Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

I Was Promised Earrings, But Ended Up Only with Pierced Ears

As per request in the comment from Anonymous under "Ode to Mick Monet"—first, thank you for the encouragement.

Secondly, I try to write as I feel, and I may want to save to aftermath of the arrest until, as you suggest, we get there in chronological order…or unless you prefer otherwise.
So following one of your suggestions, in chronological order,

Mick is gone. Dead for a month now.
Mick wanted me to go to College.
My Parents want me to go to College.
I want to go to College.
My finances say otherwise.
Will apply for student loans given to poorer students and my Parents have agreed to pay for the dorm.
Other than that I’m on my own.
No choice but to get out of bed and find a job.

‘Spa Petite.’ An all-women’s gym.
Located in a nebulous strip-mall in the suburb I am presently a prisoner of.
Perfect job having spent half my young life as a cheerleader and a gymnast.
Work costume is a black leotard with a zipper running down the front from cleavage to navel.
White letter proclaiming ‘S-P-A-P-E-T-I-T-E, roll in mountainous waves across out chests.
In fact looking more like: P-A_T-I-T on our nipples. The rest of the letters hiding under armpits and in the valley between breasts.
Underneath, we don black tights and when we are not teaching classes, on our feet are black stiletto heels.
I don’t know seeing as all the clients are women.
(But God! I love that we get to wear these high-heels. These fuck-me pumps. These Ceiling-Walkers. They make my legs look great and I feel so grown-up in them. I hope I get to wear them all my life.)

This job is two-fold.
Three employees per day.
One person acts as in Sales selling memberships. The other two alternate teaching high-impact aerobics.
(This is still the 70’s, remember?)
Six classes per day. One hour each class.
We alternate jobs depending on the day as the Sales person makes commission.
During the break between classes, we teach weights, the machines, and construct personalized workout programs for the clients.
We are allowed a two-hour lunch or dinner break—our choosing.
No one is professionally certified.
I, at least, have an athletic background.

Janine, who is to train me, has worked here a year.
When I meet her, I thank Genetics or God for my body.
She’s worked here a year?
She is the dark, female version of the Pillsbury DoughBoy.
Plump and short, with kinky black hair on her head and her arms, painfully white skin, she stands behind the desk explaining the job to me, taking occasional dips to the lower shelf to sneak a bite off a candy bar.
One of the many items she has stashed in her personal shoebox.

Lazy is the only word that comes to mind as I follow her through the gym.
The music plays. She shows me the routine. Once. That’s all she has the patience for.
Good thing I was a cheerleader. A Champion Cheerleader.
I learn fast. In one go.
I ask her to watch me just to make sure I have it down.
She munches a Nestle’s.
Gives me the high sign when I finish.

Lay in bed that night, before my first official day, practicing the routine in my head.
Over and over.
Over and over.
Would not be able to bear the embarrassment if I failed in front of a class.

Day One:Punch my time card.
Janine hands me my assigned shoebox.
Inside it I place my Tap Shoes.
She throws me a ‘you’re weird’ look.
Sheepish smile and a shrug acknowledging that perhaps I am.
She offers me one of her candy bars—the smallest one.
I decline.
She shrugs giving me ‘the look’ again.
Review the schedule.
Janine is to teach the two morning classes and then take a break.
Candy is in Sales today.
I teach the afternoon.
Janine and I split the evening.

I observe with hawk-eyes as she performs and the class follows,
running the routine through my mind and my body.
I attend the desk, checking I.D.’s and watching Janine, wobbling on her stilettos, working the clients on the machines.
A sponge. I need to be a sponge.
Not much to absorb.
Mostly she sends them to the bikes, then sneaks behind the counter for another Nestle’s.

10:56 a.m.
Almost time for class #2.
Janine is with me at the counter.
"Look at my belly." She insists.
I do, although I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing.
She rubs her hand over and around it, lovingly, as if there is a baby in there.
"Can you see it?" she says.
"Can’t you see how constipated I am?"

I can’t believe she said the word ‘constipated.’
I can’t believe she is talking about bodily functions.

"God, it hurts. Put your hand on it."
I decline. In my family, talking about bowels, especially about bowels, especially if a ‘girl’ talks about bowels is well, so so so…well, it makes you not a girl.
"Do you want me to teach the class?" I offer not knowing what else to say to aid her.
"Would you mind?"

