Jess- towering Goddess of feminity

I like your firm back, your broad American football shoulders, the length of your shiny brown hair. And though your eyes are a bit small, they burn brightly like glistening chestnuts. Your legs look slim in pants, but are full and round naked. The red lipstick on your lips a blazing fire made of flesh.

You are highly sensitive and can’t watch drama movies for fear you will break down and cry. You cry often enough, I’ve come to see the inflationary rate of your tears. There’s no sadness in your crying, only the joy of living. With wet cheeks you have the mesmerizing beauty of a sad sea-green mermaid.  By the way, you look the hottest, with your sea-green blouse and fiery red skirt.

Sex with you is only perfect if you end up bruised, with islands of blue and purple marking the spots where I claimed you. You’re an easy comer. And you’re an animal. A  ferocious glutton. If it gives you pleasure, you have no limits. It’s a miracle you’re still so thin. And it’s a miracle you haven’t dwarfed me and locked me back in your womb. You are that excessive.

When you are with friends, you look like you haven’t been socialized yet. An eternal teenager, ever the playground outcast, your ways are studied, non-spontaneous and crude. You give boys slaps on the backs that twist their collar bones.

And maybe for that exact reason, you make such a lasting impression on people. Men around you, are either too intimidated by your looks to approach, or they turn into little school boys who play the equivalent of pulling your hair, with their verbal teasing. Sexual tension behind every tiny insult they throw at you. 

You are everything I could ask for in a woman. Your height dwarfs me, you are a divinely soft retreat from the scary outside world, in your arms it’s suddenly ok to have a fear of life, all I have to do is cover you in continuous caresses, you’re a natural axiolytic with breasts. Tiny breasts in comparison to your height, which arouses me all the more. They look like perfect sculptures with no risk of ever sagging.

Transcendental. ‘Bi-polar opposites attract’, goes the song in the background. I never thought my weaknesses could turn on a woman. I crawl in your pantzer and you close the steel vaults behind me. I love the feel of your protective pincers in the skin of my neck. And you relish the security that I could never hurt you. A feeling you find contradicting, because: ‘I am never attracted to sweet boys. Maybe it’s because I’m the only one with whom your sweetness is not pretended.’

A goddess. A monotheistic goddess. My Isis, your Osiris. You keep me on a tight leash. No glancing at other women allowed. Granted the fruit of your gifts, I will subject myself to you, to you and no other. Or you will shun me and leave me to dry on the beach in the hot callous sand.

You text me about 150 times a day. It drives anyone around me crazy. I’m unable to hold any kind of coherent conversation with anyone any more. Up until the point that people don’t want to meet up with me if you are not there in body and spirit, so at least we aren’t texting.

You are about an inch taller than me. It’s strangely soothing. And subversively pleasurable. People frown at our height difference. Whoever made up conventional male-female roles was a dreadful bore. You wear high heels on purpose to make it even worse. Normally, you wear comfortable, sneaker-like shoes.

For months on end we are locked inside each other. And when we wake up, it’s like arising from an opium dream. Eyes still misty and vision still blurry. Head and body slightly numb.

Last week we’ve agreed to have children.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll ask you to marry me.

If you don’t beat me to it, though I think we’ll adhere to tradition in that respect.

You read and criticize everything I write, except this female Alphabet.

‘Why do you have to do that? I at least hope it has some commercial value for a change.’

‘It’s the perfect time for me to muse about bygones, because you’re the last one.’

‘Don’t be so fucking corny, or I’ll have to tie you up for the third time today and beat all the emo shit out of you’

‘Be my guest’, and I hand you the rope.

31-07-2011 om 19:51 geschreven door Tederdraads  

Irene

‘So you like my fledgling breasts do you, my lecherous pedophile?’

While I suck your tiny nipples, I think:

A)     You read too much classics

B)      No, I keep cupping them to keep my hands warm, what do you think?

‘What do you mean, pedophile?’, I ask.

‘Well, you ARE a pedophile, aren’t you?’

‘What?’

‘I’m 17 and you are what? 24? Ergo: you qualify as a pedophile.’

‘My other three girlfriends are adults. I’m a 25 percent pedophile at best.’

‘I hope you are kidding, promiscuous pedophile.’

