along the way.

Which, for you, might be both good and bad.  Getting sneak previews might be fun.  Figuring out how to tell me that a section doesn’t quite work might not be.

There are good ways to tell me things:

“Peter, baby, despite the fact that you are clearly a world class genius and have firm, yet gentle, hands that take me places I’ve never dreamed of, this scene in the bordello might not be your best work ever.  It’s good, but I think someone of your immense talent could make it even more awesomer.”

There are bad ways to tell me things:

“That latest bit you showed me kinda sucked.”

At that point I might compare you to Hitler.

It’s possible.

But even the gentle way could put me in a weird mood for a bit.  I won’t be all lash-y out-y, but I will likely be quiet and overthink-y.

A day later,  you’ll ask, “Are you still thinking about that?”

“Noooooo.”

“You are!”

“Am not, woman!  I was… Uhm… Wondering if Brainy Smurf and Smurfette would have had a chance together if he hadn’t been so shy.”

“You are so cute.”

“No I’m not!  Well I am, but…”

“Awwwwww.”

“GRRRRRRR.”

“You even grrr cutely,” you’ll smilesay.

“That’s it!  I’m going for a drive.  A long drive.”

“Want to cuddle and watch Almost Famous instead?”

“Yes, please.”

I’m starting to see why you’re remaining elusive.  Good call.

My point is that I have the novel idea figured out.  And that it is all thanks to you!

So, really, you’re inspiring me and we haven’t even met yet.

I don’t hate that.

I assume you’re being ridiculously cute someplace right now.

Love,
Peter

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and

March 3, 2010

and she listed
in increasing detail
everything
she didn’t
and doesn’t
like about me
i could picture her
unspooling a paper version
filling the floor
to my ankles
to my knees
and she listed
things i expected
things
probably cruel
and i said
i don’t care
and she stopped talking
and i started smiling
i wasn’t trying to be mean
promise
and she looked like
a penguin
trying long division
and i laughed
and she raged
and i apologized
but the smile of my voice
made her madder
and i wanted
to try to fake
somberness
question mark
i wanted to
be more
respectful
but the realization
had hit me
like a giddy late night makeout session with a girl i’ve wanted to kiss for soo long with dark hair, kinda messy, and tucked behind ears that hear what i mean in what i say and what i don’t, and eyes that, to me, feel like they really only come to life when they settle on me and a smile that could cure seasonal affective disorder if it could be harnessed, but it can’t be harnessed, it shouldn’t be harnessed, but it is framed by lips that i can imagine everywhere doing everything dirty and naughty and pure and perfect and never enough yet exactly what i need every day forever
i don’t care
i sang the words in my head
in my eyes
in my soul
i stood up
i think she
added that moment
to the list
but mentally
i was already halfway
down the street
smiling at a stranger
buying a slice of pizza
pepperoni
of course
a spring in my step
in my grin
in my hopes
i apologized
through a smirk
it was
the best
i could do
i turned to leave

and she grabbed my arm

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dopey saturday morning stream of consciousness

March 1, 2010

they’re moving away
slowly
the words
and it’s you
i think
pulling the
string
but i can’t be
mad
really
finding myself
instead
thinking about
you
in braided pigtails
why
i’m not sure
why
that image
or why
you
today
but it’s raining
and i want
to be inside
you
may have
never worn
your hair
that way
but i kind of
want to make you
scream
the words so
i can write
them
today
there are thoughts
to be shared
there are feelings
to be
hinted at
i want to let
them out
so i can move
so i can bend
you over
there
stop pulling the words
away from me
but i can’t be
mad
really
since
it was
you
who
gave me
the words
in the first place

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we got ourselves tonight

February 26, 2010

He blinks.

A few times.

He only wonders about the strange hue in the room — his room, he is reasonably sure — for a few moments before he notices the bra hanging over the small lamp in the corner.

She had described it as “a pansy purple lace push-up bra.”

He doesn’t think she needs any extra help pushing anything up.

And he had been in a good position to judge.

Many good positions, really.

His mouth is dry.

He sticks his tongue out.

It is a well-earned thirst, he thinks to himself.

