I'm conflicted, two sides of a very different argument and both of me at odds with me. Its an unusual situation I usually find myself in, bounding between two thoughts and never quite certain one appeals to me more than another. On one hand, I find myself wondering (adorably, I might add) about finding that special someone. That person we're all supposed to find and settle with. Presumably after a string of failed, violent relationships. You can't find what you aren't looking for, after all. I have always imagined that would be my course one day. I set out on this journey and, at its end, I find a home.
I enjoy relationships, in a very general sense. I enjoy the camaraderie, the closeness, the comfort. Feeling as if I can make a fool of myself saying silly things in silly voices and be taken as affectionately as if I were actually something cute, not something with rusted edges and ragged scars. I enjoy delving into another human being and finding things in there, little things to be enamored with. Subtle details, like the way she breathes when she's on the cusp of sleep. Or how she came to know her favorite flower. Each of these experiences is novel, and they never lose their appeal to me. That exploration is what I crave, the satisfaction of my curiosities is so complete. Few things, I find, compare to turning a new lover into something more substantial.
Then again, I disagree.
I have not tired of my petty perversions, the potential I've wasted on country diversions, perfecting the art of coersion, the diversions from the normal, natural flow of things. I relish each new challenge, not as a conqueror relishes his victory, but more akin to the way a particularly loyal servant enjoys pleasing his master. Even when I'm playing the master.
I long for attachment, but find attraction much more gratifying. I crave affection, but I pursue attention with nary an intention to linger. I slip in and out of lives, appearing, penetrating, vanishing. Never cruel, never unkind. I'm sort of ethereal, sort of ephemeral, preternaturally adept at spinning and spinning, spying a prize and making it mine, then flitting away before daylight reveals me. There are ugly, callous things in me that I would not share. I don't leave for fear of becoming attached, for fear of committing, but for fear of rejection. Of mistaken identity.
I've played the white knight so many times, I almost believed it was true. I almost fell for my own prowess, almost knew the festering, derelict parts of me were gone, evaporated like so much sweat in the August sun.
Maybe it isn't a desire for new lovers, new lusts, to replace the old that drives me, then. Maybe its that aversion to being seen for what I am, instead of simply who I've shown.
But then, trepidation wouldn't fill my head with long, supple legs or painted toenails, toes curled, ankles dressed in thin, silver chains, abdomens glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, the heady smell of desire, the enticing lock of eyes, the shock of sudden pleasure, fingertips piercing the flesh on my back, as if trying to peel the skin from the bones, trying to hook themselves into my muscles and hold on for dear life. Fear wouldn't fill my head with these things.
And when it comes right down to it, I'm never really rejected. I've never felt that cold emptiness, the hollow clang as the golden gates slam shut, barring me entrance. No, I'm much too clever for that. I will bring you to the edge, I will walk you to the precipice and, just before you push me over, I'll pull you back from that place and show you something warmer. Something you've wanted to see, something I've saved for just such an occasion. All the while unconscious of my own actions, conscious only of the way they move you. I'm unintentionally profound, accidentally touching.
Purposefully, forcefully arousing.
I aim to please you in ways that will leave you devestated. Catatonic. I will secret myself behind jokes and self-deprecation, and when you've fallen for that charm I'll have my prey. When next I inhale, your nerves will tremble of their own accord. Cognitive thought will jumble in your throat, choke you, until every breath is a gasp. Every impulse, every synapse, fires contiguously until your brain is a mess of mashed wants and spasms. I'll breathe in that scent, that sated phermone, and grow stronger. I'll be a fucking orgasm vampire.
And then I'll fly away before you regain your senses. Before what just happened dawns on you. Because now you've seen me exposed, you've seen me vulnerable and afraid, uncertain and absolutely in control. You've seen what I can do, and what I fear most. You've seen all the things that lurk around the dark corners in me, and all the things that hide because they're frail and easily startled. The sinister and the sincere. The loathing and the loving. In the span of a few dizzying seconds, you've seen all there is to see.
And if you're out for revenge, I'm much to ripe for the feast.
Terrifyingly Yours,
-S.R.
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