And so I do.
My heart is racing.
I don’t want to make a mistake. Most of the women here have been members for a long time. They know the routine better than I do.
I press Play, take a deep breath and leap into Faith.
I’m not as good as I will be, but I do it all, and do it well enough for a first time.

Break time. Two hours off.
Not sure what to do with the time.
Can’t eat. Haven’t had an appetite since Mick died.
Walk through the Spa, the showers, past the Jacuzzi, past the Steam room, into a bathroom stall carrying my tap shoes and cassette player.
Balance the music box on the toilet. Press play. Try to remember the routine from the movie:

"I’m singin’ in the rain. Just singin’ in the rain. What a glorious feelin’, I’m happy again…"

Time step, and fa-lap, and fa-lap, ball change….no....


Fast Forward. Different song.
Easier song.

"I got rhythm. (Time-step)
I got music. (Time step)
I got my man. (Time step)
Who could ask for anything more?"

Break down in tears.
My man?
Is dead.

Knock on stall door.
‘Uh, You can’t dance on company time."
"Oh. Sorry. (Pause) Janine?"
"What am I allowed to do on break?"
"Go home. Rest. Eat. Whatever."

And so I do.
House is empty. Parents are at work. Brothers at school.
Remove a peach from the fridge.
So cold it’s flavorless.
I’m grateful. Have no appetite. Haven’t had an appetite since losing Mick.
Turn on the TV.
Mindless daytime TV talk show.
Recall nothing except it’s depressing, all these victims. Victims of their own stupidity.
Drive back to the gym where, for the time I’m there, I forget about my ‘real life’ for a while.

And so, the sun comes up in the morning.
How it has the audacity to do so when there is no Mick on the planet, I cannot fathom.
Drive to work.
Teach all six classes in a day due to Janine’s peculiar bowel issue.
I don’t mind. For the time I’m there teaching, smiling, barking out the routine, I am blessed with amnesia.
Drive to the bank on Fridays to deposit my check.
Drive home after the sun has mercifully gone to bed.
Fall into sleeps woefully empty of Dreams.

Unable to revive an appetite, I am down to 98lbs.
Instead, during my breaks, I take to collecting poems, matching them to pictures of Mick, building them into a shrine of posters.
On each large Parchment paper, I write with an ink pen in calligraphy, a poem that surrounds a photo of Mick.

My first and favorite one I glue a full-body picture of Mick, mid-song, hands fluttering, eyes shut, mouth open, voice raised in song, to the bottom corner of the paper.
The rest of the page is taken up by the paisley, swirling blank-ink Calligraphy of the words that haunt me every morning when I wake up and every night when I climb into bed.

It is a poem by a 16th Century Poet named Myung Ok:

They say that dreams are only fleeting fancies.
But I wish I could dream him oftener.
Where else could I see him, if not in a

August 5th.
A month has passed.
I have saved some money but am fearful it won’t be enough.
I can only hope they will move me into Sales soon so I can make commissions.

Drive home as usual for my break.
Am surprised to find my Father there.
Explains left work early and is parked on the sofa in the living room studying a book on computer languages.
Go to the refrigerator, remove my usual lunch: a cold, flavorless peach.
Re-enter the living room taking a bite.
My Father looks up at me, and half-jokingly says,
"Oop! Lane, don’t eat too much! You might get fat."
He says it in a way as if he really thinks he’s dispensing loving and sound advice.

I weigh ninety-five pounds and teach six aerobics classes a day.
Stunned. Feel as if I’ve had my finger forcefully shoved into an electrical socket.

"From a peach?" I hollere, indignant, tired and so very sad.

"I’m just warning you. You have to be careful. You don’t want to get fat."

I slam the half-eaten peach into the garbage and head out to my car.
My father has a phobia with fat, specifically involving the female of the species.
In my father’s world, ‘Woman’ is the most beautiful creature.
‘Woman is Goddess, put on earth to be of great pleasure to a man.
Deeply it disturbs him when women ‘let themselves go’, or get fat.

Driving back to the gym, my mind falls prisoner to a story my father had told me when I was a little girl of maybe 5.
In answer to my naive question ‘Had dated other girls before he met mommy?’, he replies,
"Only one I can remember clearly. Oh Lane, she was a beauty. Her name was Debbie."

"Well what made you stop liking her?"

