Tag Archives: love

Four Years

Four years ago today, Jake and I met at Hoek’s Death Metal Pizza. My friend and I were at 6th Street for her birthday, and after a few shots she told me she hadn’t eaten all day. Hoping to avoid her getting sick, I suggested we get pizza before hitting any other spots, and the guy behind the bar recommended Hoek’s Pizza. We’d never been there before, but it was close, and that was all that mattered. When we arrived, Jake was working by himself and served us slices. Everything about him attracted me immediately; his strong arms beneath his white v-neck t-shirt, his curly blonde hair and black bandanna, but mostly his confident, self assured demeanor.

The next thing I knew, I was asking him if he had a girlfriend, and when he said no, I scribbled my name and number onto a big white napkin and slid it across the counter. Neither of us could have ever imagined that we would end up dating, falling in love, moving in together, and celebrating our fourth anniversary today. Jake later told me that he saw my friend and me walking past Hoek’s again later that night and thought I wasn’t actually interested since we were with other guys (they were just acquaintances of my friend that we ran into.) I was amazed that he actually texted me that night; I vividly remember lying in bed, wondering if I would see the cute pizza guy again.

Like anyone, Jake and I have been through amazing, blissful times as well as dark, difficult ones. But the best thing about our relationship, and the thing that matters most, is that we constantly become closer, we grow together, and our bond always gets stronger, even after the hard times. Before I get too mushy on yall, I’ll end with this—Jake is my best friend as well as the best lover I’ve ever had, and I’m so grateful that we met at Hoek’s four years ago.

And since it wouldn’t be Sinful Sunday without a little sin…

Here’s my ass on a Hoek’s Death Metal Pizza box 😉

Sinful Sunday

Kiss Me There

I confess, I want your warm lips
wrapped around, wet and soft, I want
the sound of sucking, the quiet and
subtle whisper of in and out, the look
in your blue eyes when your mouth
is full of me, tongue busy back
and forth and in and out and
around my smooth pale
skin, I need you to lick and touch and
wash my flesh with your lips, I feel
you saying you love every
inch, every part, my eyes, my
wrists, my ears, my legs, and every
hair, and the mole by my belly
button and the black ink on my hip and
the dimple on my chin and the scar
on my left breast, I know you adore all
of me when your solid arms
hold my legs and you
thrust and bring my
toes to your mouth, as you

kiss me there.

 

 

Your Hands

In honor of Jake’s birthday today, I want to share a poem I wrote for him last year. Jake and I don’t usually give big, expensive gifts for birthdays and prefer to just do something fun together. This year I got him a Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness tshirt because we are obsessed with Parks and Recreation (it’s even funnier than The Office!)and a pearl snap shirt. I’m not sure what we are going to do to celebrate today since Jake prefers spontaneous fun to planned birthday events. My guess is we’ll probably go to dinner and then downtown, but who knows… And on with the poem:

Your Hands

I knew I loved you the moment you showed me your hands. You said
at some point, I’ve broken each finger, like when you smashed
bike into ground, hands
crumbling on impact, bones crunching and twisting easily
reforming, molding, and shaping
like they were meant to.
You held up your hands, wide palms spread
open and said, now they’re all a little
crooked, each finger points in a slightly different
direction, when you said it you never broke your
expression, not one little crease on your forehead,
no crack in your voice,like
the pain meant nothing, or maybe
you just enjoyed healing. Now,
you lie next to me, with that same calm
face and untroubled expression, and
I’ve only had my eyes open for five minutes but
all I can think is how I want you
to shape me like
clay in your hands, and how I
need to know what it means
to be shattered
and broken, need to feel flesh
healed, to touch
every crooked finger.