I’m in a mood. Forgive me? I’m resting against a three and a half minute song by Hassan Hakmoun & Zahar, and sloshing with wine and vodka. Not together. Never together. But in a neat string, like liquid prayer beads for the who-gives-a-toss.
Out there in the bustle of the city centre the workers have left their offices and headed to the bars, where they are leaning into each other, their throats slowly growing hoarse as they strain to speak to each other over the music. Tonight at the pub I couldn’t help but be entranced by the scowling, bleach-blond barmaid (am I allowed to call her a maid?). She wore a white spaghetti strap tank top that plainly revealed the two large tattoos above her breasts. But I don’t even remember what the pictures were, because the push-up bra she was obviously wearing had turned her cleavage into an exquisite bouncy ledge of flesh. I thought - someone thrust that woman into a corset, so we can all just…look at her.
I love beautiful women. By beautiful I don’t mean what most of our social experience has taught us to see as attractive. I mean soft bodies with all their moods and squishy mystery. I mean the way a woman’s body is the physical definition of the word creature.
I also love men who love beautiful women. I love the men who honour and adore this beauty, who stumble before it as if our bodies were alters to a divine and deeply pleasurable world. This is why Tom Robbins is one of my favourite writers, and why Leonard Cohen is my favourite poet. This is also one of the reasons I love JP, because he adores me with a hunger that stirs me and sends all my sparks flying. The more he loves me, the more I feel my magic releasing and able to…reward him.
Years from now, when I am seducing you in ways you have yet to imagine, remember the way my body leans into you before sleep, the way my hip becomes an ascent for your palms to scale again and again. Link together all your memories of my supple places until they set loose a chain of desires that gradually take over your senses. Say nothing; I will know, drawn to your longing like it was the spark at the tip of a wand. It is the thing that governs me, that makes me forget that I am not always graceful or a beacon of self belief. Because now there is no belief of any kind. There is only my lips parting slightly to let in a little gasp, before my hands reach up and around you, to pull you down to me.
The hill at Snurrom
10 hours ago