I have been a faithful Minnesota Vikings fan since I was a young boy. The disappointment from their current 1-3 record resonates loudly in my football soul. But more interesting is the side story that is currently developing from their season. Allegations over inapproriate conduct have been circling the head of starting quaterback Brett Favre like defensive ends going in for a kill.
Granted this is not the first time we've heard a story about a larger than life sports start being mentioned in the same vein as illicit behavior. It's been nearly one year since news of Tiger Woods and "the fire hydrant incident" began, esculating into "Cheap Whorapalooza" and resulting in a very public disintegration of his character, legacy, marriage, and golfing season. Only time will tell if and when Tiger will recover. But we all remember the text messages, especially since they were plastered on the pages of every viable news outlet for several months.
And now the Favre story emerges, and once again in the background are some text messages and suggestive photos. It makes me wonder: "What the hell are these guys thinking?" But the truth is, it's the same thing that so many of us 'regular' people think when we attempt to make our own personal connections. Perhaps we've never gotten as filthy as Mr. Woods, but the reality is that we live in a technologically advanced society, and one of the popular uses of that technology has become expressing intimacy, attraction, and sexuality in a much different manner.
There is an anonymity about sending a text message, especially to someone you really don't know. Admit it. If you've been single since cell phones existed (and there's a chance that most of us have), you've received a number in some manner, and way before calling, you've been tempted to send a text. It's an icebreaker moment like walking into a crowded club and ordering a drink for the stranger across the bar. It initializes intent, and usually gets the ball rolling towards other avenues of interaction. But, there is a dark side.
Anonymity sometimes creates a false sense of security and confidence. It shreds the linings of rationality, making you wonder why you should be reasonable when you're most likely never going to be held accountable for it. Unless of course you're worth X millions of dollars and are represented highly in a public arena. Then, you should suddenly know better.
Whether or not Favre is guilty of anything are questions better answered by the NFL and his wife, Deanna, but yet another story about a celebrity of this magnitude brings a lot of questions to mind:
1) If Favre indeed committed the acts that he's being accused of, exactly what was going through his mind as he did these things?
2) Will this lead to another high profile story of sordid affairs and a tragic, pricey divorce?
3) Is this the real reason Favre is throwing some passes that look like he forgot how to play football?
4)Will anybody ever tell these celebrities to put their damn cell phones down?
My mind is also working on a deeper level. Often times, these high profile sports stories filled with salacious content are presented and publicized along with the backing story (often swept under the carpet) of wealth and race. It has often been debated that African American athletes, who sometimes come from impoverished and broken families, lack the basic moral values to handle the responsibility that suddenly comes with their newly gained status and wealth. Proponents of such a belief might quickly mention the names Pacman Jones and Lawrence Taylor. Even the Tiger Woods story seemed to have several racial undertones (although I personally am curious to have seen how the story would have been handled if a certain lefty named Phil had been its guilty star).
But now, suddenly the rise of events involving athletes such as Ben Roethlisberger and this Favre ordeal make me wonder if the media simply shys away from character flaw stories, unless there is some spin on race. Case in point: most folks have all but forgotten about Letterman's long stand policy of having trysts with his employees.
Which makes me wonder if it's the spotlight. Is struggling to deal with issues of accountability a problem for all those with money, fame, and influence? Can you have all of this 'power' and not feel entitled by it? I've made some questionable decisions with a cell phone in my hand, and my power is meager in comparison.
I know one thing, if Brett Favre does go down in similar Woods fashion, it'll make for an interesting topic of discussion. The Viking fan in me simply hopes the truth can wait until after February.
the Rare Poet
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Excerpts from a Story in My Head
Writing is what I feel like I was born to do. I've been putting together words on a page since I was around 8 years old. Thankfully, since then the stories have become better. Ideas come to me from everything, and usually when they come I just write them down. Here is the beginnings of a novel that hopefully one day, I will complete.
the Rare Poet
[WARNING: The enclosed content may be considered graphic. Reader discretion is advised!!]
Chapter One
Outside, a steady rain fell in quick heavy droplets, each one hitting the ground like loose change. A rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, yet there was no lightnight, yet.
He sat at the foot of the bed, eyes lit with deep excitement. A smile curled along his face, forming a seductive C that was lying on its back. She could tell exactly what he was thinking. Stormy nights like these were always the best.
His dark brown eyes scanned back and forth, delighted by the view in front of them. Passion was sitting on top of the dresser. One leg crossed, hiding her sweetest treasure, she wore nothing but a sheer pink negligee, cut off revealingly near the navel. Her skin looked smooth and soft beneath it. Her breasts, naturally large and firm, seemed ready to explode from their fabric cage. She inhaled deeply.
“Come here.”
His command was gentle, two longing fingers motioning for her to join him on the bed.