"Let me tell you how it was." He says, settling onto my bed, ready to divulge the secrets of his life before I was born. "Like I said, she was a beauty, very thin but curvy and soft. I think I asked her go to the movies. I don’t remember now where we went but I remember her mother had to drive us. After the movie we got into the back seat together and her mother drove us to my house first. I think I even got brave enough to put my arm around her."

"With her mommy in the car?"

"Yep. With her mother in the car. I was going to try and kiss her goodnight and then, Lane, oh she did something that just turned me right off."

"What did she do!?"
What could a girl do, even if she was beautiful that would make a boy not like her anymore? I couldn’t imagine but knew I needed to know so I wouldn’t do it when I was grown-up and on a date with a boy.
I needed to know the answer as if it were the secret to the meaning of Life.

"She farted."

My face is on fire. I giggle at the word.

"Yep." He says. "It sounded just like this: p-p-p-p-t-t-t-t-pt. And oh the smell!" He is laughing now- "I’m telling ya Lane, it smelled up the whole car---terrible. I got out of there so fast."

"And you never called her again?" I ask, confused.

"Turned me right off. I could never even look at her again after that."

He is still laughing at the memory.

The next day, I come home for lunch and begin a routine that would last for the next several months.
Waking up in the morning, I decide not to eat.
Teach four classes before my break. Drive home for lunch suddenly and unusually famished but determined not to eat.
This willpower lasts an hour.
By the second hour of my break, I tell myself I’ll just take a nibble of something.
Find a shrimp fork in the silverware drawer.
Open the freezer, removing a full gallon of ice cream.
Pulling back the cardboard top, I glide the shrimp fork’s side over the virgin top of the ice cream, skimming off a paper-thin slice, and let it melt on my tongue.
The hour passes. Time to return to work.
Look down at the cardboard box now empty.
Guilt and shame as I realize I have eaten an entire gallon of ice cream, layer by layer, with a shrimp fork.

One day, after my gallon-o-ice-cream-lunch, I am in the middle of teaching my afternoon class.
Facing the mirror in the front of the room, I am able to see the class behind me in the mirror spread out throughout the room in the gym.
Jumping Jacks section of the routine.
I call for us to do ‘a hundred!’
Everyone groans.
I smile enthusiastically, shouting ‘One! Two! Bounding up and down as high as I can go as the class follows.
When I get to number "Twenty-four", suddenly, on hitting the ‘down’ part of the movement,
I fart.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
The music is blaring. Maybe no one heard.
On the upbeat I scan the faces of the class behind me to see if anyone heard, but by the time the downbeat quickly comes,
I fart again.
It won’t stop.
The ice cream is having its delightful revenge.
They are pooting out of me.
The lactose from the ice cream is combusting in my bowels.
Up and downbeat poot!
Up and downbeat poot!
I stop jumping but continue to count, still facing the mirror; too ashamed to turn around.
In true cheerleader form, I plaster my practiced Mid-Western smile to my face through the rest of the routine.
Pretending it hadn’t happened.
The song ends. The class is over.
Walk to the counter and then promptly quit my job.

Sit in my car, forehead pressed into the top of the steering wheel, burning with shame.
My only solace?
No men were there to witness my humanness.

Immobile, staring out my windshield, on that gray rainy afternoon watching the drops from the sky spit on my window, I am certain, now that Mick is dead, and I am getting progressively fat, And, I am a ‘Farter’ no less, that no man will ever love me again.

With no job now, and still short of the quota of cash I need before I going off to school,
I search the want ads.
Captured by this one:
Actresses Wanted to Audition for Re-make of ‘Gone with the Wind."
To be directed and produced by Famous European Director.

Why not?
The final goal is to be an Actress, isn’t it? Why not land a job doing just that?
Call the number.
Arrange a meeting with the Famous Director: Wilhelm Oster.
Although I’ve never heard of him before, he assures me he is quite well-known and highly respected in the Foreign Film Market.
In fact, he was the Mentor and early acting coach for Ingrid Bergman herself.
Very impressive. Aware I am naïve about the movie business so I take him at his word.

Get lost several times on my way driving into the city to meet with Wilhelm Oster.
Have never driven on the freeway before, this being my first time merging in real traffic, and parallel parking in the actual big city.
The driving adventure causes me to panic several times along the way, shaking and bursting into tears, driving the whole distance leaning as far forward as my face can go up to the dash.