He glances around and sees a half-full bottle of water on the bedside table.

He leans, carefully, out over the slightly moving ball of sheets and sexy and messy dark hair on pillow, and grabs the water bottle.

He sits up.  He takes a drink.

He recoils.

His lip aches.

Scenes of biting flash across his memory, blow kisses, and disappear.

He pulls the bottle away from his sore lip quickly.  Drops fall on his chest.

Cold drops.  Leaving a chilly trail through his chest hair.

He cringes.

In a good way.

He inhales deeply.

The not so faint aromas of pheromones and spilled wine and sex bitchslap the parts of his brain responsible for pleasure.

And remembering.

And desire.

He smiles.

He lies on his back.

More pain.

He remembers.

He assumes his back looks like the wall of an incarcerated man, counting the days.

Badges of honour

Of courage.

Of… possession?

He likes it.

She Mmmmmmms.

He rolls over on his side facing her.

She rolls over to face him.

“Hi…” she whispers.

Her hair is an explosion.  Her eyes aren’t focusing.

He thinks she’s beautiful.

“Don’t look at me,” she whispers, burying her face under a sheet.

But he does.

She peeks.

“Stop.”

He doesn’t.

She puts her hand on his face.

He turns his head to kiss it.

She takes his lower lip between her fingers.

It hurts him.

He doesn’t react.

He stares.

She stares.

He brushes her hair out of her face with his hand.

He leans in and kisses her.

So.  Lightly.

A sound most closely resembling a purr escapes her lips.

He lifts her chin with a bent index finger and kisses her neck.

Three… four times…

Then pulls back.

“I want… more…” she whispers.

She kisses him.  Hard.

“Me too,” a higher pitched female voice moans from the other side of the bed.

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generation gap

February 25, 2010

I was all stretched out on my bed last night. Hat head in full effect.

It was, like, eight-ish. A half hour before the big Canada/Russia hockey showdown. (Woooo!)

I had just watched a story on Alex Ovechkin disrespecting Canada after the 2009 world championships and was feeling kinda punch-throw-y. “Fuck you, dude. Fuck. YOU.”

I was in the exact same position as I had been the night before when Canada took the Germans out to the woodshed. Computer in the same place. Pillows arranged the same way.

I’m a little superstitious like that.

So I was hating Russia and feeling pretty confident.

My phone rang.

In general, hearing my phone ring makes me cringe. All phones, really. Just text me and I’ll call you back. At some point. Probably.

But I checked who it was and it was The Monkey.

Peter: Hey, twerp.

Monkey: Hiiiiiii.

Now there is something you should know about The Monkey. The length of her Hi is directly proportional to the size of the favour she wants.

Here is a handy chart!

hii = I need you to download insufferable pop music for me and I’m not going to know who sings the song and I’m going to give you the title, except it might not actually be the title, it could be the first line of the chorus, but you should find it because I, like, totally created the perfect dance for it and I will show you.

hiiiiii = Computer issue that I am too important to deal with, so you should come over here and fix it while I watch Secret Life of The American Teenager.

hiiiiiiiiiiii = I’m thirsty and the fridge is ever so far away.

hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii = I stole a car and hit a drifter, can I hide out with you?

hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii = Are you REALLY using both of those kidneys?

Peter: What’s up?

Monkey: Welll…. I was typing and I went to put in an accent aigu and I hit some key and did something and now my screen is completely upside down.

Peter: Seriously?

Monkey: And when you move your cursor one way it goes the other way and it is very weird.

Peter: Sounds it.

Monkey randomly sang the words she saw on her screen. “Delllll Insprionnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn”

Peter: OK. Let’s use that dealie that Dell has where you can go back in time and shit.

Monkey: Sounds good.

I can’t remember what the hell that thing is called, so I opened up the Dell help thing on my old laptop and tried some key words.

Peter: How was school?

Monkey: (Barely paying attention) Was goooood. Class trip tomorrow.

I kept trying different words. Nothing was working. She was telling me about seeing some musicians/singers today. I had no idea who they are.  I could hear her rolling her eyes at how unbelievably old I am.