“Hell no!” she replied, full of fiesty attitude.
She laughed playfully. Standing slowly, ample ass dropping from its concealment, she faked the need to stretch, bending over to give him an awesome display. His visible arousal nearly drove her wild.
“I said come here!”
This time he was much more forceful. She loved a man who demanded what he wanted. Part of her considered running to the bed. But she purposely walked away. Passion moved erotically, swaying her hips as if pleasure was connected directly to points nearby. She came to a rest in front of the wall and did a slow half spin, until once again she was facing him.
If looks could talk, the one now planted on his face screamed of intense desire. It yelled about doing things that no two people should do and ever mention again. Their recollection might melt through steel.
“You want to fuck me don’t you?”
The naughty grin that jumped onto Passion’s face, was met by his simple nod. He looked dumbfounded. They had been together before, but he had never seen her like this. She stood, her 5’11” frame plastered against the wall as if she were its skin, looking out at him with hungry eyes. Her legs were pressed firmly together. She let the negligee fall from her warm body. He sat up straight, making Passion smile.
With measurements of 40-28-38 and the complexion of light brown sugar, she could confidently say that she possessed the goods that made most men go crazy. Watching his lustful eyes ogle over her body, as if she were some gift from heaven, provoked her, causing warm juices to rush down towards her thighs. Passion moaned. She could take no more of this. It was clearly time.
Her legs spread open.
“If you want me,” she said sexily, her voice just above a whisper, “then come and get me. But make it special.”
She barely got the last word out.
The laws of physics state that momentum is equal to the product of an object’s mass and its velocity. Most scientist probably never thought to calculate eagerness into this equation. Passion would have sworn when he pressed into her that they had crashed through the wall.
All of a sudden, he was on her. He met her body with hungry kisses. They hit her neck, her lips, the arcs of her shoulders. His lips moved like a child’s fingers through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Fast. Needy. Wanting to touch more and more. A kiss grazed the skin near the meeting of her breasts and electricity tore through her. Passion moaned, feeling her already alert nipples begin to harden. He moved down expertly, tasting her body from stomach to navel. Soon he was at the inside of her thigh and waterworks ensued.
There is something about eating pussy that, when done correctly, should cause mountains to move. That’s if the feeling could be channeled and properly refocused. Instead it made Passion tremble. She was always amazed at his skill. As he masterfully started to suck and lick and taste, she could feel herself gushing. The room became warm and her breathing quickened. Her heart was beating as if she were falling several feet. Instinctively, a hand clutched a spot just above her throbbing breasts.
“Oh my God!!” was all Passion could throatily yell out.
Suddenly, she was exploding, a trail of wetness pouring from within. The way his head moved in anticipation, he had planned this and continued to taste her, pleased. His body rose slowly, and her eyes opened, needing to meet his. The look was legendary. ‘Yes, I do own this!’, she imagined them saying. And then he moved quickly, thrusting inside of her before she could prepare.
Passion’s ass rose up the wall as he lifted and all she could think of was Heaven and Stairmasters. She closed her eyes as he dug in, feeling the muscles in her most excited recesses squeeze hold of him for dear life. A rollercoaster of a dick ride, she might describe it as later. He worked it as if he were curling and dipping, twisting and looping, rising and falling, and as she moaned out, a thought made her grin. It was scary how good that dick felt inside of her. The pussy might never be the same.
An hour later, she lay on her back on the bed, her long legs spread back to her shoulders. No matter what position they moved to, it just kept feeling better. She licked her fingers as he composed erotic music inside of her, each stroke a note that made her want to sing. Passion came two more times before he was finished, the most since she was a freshman in college. Every limb exhausted, shoulder length hair a mess, his body quivering on top of hers, she couldn’t help but grin deeply. He had put it down.
“That was…that was…”
She couldn’t find the words. She continued to smile as he got dressed, happy to see that he was just as satisfied.
“My pleasure.” he said, in his soft spoken voice, sexy beyond belief.
Passion lit a cigarette and dug her naked body into the softness of the queen size bed. She felt good. The mattress felt good. What more could a woman need? She looked up at him.
“How come you never performed like that before?”
“You never asked.”
The words felt good, but Passion was quiet, deciding to play it cool.
“Oh, before I forget…” he said, voice trailing off. He reached for an envelope on the table next to them and awkwardly handed it to her.
This felt like a slap in the face, but once again she played it cool.
“Thanks a lot,” Passion said, fanning through the envelope, “you make a girl forget that she’s working.”
Neatly tucked inside were fifteen $100 bills, the cost for two hours of her time.
He moved slowly when he finally stood, as if he really didn’t want to leave. He checked his suit once more in the mirror, and then finally walked over to Passion.
“Malik, that was wonderful. I…”
He placed his finger against her beautiful lips and smiled. He kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Like I said….my pleasure.”