Locate the Palmer House where we are to meet.
Sit self-conscious and uncomfortable in the classic, austere lobby alone on a stuffed chair in my cowl-neck light blue dress.
The one I’d stolen from the Junior-Miss shop I once was employed at as a stock-girl.
My dyed black hair, tinted with a few blonde streaks I created at home with Sun-In and my blow-dryer the night before, is cut in the shape of the Farrah Fawcet-Feathered-back-flip, (very ‘in’ at the moment.)

I sit perfectly and painfully erect, minding my posture in case he sees me from a distance.
My hands clutch the Polaroid of myself that Sue took for me.
My heart bangs a noticeable hard beat thumping against my lungs.
Every few minutes, I allow only my eyes to move, glancing down at my watch.
He arrives twenty minutes late.

He comes from behind me, a short old man, maybe in his sixties, with white flyaway hair and a white-button down shirt with a small coffee stain on the collar.
Shakes my hand as his eyes scan me, then proclaims, much to my delight, I may be exactly what he’s searching for.
Places in my lap, several photocopied articles of himself: his arm around Ingrid Bergman and text that details his professional relationship with her.
Relates the specifics about the "Gone with the Wind" project.
I smiled and ‘yes’ him, not really understanding anything he says.
Finally, he concludes, informing me a photo shoot will be necessary as sort of a screen test to see if I am photogenic enough.
Sounds logical enough to me. I have never auditioned for a movie before. This must be the way it’s done.

Of course, I will be compensated for my time.
Twenty Five Dollars.
Wow. That’s a lot of money. Especially when I’m used to working for $1.25 an hour—minimum wage.
We schedule a time for me to go to his office in Chicago.
I leave floating a few feet above the earth thinking I may soon ‘be discovered’, like Lana Turner in the Soda Shop.
This could be my break.

But on the drive home, my mind keeps reminding me of the coffee stain on his collar.
Somewhere deep inside my consciousness, I doubt just a little bit, the legitimacy of the entire thing, so I don’t share the news of this meeting or upcoming appointment with anyone, not even Sue.

Again, I drive like a tightly wound spring into the city to the ‘office’ of Wilhelm Oster.
It’s not exactly what I am expecting.
An apartment complex, three stories high with a pre-fab look and fake unusable balconies attached to little square windows sit in the middle of a wrap-around parking lot. The smell of cat urine permeates the hallways.
In my imagination, I pictured a famous producer like he would have a big office in a shiny building with a grand lobby and a doorman.
But he had said he was on a budget until the filming began so I try not to be judgemental.
I buzz and head to the second floor to his office.

The door opens into a squat, low-ceilinged one bedroom strewn with mountains of thrift-store-worthy women’s clothing in all styles and sizes.
I make out a chair in the living room, but under the piles of clothes, I am able to discern no other furniture. Talking on and on, he again shows me one of the same articles of himself with Ingrid that he had shown me before. I nod pleasantly, listening as if I’d not seen them before.
I want this job.

Picking through the massive pile of clothing, like rummaging through dead bodies in a holocaust, he somehow distinguishes several pieces of interest, filling my arms with his eccentric choices.
I am instructed to go into the bathroom and change into the powder-blue one-piece leotard with the snaps at the crotch.
Changing swiftly, I return from the bathroom, bare footed, bare legged in this high-collared polyester blue travesty obviously several sizes too large for me.
My pubic hair is peeking out of the sides of the ‘V’ by my crotch.

He stands me on top of aluminum folding ladder in the corner of what I know is a kitchen as I see a stove under another pile of clothes.
Positioning himself in a crouching position beneath me, placing a camera to his eye, he begins to take photos.
Photos I can’t imagine will look flattering, for although I have no experience, I can tell that this angle could be complimentary to no one.

"Do you think it’s a little big for me?"
I inquire gently not wanting to sound naive, my hands pulling back on the extra material at my waist.

He grabs some large size safety pins he has on the kitchen counter, turns me around and pins the loose material together making the ridiculous body suit as tight as a second skin against me.
This is the way they do things at photo shoots, he explains.
Apparently, they can order only one size.
Once the model is hired, it is pinned it to fit the specific model.
After all, the pins are not be visible in the photos.

