[This one scares me but it begs to be written somewhere]
Her dress screams at me. It's bright red, to match her lips. It accentuates the way she stands, to emphasize her sexual attitude (every head tilt, eye flick, hand wave, leg spread, breath heave has an edge of lust to it). Everything about her begs me to seduce her and pull her into a dark room and sound out her farthest reaches like a cartographer seeing new land for the first time, and it's begging to be mapped out with skillful fingers that yearn to memorize every bay and promontory, every soaring height and gaping crevasse. Her dress screams at me and the sound of the room is deafening.
I can't approach her because I'm rooted in place by this ghastly premonition of our frenzied coupling. She looks at me and all I can see in her smile is a post-coital drowsiness that she can't seem to shake while I wish I knew how to smoke because perhaps that's what you should do after you have the only sex worth having. The only sex worth having walks towards me and asks me a question but really all we're speaking is words. She's like a wolf on the prowl, not only dangerous for what she is but for what she represents: a slew of sexual partners she tracked and cornered and crushed. She can see in my frantic expression that she caught me, and I can see in her smoky stare that it's not me she wants, but everyone.
Hold on to that thought, and it will save you. She doesn't want me, she wants everyone, and even if everyone in the whole world gratified themselves somehow instantaneously through her person, she still wouldn't be happy because it can't fix her brokenness. She wants to not be lonely, and she sets the only snare she can. Hark yourself and you can hear the whistling of a hundred thousand catcalls from a multitude of men. Here stands Venus, waiting to be filled, not with anxious cartographers or trembling wolves, their tables turned, but to be filled with a love from she knows not where.
She needs the love of a deity and the love of herself, but she does not need to be here anymore. Sadly, I'm not going to be the one to tell her because I'm too busy imagining what her legs would feel like inside my thighs.
Please don't judge me. She was asking for it.
[that feels SO BAD]
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There is great insight here.
ReplyDeleteThis, I think you knew.
This is why guys claim women were asking for it. Technically, they were. But they were speaking different languages.
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of a commercial.
ReplyDeletehttp://youtu.be/h95-IL3C-Z8
Sometimes I wonder if everyone sets out to be misunderstood.
I can't watch that yet. What is it?
ReplyDeleteIt's a PSA. Watch it when you can.
ReplyDeleteI watched it.
ReplyDeleteIt's too correct and too simple for the discussion I wanted to have.
I don't agree that the pro- (ant-?) agonist is going to rape her. Additionally, I don't think she was asking for him to think of her sexually, not really. She wanted "to be filled," the cracks in her to be repaired, the gaping wound to be stitched away. But, like I said, she set a snare the only way she knew how. And he gets caught, knowing full well that he can't fulfill her desire.