Peter: System restore! That’s the thing. I think.

So I searched my computer for a step by step dealie to help me explain it to her.  She is singing and trying to play some puzzle game upside down.

Monkey: Shit!

Peter: Don’t say “shit.”

Monkey: Pooooooooop.

Peter: This is what you get for trying to type french.

Monkey: Don”t make fun of french! French is… da best.

I laughed at that.

Peter: OK. Go to control panel…

Monkey: Uh huh…

Peter: Look for “System.”

Monkey: One sec… Fixed it!

Peter: Wait. What?

Monkey: While you were talking, I googled “what to do if your computer screen is upside down.” Control. Alt. Up arrow. And done.

Peter: Oh…

Monkey: Bye!

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i’m still waiting for the call from her producers

February 24, 2010

Whenever I start a big new writing project, I need inspiration. Something to focus on during those long days and nights when I am giving everything I have to try to create something that will hopefully affect people on some level.

One of the most motivating things in the world, for me, is showing off for a pretty girl.

For real.

Some people will tell you that the challenge alone motivates them. But, frankly, I already assume I can do anything anyway.

Tore your ACL? Give me a pocket knife, wikipedia, a quart of whiskey and a stick for you to bite on and I’ll fix your wagon.

I also think I can fix wagons.

When I was writing screenplays I would often let myself think ahead to my date for the Oscars. (Except, of course, for the 5 years when I was gallivanting with this one.) Even though I am morally opposed to awards for art, I was thinking about what hot friend would be willing to wear the hottest dress.

Then I was doubly excited when I realized hot girl + hot dress would also be needed for the premiere.

Clearly I’ve always written for the right reasons.

When I started my novella, I didn’t have so much as a crush. (Sad, right?) But I had a story I NEEDED to tell, so I amused myself on the rough days by daydreaming a little.

One of my favourites was something I like to call…

“My first appearance on Oprah.”

I was about 14 pages into my novella when I was absolutely certain that Oprah would make it part of her book club dealie.

I mean… Come on.

I could picture it all.

I’d walk out on stage. I’d wave to the ladies in the audience.

I’d hug Oprah.

Then I’d say, “OK. Get off. That’s enough for you.”

She’d gesture to the couch.

I’d motion for the audience to cease the standing ovation.

People would throw their underwear to me.

Mostly women.

I’d take a seat. And, because I’m me, I’d be all recline-y and wishing for a coffee table to put my feet up on.

Oprah: I’m so glad you’re here today.

Peter: I bet.

Oprah: And that you opted to wear your trademark baseball cap.

Peter: I debated it. But then asked myself…

Oprah: What would Peter DeWolf do?

Peter: WWPDWD.

Oprah: What?

Peter: Huh?

Oprah: So why did you become a writer?

Peter: Naivete, ego and a general distaste for manual labour.

Oprah: When I was doing research on you, I read that you once said that telling people you’re a writer in your town would garner about the same reaction as would telling people you sodomize goats.

Peter: Sounds like something I would say. And awwwwww. You researched me.

Oprah: Well my minions did it and then handed me a single page of notes. In large font.

Peter: Oh.

Oprah: I’m Oprah, bitch

Peter: Fair point

We’d chit chat a bit.  Then take a break.

Anne Hathaway was an earlier guest, and she’d come out to talk to me.

Anne Hathaway: Hi. I loved your novella.

Peter: Thanks! I love… you.

Anne Hathaway: You’re very sweet.

Peter: That’s true.

Anne Hathaway: How would you feel about working with me to write a short screenplay for me to direct and star in?

Peter: I’d feel pretty yay! about that.

Anne Hathaway: I’ll call you.

Peter: (mumbling) Did I mention that I write naked?

Anne Hathaway: What?

Peter: Oh, nothing.

In the next segment, Martha Stewart and I would have a cook-off.

Trouble would begin when I tell her that sweet potato fries don’t deserve to be called fries.

Moments later, security would be separating us.  She’d be swinging a rolling pin at me while I yell, “Your croquembouche is sub par! SUB. PAR.”

Then the daydream would kind of fall apart and I’d go make some pancakes.