Down In Me

“Damn, you look good. You should always dress like that.”

“Why’s that?”

“So I won’t have to look elsewhere.”

This isn’t for you, bitch, fuck off. Let’s dress you in a skirt and make you teeter on your heels. Now turn around, fucker, I’m going to put you in the position you so often liked to see me in.

Our relationship was sullied by the bank notes that passed through our hands. Transactional exchanges of the soulless. Now that I’m in a position to pay for your services, though, you don’t seem to enjoy the art of negotiation half as much.

You taught me the value based solely on monetary worth and now that you’ve squandered the green, you want to switch up the rules. Not for you, bitch. Show me that sweet virgin ass and I’ll show you my business end.

Perhaps a barter is more your style today? My self-worth for your self-loathing with a side of dignity, in the spirit of fair trade. We could shake on it but we both know the value of your word, so instead we’ll seal this deal with a kiss.

I held my posture: my back straight, my hands in my lap and my stoic, upturned face, faraway yet hyper-aware. My gaze never met yours. Instead I watched you out of the corner of my eye. As I noted the rise and fall of your chest, the rhythm of our breaths synchronized naturally. I licked my upper lip softly. In response, you bit your lower lip lightly.

We fucked. Or we could have fucked. So warm and pressed so close you made me perspire. I ran my fingers over my throat and down my chest and took a deep breath. You took a deeper breath and inhaled my scent, prompting you to press closer, tighter. Stronger.

Too soon we pulled into a busy station and you rose to your feet effortlessly. You disappeared through the crowd. I felt used. Empty. Like the girl that gave it up on the first date and never got a callback.

I caught my breath and smiled inwardly, in a pretend post-coital haze.

Flash flash flash a bit of skin but not too much. I’m good at this art form of the feminine form of wiles all the while I’m flirty pink female dangerous flesh but far more dangerous words.

Look but don’t touch not much not until I’ve had my fill reeled in the kill and sated. But I’m not going about it in the usual way, that scurrilous scandalous supercilious way. I play up the damaged goods angle, the sexy goods angle, the saucy and lost, tarty and dirty but shy angle. Demurely provoking beck and call behind a long dark eyelash curl.

There’s nothing demure to that play I play so well in the historic bygone style of luscious betties and seductive janes. I’m out for treasure, but not the gold kind, the buried kind the real kind the kind you just don’t find. This is a show, burlesque by force but it’s not a pat down or a put-down, a put-on or a shakedown, it’s a showdown: my wit and your brawn in a fight to the death or at least to the break-up. But you can never take me and rarely will you take me down because I’m sharp fluid motor curves and quick.

Believe hushed tones from a full red pout please believe that I actually do bleed when you can’t match me word for word. Even as I catch sight of your delicate swaggering sunlit outline ambling towards me in the distance and everything screams no go, no go, I allow myself split-second thoughts as I allow myself every other indulgence.

I wish you’d kick the candy-coated doors wide open, tangle velvet tresses in your grasp and drag me out reminding me how small and fragile I am, but only after you’ve overpowered me with a mere thought because nothing quite so impresses my place upon me as a well-written missive in the dark. Hurdles jumped, you’re free to take from me as though it never belonged to me in the first, simply claim righteous debts and in the final hours of the tie-me-down, stake-your-claim victory rape fuck, I’d have been reborn remade redeemed.

Sadly the crushing pressure of my crashing expectations is all it takes to topple the worthiest and most steadfast of suitors. Chances lost I’ll cut you to the quick, lash out knife sharp razor like tongue blade and leave you reeling not knowing what or where but stinging all the same. And with that I’m good as gone down the road, hightailin’ it back cross country on my murderous rampage route due west because I’m living fast and free, no cares no cares.

“Faster, pussycat! Kill! Kill!” 

Thought I’d make it easy give it easy hand it over, surrender it willingly? Learn to read as I blow you kisses in a flurry of poisonous goodbyes.

(This post brought to you in part by The Cramps’ Smell of Female album and the Russ Meyer film.)

I’m as self-absorbed as to fall in love with my own words. For days, engrossed in the dark, I craft and hone a beautifully sick relationship in depth. I love and love and love and they respond in kind.

Often they glide right off my mind’s tongue. Gently, softly, deliberately. I sweetly smooth them… this way, that. I stroke their lovely little serifs. Wiggle my fingers into their curves until they shiver into place. Just. So.

Others anxiously gurgle out of me in fits and spurts and spasms, they are willful and decisive and I must ardently molest and defile and ultimately topple them. They reward me with an arousing fight. Until finally they submit.

I can be an impatient, pedantic lover. Pushing towards release without care. To relieve myself of them, get them sorted on their suffering way. Often it is just too early. I feel guilty and begin to resent them. Often it is just too early to tell.

I am the only one that has read them as much and for much and for long. But I soon relapse into my place as the fickle lover. When the next idea is splayed open across the screen for my use, I quickly abandon what is written past. Without giving it a second thought.