This sounds logical to me. I read in a magazine once that during photo shoots, the models hair is sometimes pulled forward to her face and pinned in the back with combs, creating the illusion of fuller hair.
This must be a version of that.

I tug at the ‘V’, trying to pull it down to cover my peeking pubic hair.
He brushes my hand away telling me it’s okay that way, then crouches back down near the floor for several more shots.
In the end, there is series of Polaroid’s in all the bizarre pre-owned garments.
Although I hate the results, photos of me looking like an Amazon with a too-large torso and bulbous nose and breasts taken as if from a valley far down below me, he seems very proud of the product.

Secretly, I feel sad and embarrassed by the shots.
I have never been particularly photogenic due to my prominent nose, but in any of the photos I have been the subject of in the past, I have never seen myself look worse than in these.
Never-the-less, Wilhelm, the Famous Director and mentor to Ingrid Bergman, is pleased.
The next step, he informs me is showing the photos to his partner.
If he partner approves, we move on to submit me for an audition for the role of Scarlett O’Hara.
However, a second photo shoot might be necessary.
As he hands me my $25 dollars, we scheduled yet another appointment. Just in case it becomes necessary.

Several more times, I journey to the creepy cave apartment of Wilhelm Oster.
Each time the photo-shoot requiring I wear less and less clothing.
Each time, during the shoots he gushes to me about how much the other Producer’s liked me.
Each time exciting me with the news of how much closer they were getting to making a decision.
It is coming down to me and another girl.

"But don’t they want to see me act? I inquire, trying not to be too pushy.
They just need one more photo, it seems.
This is to be a very modern version of "Gone with the Wind."
It is imperative they see how I look from behind.

He has me lay on his filthy, semen-smelling sheets at the very end of his bed, my back to him, butt in the air, back arched, face to the mattress, my legs spread as far apart as I can get them.
Proudly, I am able get them all the way apart thanks to my years of gymnastic and my expertise at the Chinese-splits.
Between my legs, placed like a g-string was an old frayed shawl, covering nothing else but the slice in my vagina.
From behind me, unable to see, I hear the camera click and buzz. Click and buzz, spitting out Polaroid after Polaroid.

Suddenly I get scared. This is odd.

It was all odd but he was a good talker and I am so young, so inexperienced and unaware of how things should be, I was able to rationalize all his comments, all his actions.
But this finally lights a match to my sleeping intuition.

Demurely, I rise, clutching the shawl modestly, excusing myself to the bathroom.
Dress hurriedly, returning to the room explaining I forgot I had to work that night and had to leave.
My heart races as I hit the parking lot.
My spirit crashes into brick as all the dreams I tied around this adventure fade into a brown-odor stink.
I am not to be a Star.
There is no ‘big break’
I will not be able to surprise everyone with the news that I am playing the lead in a movie.
I have been used.
Driving home, perforating myself with hatred, unable to forgive my stupidity.
I so want to believe and have so little help and guidance in making my dreams a reality that I spend my days grabbing at dangerous straws like this one.
Harder still is the task of releasing all the dreams attached to this venture.
"Why Mick? Why weren’t you looking out to me?" I yell at the air in the car, sure he is hearing me.
For no reason I can think of, the words of a poem by Wordsworth overtake my brain.
I speak them outloud, wondering why they are there and curious if I am remembering them in full:

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways

It is a Poem I memorized after Mick’s demise.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs at Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love

Yes. That’s what the words are.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

And then how does it go?

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

The grave?
What, why the grave?
Why the grave?

My guardian angel, the one that taught me the words: "Thank you." He speaks.
Be grateful.
Say "Thank you."

Thank you…why?
Thank you…because..

And as I pull into the driveway at home, I know.
Thank you that I did not get raped or killed.

Beginning of the School year is only a week away.
I am short quite a bit of money still.
Read the paper again.
Notice an ad: "Models Wanted."
This time, having learned from my experience with Wilhelm, I am more careful, asking more specific questions.

There is no money for the actual photo shoot itself, but a model release form is signed and for every picture the photographer is able to sell to a magazine, payment is fifty dollars.
Fifty dollars!
If he sold ten, that would be $500! A practical fortune.
Assuring myself, any signs of weirdness, I will be out of there.
I go on the shoot.

