Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Phone rang a bit before 1am - June 20, 2003
Take a look out your front window, she said. And outside, directly in front of the building, her silver car, looking pregnant (the car), compared to the previous model. But not her. She is all hot flesh, tight fitting clothes and enticing breasts covered by more restraining, but at the same time, uplifting and enhancing materials. OH! Yet another miracle of modern science and technology!
Anyway, there she sat, but me in my bare feet, and the dog, behind me on the sidewalk. The parking permit is in my hands, but she doesn't go for it. Her desire is to be elsewhere on this warm summer evening after an earlier evening of experiencing the results of having men exposed to the estrogen cloud the wafts around her oh-so-very-fine figure and electric, vibrating, hunting-for-something figure.
But I digress. She wants something. The plan is to stop by this place, ring the bell, and see if entrance, so to speak, is possible. Will another woman be there, if not, will he be receptive? That's the question for all of us and the ages. Will the person we want have us? Will they embrace us completely, totally, without reservation? She wants that too--but, as she knows, she holds back, waiting for the object of desire to be vulnerable and accepting and wanting--while she avoids those things until she knows the other will give her those things. Then she will, maybe, become vulnerable, accepting, wanting, towards him. But really, not until he demonstrates himself capable of doing those things. And so it goes. The wait for the other to step forward with an offer of unconditional love, forever, always, in every way. Who in their right might would want to take that first step? But we all ask it of others.
Myself, being much too old for her, and over the hill besides, throw my usual caution to the wind and make numerous offers of myself that mostly get some good laughs from her. Well, being able to make a woman laugh is always a good sign, from my experience. For some unknown reason it seems I am this lovely woman's sweetie pie. Perhaps some day, in the far future, when all our DNA is online, and cross correlated, and calculated, it will be obvious what keeps this odd couple together. In the meantime there is no hesitation on my part to say any and every naughty thing that comes to mind and nether parts of the corpse. And, odd as it may seem, she gets a perverse, and even disgusting pleasure from words poured over her from this desirous mouth.
But enough of that. Her plan, with my guidance, is to show up at Clint's house, ring the bell, and see if she can get him to get in, so to speak. If another woman is there, then she will be cool and exit. If he sends her away, she will be cool and go. If he lets her up then she will eviscerate her pent up longings.
She goes. Upstairs with the two us. The phone rings a few minutes later. A call from Harvard Square. She can't bring herself to it. Turns around and heads home. Too late. Traffic. Other excuses. But she knows all that.
She now knows what good sex is. But she had to go to men with no soul that she could fall into. There was no well of life into which she could willingly, freely, fall, give herself, melt, disintegrate, evaporate, have the feeling that you have become... us, we. Only with these men could she give herself up. She knew there was no real chance, on her part, to have that feeling of merging. They didn't let her in and she didn't let them in.
Well, at least the sex was fun. It was good. But then it isn't everything. Not with me, of course. But then the imagination is such a wonderful pleasure.
And me? There's been a hankerin fer this gal for a long time. But what's and old guy, old enough to be her father, and actually older, not much money to speak of--certainly not enough to compensate for the age, who knows her tears and the storm clouds of trying to make a life with somebody who has a chance at economic success, a smidgen of a conscience when it comes close to trying something, and... there you have it. But she is very nice to look at, in any case. So I will keep looking and revealing all the lewd thoughts in my mind. Which she seems to like, by the way.
To be continued, most likely...
Anyway, there she sat, but me in my bare feet, and the dog, behind me on the sidewalk. The parking permit is in my hands, but she doesn't go for it. Her desire is to be elsewhere on this warm summer evening after an earlier evening of experiencing the results of having men exposed to the estrogen cloud the wafts around her oh-so-very-fine figure and electric, vibrating, hunting-for-something figure.
But I digress. She wants something. The plan is to stop by this place, ring the bell, and see if entrance, so to speak, is possible. Will another woman be there, if not, will he be receptive? That's the question for all of us and the ages. Will the person we want have us? Will they embrace us completely, totally, without reservation? She wants that too--but, as she knows, she holds back, waiting for the object of desire to be vulnerable and accepting and wanting--while she avoids those things until she knows the other will give her those things. Then she will, maybe, become vulnerable, accepting, wanting, towards him. But really, not until he demonstrates himself capable of doing those things. And so it goes. The wait for the other to step forward with an offer of unconditional love, forever, always, in every way. Who in their right might would want to take that first step? But we all ask it of others.
Myself, being much too old for her, and over the hill besides, throw my usual caution to the wind and make numerous offers of myself that mostly get some good laughs from her. Well, being able to make a woman laugh is always a good sign, from my experience. For some unknown reason it seems I am this lovely woman's sweetie pie. Perhaps some day, in the far future, when all our DNA is online, and cross correlated, and calculated, it will be obvious what keeps this odd couple together. In the meantime there is no hesitation on my part to say any and every naughty thing that comes to mind and nether parts of the corpse. And, odd as it may seem, she gets a perverse, and even disgusting pleasure from words poured over her from this desirous mouth.
But enough of that. Her plan, with my guidance, is to show up at Clint's house, ring the bell, and see if she can get him to get in, so to speak. If another woman is there, then she will be cool and exit. If he sends her away, she will be cool and go. If he lets her up then she will eviscerate her pent up longings.
She goes. Upstairs with the two us. The phone rings a few minutes later. A call from Harvard Square. She can't bring herself to it. Turns around and heads home. Too late. Traffic. Other excuses. But she knows all that.
She now knows what good sex is. But she had to go to men with no soul that she could fall into. There was no well of life into which she could willingly, freely, fall, give herself, melt, disintegrate, evaporate, have the feeling that you have become... us, we. Only with these men could she give herself up. She knew there was no real chance, on her part, to have that feeling of merging. They didn't let her in and she didn't let them in.
Well, at least the sex was fun. It was good. But then it isn't everything. Not with me, of course. But then the imagination is such a wonderful pleasure.
And me? There's been a hankerin fer this gal for a long time. But what's and old guy, old enough to be her father, and actually older, not much money to speak of--certainly not enough to compensate for the age, who knows her tears and the storm clouds of trying to make a life with somebody who has a chance at economic success, a smidgen of a conscience when it comes close to trying something, and... there you have it. But she is very nice to look at, in any case. So I will keep looking and revealing all the lewd thoughts in my mind. Which she seems to like, by the way.
To be continued, most likely...
# posted by ADL : 3:38 PM
Click HERE to view the Premium Art Deadlines List.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]