"Let me," she says. "Let me inside your head."
So hypnotic, that voice. So intelligent and seductive, how could I deny her? I put down my beer, take another drag off the butt of my delicious cancer-stick, lean back against the sofa chair and blow out a geyser of smoke towards the ceiling of her room. My mind wanders, as it does. A friend I once knew back home told me, shortly after he had gotten out of rehabilitation, that through his experience he had come across this guy who practiced some form of Buddhism. He asked my friend, "What is strength?" My friend, he didn't know. "To stand before the object of one's most ruthless desire and deny oneself," he said.
Indeed, I agree. I am well-practiced in the art of denying myself. Also in denying other people access to myself. Even when I desire it.
"I might be insane," I tell her. "I'm not so sure you would like what you might find in there."
Strangest of memories. Most wicked of desires. The most intense emotions of the transcendent, the childish, the animalistic, as well as every conceivable mixture. Haunting truths I dare not speak; lies I haven't the right or desire to blow the lid off of. Lives, deaths. Other worlds. Dreams. And oh, the fucking nightmares, my dear.
"I think you're interesting."
The sincerity in her voice is moving. Haunting.
As are you, I whisper to her in my mind, where I feel secure she cannot hear me. As are you. Truly. Even before you told me all that you've told me of yourself; even before I've observed what I've observed.
It's funny. Sometimes I get the feeling other men see you as some rare gem or some curious puzzle they just cannot seem to put together, perhaps not so much because they cannot see the picture on the box but because at some level they know that even if they somehow managed to put it together, it might scare the hell out of them. You know, what they would find in the end. It would frighten them. But it entices me. I am on but the tip of the tongue of your identity, but from the sweet breath of the beast I know I would find her beautiful. There is not a doubt in my mind, and I'm not a man who often finds himself void of doubt's presence.
"Well, thank you," I say. Another hit from the cigarette, another rapid, shuddering pillar of smoke; strong yet trembling.
I am comfortable around her. Enlivened by her presence, yet anxious around her, part of me cracking with every close encounter, but still, not all that much has come out. Next to nothing at all, you could say. I don't feel as if I've let her in much at all, but that's my way, I suppose.
We take adaptive measures for the sake of survival.
Pushing down the urge in me, I sigh inside. Just give it up. Toss it aside. Push it down. There have been windows of opportunity, yes; I could have tried. I would die to get inside of this girl. Bring our bodies as close as our skins can allow. Let it all go. Yeah, to get deep into our souls, we must first make peace and dance free with the animals in ourselves. It would blow my mind across the far-reaches of space and time if our animals met and melded in the sweat, rapid breath and sweet electric of a dark, sensuous, ravenous eve.
Stop, I tell myself. Just let it fucking go already.
Either way, with honor I would take what she would give me of her soul, swallow it whole, keep it close to me and zip the lips to secure every secret -- but to bare my mind naked before her? It brings me the deepest form of terror. Our bodies, yes. My mind, no. Perhaps I am a dick, for that sounds to the ear -- and well out of the vast, intricate, web-like context in my mind -- like such a shallow truth to utter. Yet it requires that context I refuse to give. Yet I refuse. This? This is what happens when I value someone too much, and she is such a great person.
Yeah, say it. Its a control issue. Everything, everything, everything is a control issue.
Breathe in, breathe out.
We drink, we smoke, she tells me to stay. Try to get some sleep. I want to laugh, and I do a little, but nothing next to the morbid hilarity taking place within. I can't sleep. Not usually, not when I'm not at home. It's another 'thing' of mine. If I could exhaust my body or my mind, as I do at home -- writing, masturbation -- maybe, but not here. And I have had bad times sleeping over at people's houses. Ah, childhood. And the monsters haven't left. And I don't like to attract my terrors into the spheres of others.
So much to explain. And yet I will not explain.