The address is a luxury high-rise on Chicago’s North Side. An upscale area.
There is a doorman and everything.
He escorts me into his apartment, tastefully furnished and filled with photography equipment scattered everywhere. Lights, and cords and cameras and bulbs, it all looks legit.
Handing me a thick Terry cloth robe, he instructs me to undress and put on the robe.
My eyes question.
He explains that clothes make crease marks on the skin.
He wants time for the crease marks to go away.
I put on the robe.

Sip from the cold can, a diet soda, as he shows me albums of his work: all sensuous photos of half-naked young girls in provocative positions.
Unlike Wilhelm’s Polaroid’s, these are taken from flattering angles and seem to be on high-quality film.
He is Mick’s age I guess. This photographer.
Cute, with a short haircut and soft-looking brown hair, turquoise-colored eyes and an easy-going nature.

He hands me a piece of paper that states I release all rights to the photographs and will be paid $50 for each sale of each photograph.
I sign it.
I then write out my name and phone number so he is able to call and pay me when he makes a sale.

Places me on the bed.
Moves me with his hands, as if I was clay, setting me in position, motioning me with his hands to ‘hold it there’, going back to his camera, clicking off several pictures in a row, the light flashing and popping in my eyes. All the while, making me feel sexy—something I hadn’t felt since Mick—telling me I am beautiful, gorgeous, saying:
"Yes, like that, and hold it, Beautiful. Beautiful. These are going to be beautiful."

For the last roll, he has me sit on the edge of the bed with my legs spread wide, feet on the floor balanced on my toes, knees far apart.
"Can I touch you?" he asks.
I smile and nod although not really sure what he means.
Using two fingers, he spreads the two inner lips of my vagina, exposing the inner folds.
I’m wet and I feel some of my juices drip to the floor.
His attention is exciting me.
His gentle professionalism makes me feel safe.
I am excited by my exhibitionism and by the thought that the pictures might sell.
Maybe this will be a break for me.
Maybe I can make great money modeling this way.
Maybe if I become a famous nude model, men will want me.

The camera moves in tight, intimately close to my lower lips.
A series of clicks and flashes later and he is finished.
He hands me the robe and my diet soda, and I watch as he rewinds the camera and sets the film in a dark bag.

As I step off the bed to go get my clothes, he takes my hand, moving me close to him.
Shy and uncertain, I stand firm. Our eyes hold tight, staring.
"What?" I giggle, uncomfortable but flirting.
He slips his finger into the wet slice between my legs.
I feel something specific-something like I feel when I stroke myself. There is a direction to this feeling.
A throbbing inside me wants him to keep going.
I move myself in a slow circle around his tender finger.
He doesn’t move his finger but hold it there lightly.
Lowered myself closer to his knuckle, a sudden warmth blooms in my belly, running up from the spot that’s touching his knuckle.
His eyes watching me intently.
Out of his mouth come a series of quiet ‘ummm’s’.
I rub the part of my vagina where the intense part of the feeling seems to emanate from, softly, juicily around the top of his hand, his unmoving fist.
The word ‘fuck’ captures my entire mind. I have never thought of that word spontaneously before.

"I want you to fuck me." I hear myself say, feeling this hotness, this aching-ness form deep inside me, needing to be touched, to be reached, to be stroked.
He climbs on top of me. Slides in. One thrust. Fucks me hard and fast, all the still-ness, the patient touch dissipating. Cums quickly on my belly, expelling a loud animal grunt.

I am not disappointed. I don’t know yet that I could cum with a man so I don’t know to be frustrated when my body’s yearnings end unsatisfied. Instead, I’m titillated, newly curious. Something unique occurred. Something I didn’t know could be felt with another person.

I guess the pictures never sold.
I never heard from him again.


At 9:14 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...


I didn't know the distance between a young woman's desire and a (not so) old man's regrets could be so short. Your words at the end of this vignette touched off a torrent of desires in a similar , yet distaff vein.

To enter
to be welcomed & desired
to be consumed
To be clasped, enclosed
to fill
The smile of a lover as she embraces
and crosses her legs behind to deny escape

It's sex, but not only sex, but a journey to a warm welcome loving healing forgiving place

It's communion,of the most sacred kind
the merging of souls thru flesh

I don't know which hurts more: the desires of youth or remebrances of age. I'm just amazed at how the young girl and old man can have such similar wants in mind.

your words touched my heart and soul
just wanted to let you know


Post a Comment

<< Home