Unctuous

Mar. 26th, 2008 at 2:08 AM

This insufferable longing has taken its toll on my spine. Once an upstanding member of society, I have come undone into the poor posture of debauchery. Shoulders squared in the tantalizing stance of androgyny I sport, I make passers-by quiz themselves on the finite ingrained social markers they were born into of: what is male and what is female. It begs the question, I know, whether it's hard or wet inside my pants. Let me give you a simple answer: Both; in abundance, always. There may be spaces of soft and sweet, but everything is hard, rough, and weather worn at the same time. My eyes don't wander the same curves twice during a single day. On Tuesday I might be enamored with the raw beauty of men's hands, larger and more powerful than my own. Then on Saturday I might be entranced by the swell of female hips, the suggestion of our procreative origins. Try as I may, I cannot reconcile the hedonist within me, and it begs to whisper the one or two words in everyone's ear that will make them wilt under the tender touch of their lovers. Call me the patron saint of your suppressed lust. And I seem to infect others with it, a single raised eyebrow and a well directed glance, all the weapons I require. My walk: one part catwalk swish, one part pirate swagger. I have something to offer them all. And oh, how I intend to. There is indeed, reason to stare at such a suspicious creature. But I'd be nothing but a startling ghost, here and gone again in moments, if it weren't for her. She moves with a grace that mocks mine. Everything the essence of femininity, with none of the ridiculous pretense. I wonder if the pedestrian people of life can appreciate the raw, inescapable qualities of her beauty the way I can. The fierce sexuality that lies behind her painted lips, in the form of unforgiving and yet merciful teeth. Her smirkish smile, that devilish glint in her eye, that makes me want to show them how passion between such formidable opponents can often appear violent; the way tango looks to the niave eyes of a foriegner. Her body is a maze of curves and her skin sinfully soft, a wonderland for hands as hungry as mine. Ravished are how my eyes feel after gracing her image. And I can see the way they all look at her as she passes by, so unaware of their attentions. She has the kind of look about her, that makes you want to straddle the nozzle as you pump gas, the click of each gallon mocking the suggestive rhythm her heels spell out to those around her. I feel almost sorry for all the poor sods outside the car as we drive around, what a pair. Screaming wildly to Alice in Chains, air guitaring with our fingers intertwined. Each of us sporting our own set of claws we'll drag down each other skin later in the dim lights of underground parking garages, or the harsh lighting of gas station bathrooms. She evokes each sense with a new layer of beauty, adding to the firmness in my stance. I have more than bones to support with this frame, I have the heaviest mettle to bear now in her presence: desire. If she would but beckon me with one sharp tipped finger and I would crawl like a slinking cat in heat to her side. Lesser fools would succumb to her charms more easily, letting her confidence take charge of the situation. But although the smell of her perfume, her hair, and her skin, is as intoxicating to me as anything, she is learning to part her legs easily when my hand skims her thighs. She is learning that the kisses I place upon her pallid skin will leave her black and blue for days. She is learning the more she incenses my desire, the rowdier I get. But she is also learning, that for as rough and tumble as I can be, I'll moan softly when she touches me in return. She's learning that when she twists my hair around her fingers and pulls the way only she does, I will prostrate myself at her delicious mercy. She knows, although I may be hard, she is the only one that makes me wet for days. And she has no idea the finesse she carries to leave me in such a state. The way she bites the tip of her finger in silence, her mind a barrage of quick wit thoughts she refuses to voice at my expence when I preform a terrible rendition of "the robot" in the driver's seat of my car below the bask of a red light in a San Mateo intersection. The soft sarcasm of her chuckle, and the way she corrects my spelling without hesistation. Oh her corrections, they stirr such conflict within me. I am at once driven to do better, to make her proud with how long I can articulate myself without the nessicity of correction, but instantaneously I am resisting the urge to foul up more than I would ordinarily just to watch her cut me to pieces. The way she looks away one moment, when my eyes are willing her to me, and then the next my eyes are startled by the focus of her piercing gaze. How that look of deep pensive thought crosses her all too often and my own mind is screaming, "What are you thinking?"With the patience of a saint, and the lust of a sinner, she brings me to a level of arousal I have hardly known before. I may have met my match with her, but I intend to drown in the waves of need she stirs within me, like the moon stirs the tides. And I do not intend to let her go by unscathed. When this is over, and she leaves me spinning in the dying winds of her passing whirlwind, I will have left my watermark upon her heart. In the shape of a ring of teeth, and the fire of a single kiss. She will have infected me with her raw beauty, making everyone know I am exactly what I am without wondering. And I will have left her with the power to whisper those words into the ears of the lovers of the world to make them wilt under her touches the way I once did so eagerly.


Music:Jealous of your Cigarette - Hawksley Workman