She goes to take a shower, prepare for bed. I can have the couch if I'd like, she says, but I shouldn't drive yet. Too much to drink. I stay in my sofa chair as she goes into her room. I take two pills from my pocket, weasel them into my mouth, take a swig of beer, smoke another cigarette, take a deep breath, lean back and close my eyes.
Sleep like the dead. Sleep like a baby. Lose consciousness.
And I do.
When I come to, I feel a warmth around my waist. Knees viced to my sides. Warm, sweet breath calmly blowing against my forehead, cooling the empty spaces between the snaking rivers of wet warmth dribbling down across my face. Eyes open now, I see her straddling me, hands working at the top of my head, and in the dim twilight of the morning glowing through the window so eerily, I see her hand come down, holding the knife. Calmly, too calmly -- though not without fear -- I ask her, "What are you doing?"
She looks down for a moment, calm and sweet and seductive as ever, a red curl of hair angling between two soulful, revitalizing eyes, and puts a soft, delicate hand to my cheek.
"Relax. There's nothing to worry about. I can take it. All of it. Trust me."
I've heard that before. Believed before, only to find they were lies. Instinctively, my hand jolts up and grabs her wrist. Not angrily, but firmly, pleadingly.
"Please don't."
"Already done," she says. "Almost there."
She cuts deeper and deeper. I cannot feel it, see it, but I know it, and now only from the movements of her arms. Its like I used to cut the top off a pumpkin when I was a kid, only she takes out nothing of what is inside. She's not pulling out the guts. No, she doesn't want it out. No, she wants in.
"Bring your head down."
"No," I say feebly.
"Bring it down, down," she says, guiding me gracefully with her tender hands. "That's it," she says.
And in goes one hand. In goes another. In goes her head, deep down inside of mine, and then in crawls, like a serpent, the rest of her, till the doll-skin of her toes are brushing my brow.
Dark, treacherous, twisted, beautiful, daring her.
Into a world she feels she understands, down into the darkest depths of me, and I shudder, for I am far too comfortable. It terrifies me.
I am far too damned comfortable in this.
So hypnotic, that voice. So intelligent and seductive, how could I deny her? I put down my beer, take another drag off the butt of my delicious cancer-stick, lean back against the sofa chair and blow out a geyser of smoke towards the ceiling of her room. My mind wanders, as it does. A friend I once knew back home told me, shortly after he had gotten out of rehabilitation, that through his experience he had come across this guy who practiced some form of Buddhism. He asked my friend, "What is strength?" My friend, he didn't know. "To stand before the object of one's most ruthless desire and deny oneself," he said.
Indeed, I agree. I am well-practiced in the art of denying myself. Also in denying other people access to myself. Even when I desire it.
"I might be insane," I tell her. "I'm not so sure you would like what you might find in there."
Strangest of memories. Most wicked of desires. The most intense emotions of the transcendent, the childish, the animalistic, as well as every conceivable mixture. Haunting truths I dare not speak; lies I haven't the right or desire to blow the lid off of. Lives, deaths. Other worlds. Dreams. And oh, the fucking nightmares, my dear.
"I think you're interesting."
The sincerity in her voice is moving. Haunting.
As are you, I whisper to her in my mind, where I feel secure she cannot hear me. As are you. Truly. Even before you told me all that you've told me of yourself; even before I've observed what I've observed.
It's funny. Sometimes I get the feeling other men see you as some rare gem or some curious puzzle they just cannot seem to put together, perhaps not so much because they cannot see the picture on the box but because at some level they know that even if they somehow managed to put it together, it might scare the hell out of them. You know, what they would find in the end. It would frighten them. But it entices me. I am on but the tip of the tongue of your identity, but from the sweet breath of the beast I know I would find her beautiful. There is not a doubt in my mind, and I'm not a man who often finds himself void of doubt's presence.
"Well, thank you," I say. Another hit from the cigarette, another rapid, shuddering pillar of smoke; strong yet trembling.