I am in fact kidding. I only have two other girlfriends. And they are mature in age, but not in spirit.

You are my first groupie. If writers are entitled to have groupies, that is. We started emailing after you read something on some site where exhibitionist writer types post things to beg for attention. Sometimes it gets you exactly that. Most of the time it gets you as much as what your writing is worth. Nothing.

Are you naked in my bed because of what you read there? Or in spite of what you read there?

‘Your self-control amazes me.’

‘How do you mean that?’

‘This is the third time we are naked, and you haven’t tried to penetrate me.’

‘Well, you are a virgin.’

‘And you intend to keep me that way? Like a toy you don’t unwrap from its package? Is there some kind of perverse pleasure behind it?’

‘No, I just don’t think I should be the one to do it.’

‘Why not? Am I not attractive enough?’

‘I’m not sure if what we have will last, so I don’t want to be the first and then leave you.’

‘Oh, so you are planning to leave me?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘But you implied it.’

You sigh.

‘What?’, I ask.

‘Nothing. I was just imagining what it would be like, if you thought I was so attractive you just had to take me. Even if you knew you’d break my heart after.’

‘Sometimes I think you read too many 19^th century classics.’

‘When I read what you write I start to wonder if you ever read anything at all.’

‘Really?’

‘Haha, ooh, got a soft spot there.’

Aren’t groupies supposed to throw themselves at your feet, unconditionally and uncritically?

‘You know, if you would just penetrate me and be done with it, you might actually have something to write about.’

I guess not.

‘Look, if you are so bloody intent on losing your virginity, we CAN do it right now, you know.’

‘Yes, it is a bloody intention, I must admit.’

Now I sigh.

‘No, it isn’t, I’ve never seen it to cause any sort of bleeding.’

‘Said the expert.’

‘Why do you make me feel like I am your study object?’

‘Well, I am a psychology student for a reason.’

‘You should be studying literature. Avant-garde stuff. Suits you better.’

‘That’s like taking a course on how to end up unemployed.’

‘I wish I had your insight in the dynamics of university education at your age.’

‘Now you sound old. But seriously now, why can’t you just say you are not really that attracted to me?’

‘I am attracted to you.’

‘Then penetrate me.’

‘Fine. I will.’

‘Why are you such a slave to what you think I might want or not want?’

‘Look, I don’t mind psychological analysis. It’s very fascinating, but it’s not exactly setting a sexy mood, is it?’

‘Ok, I’ll shut up. How long do I have to shut up?’

‘What?’

‘Well, how long does it take? On average.’

I grab you at your waist and pull you on top of me.

‘You do it yourself,’ I say.

‘Ow, and you can wash your hands in innocence, right? Pedophile Pilate.’

‘This way I can be sure you really want it.’

‘I demand the universal right to be passive during my first time.’

I nod to my right and you slide next to me again.

What ‘s the big deal anyway, I ask myself.

When you got what you came for, apparently, you ask:

‘So are you going to write about this?’

‘Maybe you should write about it.’

‘I don’t want to be a writer. I want to be happy.’

‘You are not very fond of writers, for someone who reads as much as you do.’

‘So if I like cars, I should naturally like the people that build cars? One can like books without liking their authors. How new are you to being in the writer business?’

‘What if I told you I already have two girlfriends?’

‘I would say: tell me something I don’t know already.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I didn’t until now.’

Silence.

‘What are they like?’, you ask. ‘No, wait, don’t tell me. They are in your latest story, right?’

I nod.

‘I should do some research. Something about the harem longing.’

‘I think there’s no research needed. Every man wants to have a harem.’

‘No, I’m talking about women longing to be with men who are already taken.’

‘Oh that.’

‘You are making me miss class,’ you say as you give a hard squeeze in my balls.

I don’t think you ever started that research.

You are a bass player in all girls band. The lead singer is an Irish cousin of yours. You write most of the lyrics.

I used to read them, to see if you mentioned me anywhere.

But I don’t think you did.

You wrote ‘the only writer I’ll ever like is the one who knows he will die if he finishes a manuscript , knows that the manuscript will never be read by anyone, but finishes it anyway’ with tipex on my laptop screen.

It’s still the most eloquent way someone told me he/she didn’t like me.

26-07-2011 om 14:12 geschreven door Tederdraads