syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
She exhales a long opaque stream of smoke. Emptying her lungs she turns and smiles. Her shirt has slipped off her smooth shoulder. The color of her bra is white, standing out against her tanned skin. You think, give me pale skin with blood red lips, black underwear that wants to jump off her pale body. Her lips are almost brown. She is slightly beautiful just the same. What she looks like under these bright lights is what you would think of as hesitant. She drags again filling herself with the smoke, the cancer, all that death. Her drink is every bit as dark as your own, almost the color of her skin, her lips. She exhales a thick stream the color of her bra.
The secret to landing a girl is to have the will to do what the other guy won’t.
You find yourself wondering what’s under those black pants. Is she really that blonde, or is it just another trick? You find yourself wondering how much she drinks and smokes. You imagine her home as a terribly lonely place because it makes you feel better. You imagine her bed as a place where so many dreams have come to die.
It’s never as good as you can imagine.
You imagine her kiss tastes a lot like your own. You imagine her world being every bit as lonely as yours. It’s never this good in real life.
Just the same you wonder how your chest would look as she kissers it and goes down on you.
You tell yourself this has nothing to do with sex. It’s really about what you want her to be. It’s really about you. She can only fill a small part, take you but so far. Already her hair and skin and underwear are wrong. Only the smoke and the dark brown drink are right.
Still, you have to wonder what it would be like lying next to that white underwear. She would sleep with her bra on, because to you the bra is sexier than her tits, more intimate than nudity.
She orders another double, and you have to wonder how many is that? How long has she been here? She has finished smoking and you wonder how long until she lights another.
You imagine her old neighborhood. You imagine her entire life up to this point. You imagine all those lonely nights in the back of some piece of shit car, letting the guys go as far as she would. Well, maybe a little further.
You would ask her about all of this, her bra, her home, her old neighborhood, is she really that blonde? But she would just ruin it with the truth, reality. So you don’t, because you don’t want to know.
You have to move a little further away. Her drink is gone and so is yours. The bar is crowded. She has a much better seat even though you are positive she cares nothing about football. She is just beautiful enough to always get a seat. She smiles enough to never be alone. She rarely pays for her drinks.
You imagine her telling all those vultures at the bar to piss off. You imagine she is every bit as sick of this as you are. You imagine all of this because you are afraid none of it’s true.
You wonder would it be any different if the bar wasn’t so full. Even you can’t imagine that.
All that being said, she still looks lonely, she still looks hesitant. You don’t care wether it’s the booze or the lights or this fucked up bar, she looks like you feel, and for the moment that’s enough.
You imagine a world where you’re not alone. How did this turn out to be about you? When you first saw her it was about her.
How this feels right now, is good. Watching her, willing her to be what you want. Trying to make her yours from across the room, imagining a life with her. Her bed where your dreams turn to ruin. Her bra and underwear you make her change to black. Trying to keep her from the tanning bed. Trying to turn her into what you want.
You imagine all of this.
Then sadly you realize it’s never going to be this good, as good as you imagine. You see your whole life together. You see her hair black, you see her skin turning paler and paler. You see yourself totally unsatisfied with it all. You wonder why you even bothered. You wonder why you even tried. She became everything you wanted and it’s still not enough.
Because it’s always better in your head.
You see yourself destroying her rather than enjoying her. You hate yourself for this. Once she was healthy and full of hope. Once you saw her as everything you always wanted, or at least that’s how you imagined it.
Back in the crowed bar, she left a long time ago. You didn’t even see her leave.
The secret to landing a girl is to have the will to do what the other guy won’t.
You find yourself wondering what’s under those black pants. Is she really that blonde, or is it just another trick? You find yourself wondering how much she drinks and smokes. You imagine her home as a terribly lonely place because it makes you feel better. You imagine her bed as a place where so many dreams have come to die.
It’s never as good as you can imagine.
You imagine her kiss tastes a lot like your own. You imagine her world being every bit as lonely as yours. It’s never this good in real life.
Just the same you wonder how your chest would look as she kissers it and goes down on you.
You tell yourself this has nothing to do with sex. It’s really about what you want her to be. It’s really about you. She can only fill a small part, take you but so far. Already her hair and skin and underwear are wrong. Only the smoke and the dark brown drink are right.
Still, you have to wonder what it would be like lying next to that white underwear. She would sleep with her bra on, because to you the bra is sexier than her tits, more intimate than nudity.
She orders another double, and you have to wonder how many is that? How long has she been here? She has finished smoking and you wonder how long until she lights another.
You imagine her old neighborhood. You imagine her entire life up to this point. You imagine all those lonely nights in the back of some piece of shit car, letting the guys go as far as she would. Well, maybe a little further.
You would ask her about all of this, her bra, her home, her old neighborhood, is she really that blonde? But she would just ruin it with the truth, reality. So you don’t, because you don’t want to know.
You have to move a little further away. Her drink is gone and so is yours. The bar is crowded. She has a much better seat even though you are positive she cares nothing about football. She is just beautiful enough to always get a seat. She smiles enough to never be alone. She rarely pays for her drinks.
You imagine her telling all those vultures at the bar to piss off. You imagine she is every bit as sick of this as you are. You imagine all of this because you are afraid none of it’s true.
You wonder would it be any different if the bar wasn’t so full. Even you can’t imagine that.
All that being said, she still looks lonely, she still looks hesitant. You don’t care wether it’s the booze or the lights or this fucked up bar, she looks like you feel, and for the moment that’s enough.
You imagine a world where you’re not alone. How did this turn out to be about you? When you first saw her it was about her.
How this feels right now, is good. Watching her, willing her to be what you want. Trying to make her yours from across the room, imagining a life with her. Her bed where your dreams turn to ruin. Her bra and underwear you make her change to black. Trying to keep her from the tanning bed. Trying to turn her into what you want.
You imagine all of this.
Then sadly you realize it’s never going to be this good, as good as you imagine. You see your whole life together. You see her hair black, you see her skin turning paler and paler. You see yourself totally unsatisfied with it all. You wonder why you even bothered. You wonder why you even tried. She became everything you wanted and it’s still not enough.
Because it’s always better in your head.
You see yourself destroying her rather than enjoying her. You hate yourself for this. Once she was healthy and full of hope. Once you saw her as everything you always wanted, or at least that’s how you imagined it.
Back in the crowed bar, she left a long time ago. You didn’t even see her leave.