I am comfortable around her. Enlivened by her presence, yet anxious around her, part of me cracking with every close encounter, but still, not all that much has come out. Next to nothing at all, you could say. I don't feel as if I've let her in much at all, but that's my way, I suppose.
We take adaptive measures for the sake of survival.
Pushing down the urge in me, I sigh inside. Just give it up. Toss it aside. Push it down. There have been windows of opportunity, yes; I could have tried. I would die to get inside of this girl. Bring our bodies as close as our skins can allow. Let it all go. Yeah, to get deep into our souls, we must first make peace and dance free with the animals in ourselves. It would blow my mind across the far-reaches of space and time if our animals met and melded in the sweat, rapid breath and sweet electric of a dark, sensuous, ravenous eve.
Stop, I tell myself. Just let it fucking go already.
Either way, with honor I would take what she would give me of her soul, swallow it whole, keep it close to me and zip the lips to secure every secret -- but to bare my mind naked before her? It brings me the deepest form of terror. Our bodies, yes. My mind, no. Perhaps I am a dick, for that sounds to the ear -- and well out of the vast, intricate, web-like context in my mind -- like such a shallow truth to utter. Yet it requires that context I refuse to give. Yet I refuse. This? This is what happens when I value someone too much, and she is such a great person.
Yeah, say it. Its a control issue. Everything, everything, everything is a control issue.
Breathe in, breathe out.
We drink, we smoke, she tells me to stay. Try to get some sleep. I want to laugh, and I do a little, but nothing next to the morbid hilarity taking place within. I can't sleep. Not usually, not when I'm not at home. It's another 'thing' of mine. If I could exhaust my body or my mind, as I do at home -- writing, masturbation -- maybe, but not here. And I have had bad times sleeping over at people's houses. Ah, childhood. And the monsters haven't left. And I don't like to attract my terrors into the spheres of others.
So much to explain. And yet I will not explain.
She goes to take a shower, prepare for bed. I can have the couch if I'd like, she says, but I shouldn't drive yet. Too much to drink. I stay in my sofa chair as she goes into her room. I take two pills from my pocket, weasel them into my mouth, take a swig of beer, smoke another cigarette, take a deep breath, lean back and close my eyes.
Sleep like the dead. Sleep like a baby. Lose consciousness.
And I do.
When I come to, I feel a warmth around my waist. Knees viced to my sides. Warm, sweet breath calmly blowing against my forehead, cooling the empty spaces between the snaking rivers of wet warmth dribbling down across my face. Eyes open now, I see her straddling me, hands working at the top of my head, and in the dim twilight of the morning glowing through the window so eerily, I see her hand come down, holding the knife. Calmly, too calmly -- though not without fear -- I ask her, "What are you doing?"
She looks down for a moment, calm and sweet and seductive as ever, a red curl of hair angling between two soulful, revitalizing eyes, and puts a soft, delicate hand to my cheek.
"Relax. There's nothing to worry about. I can take it. All of it. Trust me."
I've heard that before. Believed before, only to find they were lies. Instinctively, my hand jolts up and grabs her wrist. Not angrily, but firmly, pleadingly.
"Please don't."
"Already done," she says. "Almost there."
She cuts deeper and deeper. I cannot feel it, see it, but I know it, and now only from the movements of her arms. Its like I used to cut the top off a pumpkin when I was a kid, only she takes out nothing of what is inside. She's not pulling out the guts. No, she doesn't want it out. No, she wants in.
"Bring your head down."
"No," I say feebly.
"Bring it down, down," she says, guiding me gracefully with her tender hands. "That's it," she says.
And in goes one hand. In goes another. In goes her head, deep down inside of mine, and then in crawls, like a serpent, the rest of her, till the doll-skin of her toes are brushing my brow.
Dark, treacherous, twisted, beautiful, daring her.
Into a world she feels she understands, down into the darkest depths of me, and I shudder, for I am far too comfortable. It terrifies me.
I am far too damned comfortable in this.
