Day 2-
Pussy's there if you want it, that's easy, I tell that to Jonathan as often as I hear him complain about not getting his rocks off in more than a month. It's easy really, always has been if you're halfway decent looking and have a tad bit of wit about you. Or even not, sometimes it's better to be witless, just to speak in grumbles and operate with never more complexity than the monosyllabic.
It's the higher forms of sex that are harder to find, and I don't mean love, don't waste your time thumbing through my thoughts if that's what you're hoping to find. No love and sex rarely follow the same path, or rest in the same orifice for that matter. The higher forms of sex are almost indefinable, and really, like tennis require a more formidable partner, opponent, what have you, to be more and more exciting and truly worth the match. Otherwise you're almost better off with a jar of hair grease and a rag.
Jonathan, an otherwise smart young man, is constrained by his youth, it's an incredible contrast I think to the mind of the other "young thing" I've grown to know with fair intimacy. Put side by side they hardly seem like two creatures of the same species much less genus. The pursuit of the carnal, that brutal slaughter and triumph of the female body like the massacre and surrender of an enemy combatant verses the pursuit of an equal, an invitation to walk an exciting and mysterious road together with hands not so much clenched by one another's, but unspoken taunts at physical relief, release, reaction?
That's my Anais, she thrills me with words, not words that I have gone these 31 years without hearing, but the source is so much more the delicacy than the words themselves. I'll of course not tell her of her hold on me, don't think me a fool. That would take it from her, and me for that matter. No I'll just let her speak, let her make the gestures she believes necessary, while she still struggles with the miscellany of her school girl past. Her pencil case, her butterfly hair clips and the rounded balloon handwriting that would tell even the most foreign of audiences that a girl, not a woman, had written her words.
But the words are still reminders to me. Oh the words like brushstrokes from the mind of a devil's favorite soul, they come. I close my eyes and see her dance to those words and for a brief time wish I were19 again, blessed of course with all the knowledge and wisdom I have amassed in the twelve years since that unspoiled age. But yes not since my ex-wife, have I wanted to see a one so alive in words
Again, I have to stop myself, the school bell is near rung and I have agreed to proctor a friend's test. She is a good friend, a former professor of mine in fact, but I think she has other intentions for me that go beyond the innocence of a colleague's respect.
As I said, Pussy's there if you want it, it's just that easy, but hardly ever worth it on the whole. Hair grease then....
Pussy's there if you want it, that's easy, I tell that to Jonathan as often as I hear him complain about not getting his rocks off in more than a month. It's easy really, always has been if you're halfway decent looking and have a tad bit of wit about you. Or even not, sometimes it's better to be witless, just to speak in grumbles and operate with never more complexity than the monosyllabic.
It's the higher forms of sex that are harder to find, and I don't mean love, don't waste your time thumbing through my thoughts if that's what you're hoping to find. No love and sex rarely follow the same path, or rest in the same orifice for that matter. The higher forms of sex are almost indefinable, and really, like tennis require a more formidable partner, opponent, what have you, to be more and more exciting and truly worth the match. Otherwise you're almost better off with a jar of hair grease and a rag.
Jonathan, an otherwise smart young man, is constrained by his youth, it's an incredible contrast I think to the mind of the other "young thing" I've grown to know with fair intimacy. Put side by side they hardly seem like two creatures of the same species much less genus. The pursuit of the carnal, that brutal slaughter and triumph of the female body like the massacre and surrender of an enemy combatant verses the pursuit of an equal, an invitation to walk an exciting and mysterious road together with hands not so much clenched by one another's, but unspoken taunts at physical relief, release, reaction?
That's my Anais, she thrills me with words, not words that I have gone these 31 years without hearing, but the source is so much more the delicacy than the words themselves. I'll of course not tell her of her hold on me, don't think me a fool. That would take it from her, and me for that matter. No I'll just let her speak, let her make the gestures she believes necessary, while she still struggles with the miscellany of her school girl past. Her pencil case, her butterfly hair clips and the rounded balloon handwriting that would tell even the most foreign of audiences that a girl, not a woman, had written her words.
But the words are still reminders to me. Oh the words like brushstrokes from the mind of a devil's favorite soul, they come. I close my eyes and see her dance to those words and for a brief time wish I were19 again, blessed of course with all the knowledge and wisdom I have amassed in the twelve years since that unspoiled age. But yes not since my ex-wife, have I wanted to see a one so alive in words
Again, I have to stop myself, the school bell is near rung and I have agreed to proctor a friend's test. She is a good friend, a former professor of mine in fact, but I think she has other intentions for me that go beyond the innocence of a colleague's respect.
As I said, Pussy's there if you want it, it's just that easy, but hardly ever worth it on the whole. Hair grease then....
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
roxiekill:
sooooo fucking true.
roxiekill:
