I have become so discontented at my prospects for love, that I’ve drawn away from lust. As though I’m a characture portrait artist, I’ve begun working in reverse. Maybe even erasing some of those Casanova superheroes that I’ve always silently imagined. And the women that accompany those ideals at all.
And then, there you are: wearing the perfect dress. You are black hair with musky eyes. Latin skin. Sex is rocketing from your pores. We are sitting over perfect cocktails, the sun falling to our ancient west and your sense of flirtation has pushed me beyond love – to that place of ultimate, primitive provocation. Of those virtues which were long born before me.
More than you know, this table between us has a circumference larger than Pi. Bigger than all the mathematics you were ever taught.
(I infer this, but don’t speak the animal for you to hear.)
Quickly the heat rises and your explanation of a man’s ultimate liquid all over your body is more than intoxication. More than this moment put together in allegory.
(I infer this, but only later will speak about the most provocative of natures we all share.)
And I nod, because I know where you’re going. I know where you’ve been. This kind of sophistication I adore. And ache for. And for several intermittent moments, I even mistake it all for love and something bigger than you and me.
And then, the idea of sophistication dissipates as that watery liquid over me. And I am embarrassed for believing in you at all.
My friend describes somebody like you as, “Sex-on-a-stick”. And while that phrase alone titillates, what I will learn later is not so intriguing.
For months now, which feel like lifetimes, I have pushed away from these interactions.
For my soul – I know, that fucking place where the light meets the dark; where we all toss and turn in the night – is not satisfied by your provocations. By your large and small grandstands of fashion and strutting and posing.
My friend talks about it as, “the power of skirt”. She says that she and her sisters, as women, have so much more to give. To flirt with. To titillate with. Simply because of the skirt and the sophistications around exhibitionism. And while I believe that my sophistications are robust… I fall flat here. I become retarded. I flirt with you. And then,
I drop to my knees.
As though something greater is before me.
And even as you tickle that Grand Marnier down your thigh for me to lick, I feel like a fool…
And so, you with your smoky eyes, your heightened sexuality for all the world to see, ask me to come to your place.
A few moments in and we are at that station which topples the insophisticates over. And I assure us both that alcohol makes us do daring things. Still, you ask me to take off my clothes and I soon after am naked, before you – and more than that, I am naked before any questioning ideology that has ever provoked me. I am more than naked, I am blind. And,
I feel cheap.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like a whore. You, my slut. The dirtiest thing that I could ever place my entire sexuality inside of. Within my haste, I am thrilled that you exalt in the land of rubbery protection.
Because I don’t trust you.
I don’t trust that small thing inside of me – which is out and in public, being honest. Being earnest. Reverberating in life’s silent exclaims.
Fuck you, cheap sexuality.
Fuck you, everything that pulls me into that stupid place of want and desire – just because I know what you’re wearing underneath.
For the fact that you have spoken any of this to me at all cheapens anything you have to give.
But I, stupid boy, climb into your bed – drunk and dumb and beyond myself.
And while you are the greatest flirt I have ever known, I am embarrassed by the progression of our intimacy.
You play your games and really, I’m willing to see how far you will go.
To my disbelief, you go all the way to fall down, back to the bed, legs spread-open – as though you are some kind of missionary. This when you are nothing more than the collection of chemicals in your head.
You are evolution. A species’ invisible, slow progression. You are reproduction. You are pregnant women and menstruation and gynecologists and everything remedial about sexuality. You are rote.
My cock is not excited. My tongue, bored by your sense of kiss.
You are the worst lover I have ever known.
(And now I see and hear and smell your kind everywhere. Everywhere.)
For while you bark at the world around you to coddle you, to caress you, to tease you, to learn how to give you an orgasm, to be a good lover, an attentive lover – you are the furthest thing from a learned student.
Shh, I have a secret: I come on your face when you’re not looking. You are the filthiest thing I have ever known and I tell you this under my breath when you are not listening (I don’t want to hear your response, really – your girlie, nervous giggle). Because in this dark place with you roaming behind my eyes – for a moment: You are the biggest thing in my life. And then,
I orgasm. And,
My fantasy of you dies a violent death.
Then, finally: You are the most remote of my addiction and reality, at all. You are gone. Away from me, like a fly, buzzing towards death.
In front of your smoky eyes, down wind from your perfume, we talk about the most provocative facets of your being. The biggest secrets. We peel back the paint in the darkest of your corners. We share entire lifetimes in short hours. And I am lead to this place of belief. Of faith. That you will carry me in the same way that I carry you.
But no, in the drunk darkness of your bedroom and its corners, I am lead to a place where I come to know the biggest flirt as the worst lover I have ever taken.
Several years ago and those girls that were willing to speak their dirtiest, darkest fantasies and recollections to me, were the most provocative. The bravest. And for a long while, that pushed me to understand my communications in the most intimate manners. But now,
I am laying in your bed and I feel disgusted: that I am actually dreaming. That I am actually sleeping. That I am worn-out and need a place to sleep at all. Because,
You are no friend of mine, sexuality.
And more than that, you are less interesting in my contemporaries than any book I have ever read.
Certainly, most people grimace at the idea of pornography. They state that it is not interesting. Not really even sexy. Not provocative. They say,
It’s rote. It’s the median. It’s not even interesting.
And so I say: all of these women, all of these interactions – are pornographic.
And I, am a pornographer. By association.
In the mountainous landscape of life, I am but a carver of one cave. One valley. One riverbed. And you, nothing more than wet crease. That decayed den.
I find confessions intriguing. And so,
Where you are but one orgasm, one small fantasy that recedes into the backfold of the ambition of life, I am a fool for believing that you have any faculty to deliver the true gems of real discovery.
And so, I have reached for the heavens – toward love, but only found myself receding away from lust. Because of the ultimate disgust – where I am looking at you, my sexuality – in a black dress with smoky eyes, I am bored.
There is nothing intriguing here.
I am safer alone.
I am safer as both, the hunter and gatherer. The only thing that I can rely upon, at all.
Fuck you sexuality.
Fuck you titillation.
Fuck you, boring girls that I continually meet.
For where lust overwhelms, love is about the only the constant that makes sense.
Show me your light.