Malik had left the room before she could find the words to interject. He almost made her want to call out to him; to run after him, beg him to stay, and even promise to change her ways. But as Passion took a pull from the cigarette and stared at the envelope filled with cash, the truth hit her like a shot of Hennessy. Almost doesn’t count.
"If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It" Sounds Really Nice....But Means It Only Stays The Same
Greetings all. It's early in the a.m., but not surprisingly, I am still awake. Luckily, I am also being productive.
This is another new poem I just finished, and I am absolutely loving the message behind it. Basically it is all about positive change. The concept of change frightens many people, because most people don't know how or where to begin. Yet the concept of progress is nearly universally embraced, because most people desire to do better. The trouble with this is that all progress is change, because if you're better, then you are different from what you were before. In order to make progress, one must change, even if only in a minimal way. Fearing change means fearing progress. Hopefully these words will inspire a call to action.
the Rare Poet
Thinking of a Master Plan
I am cooking up a recipe for disaster
to my blues, unfilling meals that just
stick to my ribs
I am dishing out moments that here on after
will only serve as
music to my ears
I am working on a symphony, unfinished
but from the moment that I hear it, it'll
replenish my soul, like
here I am baby, signed, sealed,
and delivered, I sent it
I am
issuing out a promise, and I meant it
this is my master plan
my vow to display me as a
brushstroke from the Master's hand
I will never go to sleep
feeling like I gave less than best
because I once resided prime in a palace of all things divine
and until I get myself back home, my soul can't rest
this life is not a test
it is mind, body, and soul voyaging each
momentary process
that's why
I am organizing a hostile takeover
of every second that incorporates something important to me
I am moving at the pace of healed
the break's over
stagnant no more, whole is what I'm determined to be
in the hopes that
little black boys and little black girls
can see me, and be hopeful in
their black skin, and that
folks of all races can shed separation
learning the power of the word 'blend'
I am mending my fences
stretching this poem out as an extension
that I can bridge this world
through my pen
or better yet through the idea
that proper planning leads to the command
of anything, possibilities endless
I am authoring the perfect ending
to all previous chapters
and happy is a predrawn conclusion
I am scripting out intros to the
next generation's sequels
hoping my voice finds its inclusion
somewhere in the opening credits, speaking loudly,
saying
that the top is not a place to rise to, it's a
determined march in a forward progression...
and the way to get there
is to plan to be there, and keep moving towards it
never changing your direction
because the future starts
now
This is another new poem I just finished, and I am absolutely loving the message behind it. Basically it is all about positive change. The concept of change frightens many people, because most people don't know how or where to begin. Yet the concept of progress is nearly universally embraced, because most people desire to do better. The trouble with this is that all progress is change, because if you're better, then you are different from what you were before. In order to make progress, one must change, even if only in a minimal way. Fearing change means fearing progress. Hopefully these words will inspire a call to action.
the Rare Poet
Thinking of a Master Plan
I am cooking up a recipe for disaster
to my blues, unfilling meals that just
stick to my ribs
I am dishing out moments that here on after
will only serve as
music to my ears
I am working on a symphony, unfinished
but from the moment that I hear it, it'll
replenish my soul, like
here I am baby, signed, sealed,
and delivered, I sent it
I am
issuing out a promise, and I meant it
this is my master plan
my vow to display me as a
brushstroke from the Master's hand
I will never go to sleep
feeling like I gave less than best
because I once resided prime in a palace of all things divine
and until I get myself back home, my soul can't rest
this life is not a test
it is mind, body, and soul voyaging each
momentary process
that's why
I am organizing a hostile takeover
of every second that incorporates something important to me
I am moving at the pace of healed
the break's over
stagnant no more, whole is what I'm determined to be
in the hopes that
little black boys and little black girls
can see me, and be hopeful in
their black skin, and that
folks of all races can shed separation
learning the power of the word 'blend'
I am mending my fences
stretching this poem out as an extension
that I can bridge this world
through my pen
or better yet through the idea
that proper planning leads to the command
of anything, possibilities endless
I am authoring the perfect ending
to all previous chapters
and happy is a predrawn conclusion
I am scripting out intros to the
next generation's sequels
hoping my voice finds its inclusion
somewhere in the opening credits, speaking loudly,
saying
that the top is not a place to rise to, it's a
determined march in a forward progression...
and the way to get there
is to plan to be there, and keep moving towards it
never changing your direction
because the future starts
now
Audio Poem: I Am Rare
Here's a piece I just finished, called I Am Rare. The link below is to one of my blog pages, which includes the same audio, as well as the poem. (Please check out all of the new material under the Pages menu, as it will be frequently edited)
Enjoy!!
the Rare Poet
http://therareviewmirror.blogspot.com/p/i-am-rare-introduction-poem.html
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