Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
A girl has many layers.
There is the layer of outer clothing. It repels cold and other outside forces. It is what she thinks you see when you look at her. It is the image that she perpetuates.
Manage to strip away this and there are her undergarments. Very pretty but very utilitarian. They provide a silky smooth layer between her delicate skin and her outer clothing and they keep her parts together.
Standing there in her bra and panties, she looks quite vulnerable. It's arresting, really. But there is a thread of pretense running through it all in the squeezing and pushing properties of her bra and in the lasie cloth of her underwear.
Unfasten the simple mechanism of her bra. Do not dally if it does not immediately come loose, some force may be applied, it is not as delicate as it looks. Taking off her underwear is simply a matter of pulling them down, but the elastic band may be tight, and if you have to tear them, so be it.
Look at the uglyness.
She may not be able to look you in the eye. She must be reminded of why she arches her back now, the real reason she was born with a tongue. It doesn't take much, but remember that the story of her outer layer is over now and that of her true self is beginning.
There is only the matter of her skin now, its saltiness and the taste and smell of certain regens. It doesn't all taste like it should. The acquired taste for women's flesh is the difference between a boy and his father.
You may get used to walking down the street with that bravado that playing a part in her story allows you. You may not remember being any other type of man except the kind that she fantasizes about peeling back her layers. Do not let yourself get used to it. Your trusted partner in depravity may suddenly turn to you, and with tears in her eyes, insist that you stop also loving Denise. In return to your cool response, she may strike your face. She may growl like a beast. She will hate you in that moment. Who knew that when you made love, you were really cultivatig hate?
Do not waste any time.
At the next red light, let her out of the car.
Take solace in the construction worker's steady hammer. See his muscular fore arms, see his simple ambition to avoid the sun.
Take solace in the clergy toiling in the church. Their funny habits. Their earnest prayers.
A girl has many layers.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
My new car sparkling in the street. The essence of German engineering shining there in your window. The feeling of taking a corner in my new car. Makes me say yes. My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison. Their lives out of jail filled with the sonofabitch regrets of a Johnny Cash man. The unforgivabilities on their face that informed their art, evidence of the spoils of my profession.
This atheist heart of mine. Oh, I don't suppose I'll ever be forgiven. The cherubs at my feet speak the truth. Their poor old souls boiling with the same old frustration. Their high whiny voices belie the timeless feminine truth. Do you think when I die the Earth accepts my body like the body of any other? What will it think as it holds my heart in the instruments of its will? My license plate was made by hard criminals in prison.