chrissy
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Aug 19, 2003
- Messages
- 971
i once felt his warmth as did many before me and many after me.
but writing about love is getting old. boring. useless.
"no, no it's not", he reassures me.
truth be told, he only wanted the pleasure of reading my words. watching me painfully struggling to draw out yet another good adjective.. to place there.. and here.. and here. oh and there too.
he takes out his camera.
i hate it when this happens. i'm powerless. i can't stop him. i'm not sure i want to. stopping him would mean stopping me. i can't do that to myself.
he has cold hands. i feel then on my lower back, under my shirt, as i hover over the piece of paper. i write out a sentence. he reads it out loud. "good start", he praises.
his lips brush past my neck and my eyes instantly shut. i turn around to kiss him.
"no, no, no. you have to write. concentrate", he says.
love is dead. it is nought but lust. we are lustful beings, seizing the best for ourselves, wanting our desires be met.
he takes off my top and positions his camera.
we are artists. merely collaborating. merely helping each other find inspiration. we are muses.
i further develop my thesis:
we try too hard. try too hard to be loved and wanted and feel that security. and when we don't get it, we hurt ourselves by engaging in wants, not needs. in fantasy not reality
snap. the photo was taken. his hands tracing down my stomach, his chest heavily pressed on my back. further down, further down. "keep writing, you're beautiful".
snap. the camera goes off again, distracting me. i make a spelling mistake. i make a big mistake. so i scribble it out.
i continue, as he continues, as the camera continues.. "i don't like this piece," i complain.
"keep writing babe, it's beautiful", he repeats, hands touching me all over my body, the camera taking the shots. my muse. forever.
maybe one day, maybe we'll love each other again. like it was meant to be. like we were meant to love.
with that, i end my piece. but he is not satisfied. "work harder, it's unfinished", he complains, while taking another photo, and making advances on me. standing there naked and looking through the lens, i add another sentence. after all, he inspired me, i felt obliged to return the favour.
he takes the camera off the stand and packs it up in its case, as i watch him and bite my lip. once done, he walks over to me and kisses my forehead. "get dressed, it's cold", he says.
the morning sun wakes me up the next day and i tend to my desk. my sentence, stands corrected with his own handwriting:
maybe one day, you'll be my muse again and i'll be yours. love is art. lust is art.
i think i like his corrections.
but writing about love is getting old. boring. useless.
"no, no it's not", he reassures me.
truth be told, he only wanted the pleasure of reading my words. watching me painfully struggling to draw out yet another good adjective.. to place there.. and here.. and here. oh and there too.
he takes out his camera.
i hate it when this happens. i'm powerless. i can't stop him. i'm not sure i want to. stopping him would mean stopping me. i can't do that to myself.
he has cold hands. i feel then on my lower back, under my shirt, as i hover over the piece of paper. i write out a sentence. he reads it out loud. "good start", he praises.
his lips brush past my neck and my eyes instantly shut. i turn around to kiss him.
"no, no, no. you have to write. concentrate", he says.
love is dead. it is nought but lust. we are lustful beings, seizing the best for ourselves, wanting our desires be met.
he takes off my top and positions his camera.
we are artists. merely collaborating. merely helping each other find inspiration. we are muses.
i further develop my thesis:
we try too hard. try too hard to be loved and wanted and feel that security. and when we don't get it, we hurt ourselves by engaging in wants, not needs. in fantasy not reality
snap. the photo was taken. his hands tracing down my stomach, his chest heavily pressed on my back. further down, further down. "keep writing, you're beautiful".
snap. the camera goes off again, distracting me. i make a spelling mistake. i make a big mistake. so i scribble it out.
i continue, as he continues, as the camera continues.. "i don't like this piece," i complain.
"keep writing babe, it's beautiful", he repeats, hands touching me all over my body, the camera taking the shots. my muse. forever.
maybe one day, maybe we'll love each other again. like it was meant to be. like we were meant to love.
with that, i end my piece. but he is not satisfied. "work harder, it's unfinished", he complains, while taking another photo, and making advances on me. standing there naked and looking through the lens, i add another sentence. after all, he inspired me, i felt obliged to return the favour.
he takes the camera off the stand and packs it up in its case, as i watch him and bite my lip. once done, he walks over to me and kisses my forehead. "get dressed, it's cold", he says.
the morning sun wakes me up the next day and i tend to my desk. my sentence, stands corrected with his own handwriting:
maybe one day, you'll be my muse again and i'll be yours. love is art. lust is art.
i think i like his corrections.
Last edited by a moderator:
