Black orchids are a symbol of power and absolute authority. It is generally
known that black is an imposing color, symbolizing authority and
submission and, combined with the luxurious beauty of the orchid, the
black orchid came to symbolize great power. Although it is thought of as
having dark connotations, the black orchid is a sign of the elite class. They
are formal and very classy.
Cut black orchids should be placed in cool areas. They should be sprinkled
on the blooms with fresh water, constantly. Also, they should not be
touched with brutality, as they are flowers who easily get upset and lose
their vigor. As a precaution, you should wear gloves when handling them.
Black orchids are enchanting, challenging to grow flowers. Mysterious,
beautiful, powerful and still delicate with their velvet leaves, the black
orchids are something you should admire constantly and moreover,
protect as they have been declared endangered species, guarded in the
It's day 350 of the one year journey that began as a quest for the man who
could blow my circuits, the half developed Polaroid of what I imagined
would need to be a criminal in order to know his way around darkness.
He arrived tonight.
Late, because he had been pulled over because his plates had been
blacked out (the recounting of which was so not practiced, so thoroughly
natural when he could have just as easily could have said there was traffic
in LA.) In other words, no alarms went off. In other words, he was
proficient at remaining concealed in plain sight.
And yet, I knew him. We continued up the stairs.
I knew him from the chill in my bones. That feeling, as a girl, when I
would hear the car in the driveway, trying to assess the mood of the
driver, always unpredictable. The way my hair follicles would extend-
every sensing part of my being becoming an antenna. Raw nerve endings
stripped of anything extra. The nakedness of survival.
It’s an intoxication few know. That heightening, the rising of non-
volitional wake up. The biological survival instinct bypassing all whimsical
notion. The square root of alive, deep and rising to the surface, coursing
through the veins.
The why a woman would provoke a man to do that.
The what intoxicants were created to mimic.
The reason anything else pales.
(After: my head on the wide expanse of his chest, the kind of chest that
reeks of incarceration and endless hours of testosterone and barbell
pumping, he asks me, behind the scenes, why he is here. “Because you
are the only thing I know to be real,” I respond. Hungry skinny scavenger
He wears the clean and pressed of a man who can’t afford a speck of
sloppy. The brand new creased 501’s, the spotless white tennis shoes, the
spotless white Tshirt and plaid button down. The red cap covering a
perfectly shaved head. Skin a mocha porcelain.
(“You said that you were mixed race,” I say. “Long story.” he responds. I
continue to look at him. Adopted by a family that adopted a lot of kids,
12, who were beaten so badly that they ran away. He the youngest,
8. Street urchins and gang family. Years later, seeing his medical records,
his Nordic mother writing in that there were two potential fathers- one
Hispanic and the other “an attractive black man.” “Damn,” he says, “why
you think she bothered to put ‘attractive’? Anyway I think it was the
black one. What do you think?” “I honestly don’t know.” And for a
moment he lets me into a place where I can feel what it is like to exist
with airborne roots.
I lean in to kiss him and the air between us warps and melts. He pulls
back for a moment. “Do you want to kiss me?” I ask. “Hell yeah, I need to
throw my gum out.” He fumbles young and new to the trash. In the place
where the crust of earth breaks open and the same lava inside of each
pours forth. They say there is god in each of us that is what
connects. This is the other side of that- this too is inside of each of
us. Just more rarely recognized and somewhat endangered.
He walks out of the bathroom with the exaggerated propriety of one who
has no compass for such, finding their way only through harsh admonition
and imitation. I send a warmth through the air that allows his edges to
soften and rises to meet him—tall and big and wide. I kiss him, long lost
and remembering. The beauty of the us who are lost is that we have no
real gates. They are only props. They fly open quickly. In temper. But
also in love.
(I once was talking with the biker about what it was that had men drown
with me. He said something to the effect that I have no walls. It’s like
sinking in the ocean. It’s endless and there is no promise of ever having
something to push against. This is how I feel with this man, only it’s more
like a hurtling through space, or maybe a black hole. Our mouths pressed
softly my body limp in his arms there is only this vacuum of darkness on
the horizon, a darkness that pulls me further and deeper than I have the
power to resist.)
I tell him to remove his shoes and he thinks that I mean because I it is
improper to have shoes on in the house. I glance at him like no it is
improper to have your shoes on while you are fucking me. The animal of
him—that knows only to remain in the corner, frozen at the command that
it can roam—moves slowly.
I guide him to the bed. And he is kissing me. Kissing me and kissing
me. The equivalent to gulping. His eyes scanning madly where to
begin. His hands coming back to life from the sleep of cuffs—they roam
my body. They squeeze my ass and thighs, knead my belly. He kisses and
stops and scans and kisses again. His fingers, having assessed where my
nipples were, reach down, pinching hard. Squirm hard. Scream hard. My
body going erect and taut and the first jolt of the pain that is in his body
is now injected into mine. The convulsive tremors, his fingers more like
electrodes than flesh. Searing until it feels like my known world is ripped
open and there is now a ragdoll feeling to my body, a lifelessness after
the jolt. Held in invisible restraints. He slides my panties to one side of
my pussy lips and dog-ravages my lips and clit. His tongue like a needle
inserted sending that voltage in. I am racing to make my body soft
enough, wet enough to absorb him. To still so as to miss not a drop of
him. This that upon meeting air is explosive and violent, here in the
containment of my pussy sets of depth charges, land mines throughout the
whole of my body. If I moved a millimeter though, if it were met with a
molecule of oxygen the explosion would shatter me.
Until he rises and now, now the eyes, cold and black, meet mine.
Nothing there. Stone. Flashes of cell block, cold metal, cement.
What pain beyond capacity becomes.
This that runs through him is my lifeblood.
Were I a vampire, this is what I would drink.
And here in that cold, that void, I can rip open the thin fabric
covering. It’s how the biker says—in jujitsu you cannot let go until you
have met your match, because its not that you want to hurt anyone, its
that you want the experience of both not knowing if they will be released
from the grip, if they will feel the choke into the dimming light of going
(I have a birdcage without a bird in my room. Wrought iron and
grand. Filled with a statue of quan yin and moss and a small crystal
chandelier. No bird. He noticed. Asked me. My response the usual, “I’ve
got a thing for cages.” In between we are lying there and he’s ticking off
the institutions he’s been in. “I understand cages too.” he says.)
There is a moment of recognition as I remove my successful
entrepreneurial woman to reveal the same black charged endless space
that pulses through me. In that same moment I take him down. And then
I take him in my mouth. And I wait for that ‘tick,’ that moment of
writhing not unlike someone drowning who cannot not flail. That
automatic thrusting, too hard, ruthless, cannot consider anything but
getting that cock further and deeper down me. So big I cannot keep teeth
covered. But I know that I am likely one of the only women who can stay
on it, can stay with it as it bucks and kicks, my face and jaw thrown open,
kicked open by it. Too big for grace. Only my hand like a petal touching
his balls reaching for his undercock down to his ass. A cry out into the
void and then the violence of his body released into my gut and groin. A
pure injection of terror. I look up and see a boy. I look up and I see a
And in the center of that terror—like the poison that is also medicine, just
in a concentrate so potent it could kill—there is love. And that is the vein
I was looking for. As he draws me up, pulls me up into his arms.
And he asks about my family and I pause and he has that acute noticing of
the beaten and asks if I like the song, was that why I paused and I say no,
I was just debating how much I want to say and he says “on the street you
learn acceptance” and I tell him the line-by-line rather than the headline
of the story, meaning I don’t say it right, meaning I don’t say from an
appropriate distance that signifies that I am not that, that my father died
in prison, but I say it as the daughter who loved him, not a tear shed over
him in 18 years until this moment because I needed to fit into a world
where missing him was unacceptable.
And then we do what people like us do with feelings like that as he lies
behind me, his cock getting hard again, my pussy getting wetter, because
the solution for us in the face of this ache that is our heart is to reach for
the same in another. The only salve. The rocking to sleep, the cradle of
my pussy. Our hips in silent motion, a soft whisper from his mouth that I
could swear is repeating “I love you I love you I love you” but not sure if
that is rising up from inside of me. But I do and so does he in the way
that is binary, incontrovertible. Not that anxious reaching wondering
probing looking asking. We are on bedrock. The beauty of hitting bottom.
Which is not to say that it is smart or good or right. Those are not
barometers in this place. It is like trying to measure temperature with a
yardstick. There is only one measure here and it is binary and it is can or
cannot escape. Tonight we can’t. And don’t. Until it releases us.
The light returning. He’s referring back to my ‘real’ comment. “You know
what you should do?” he says, “for the cover on your next book it should
be shot on an empty street. And there should be mannequins
everywhere. And you in the center, vivid. And off in there corner there
should be a man. Maybe like you don’t see him. But he’s real. And he’s