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{lust as rust: save the heart} the provocateur Lust is a rust that can protect the heart from falling in love. The sun is reflecting off the mirror buildings and I have pulled up to a light. I catch summertime legs in my side window. Walking down the sidewalk is a sun-tanned girl in a flower skirt. I can see her calves working and pulsing with each step. Her whole make-up: her shoulders, her hair, her gait – all send a writhing but silent pulse down my torso. When the light turns green, I keep my eyes on the girl and for the first time, I see her face: delicate and beautiful. Cute. Maybe adorable. Immediately, I turn back to my initial, primitive sensation. Of mad lust. Of thinking about the men that inhabit the valley between her thighs. I think about her sounds. Her coos. Her purr. With my heart twisted in a knot from weeks behind me, it dawns on me: my only sense of appreciation of the girl was as an object of sexual fantasy. Delicious delight. But I do not curse myself. I state a hypothetical and ask myself: What if her words made me squirm with delight like her body does? Then she would become complication-realized. To keep a window between us and her on the street is safe. Lust is easy. Or at least, it can be. In lust, I can take her with me without her knowledge, without her consent, to pick at and play with, later that night in my darkened bed. Alone and under my own red badge of courage, years away from love. + I have a bondage girl. She is red with lust and love and more than that: she is my symbol for everything in-between. She is the stage and the fight, the spotlight and the red cape that I charge into, head-down – horns forward. Without even touching me: my bondage girl has tied my wrists to posts on the bed of intrigue. The mattress is stuffed plump with oversized words. The pillows have been fluffed with our breath. And the nakedness I feel in this dimly-lit room is her eyelashes fluttering like the chemical electricity in my body. We built this bed together. And now she has affixed me to it, willingly, with the ropes of circumstance. I am blindfolded by my thoughts and when I close my eyes, I feel her wind slap my face. Tease my torso. Tickle my thighs. And in my confusion – in this unknowing of what exactly she is and where exactly in my body she resides – I try to only focus on this supreme eroticism. This anticipation. I want the erotic as a virtue but I am gnawing through my lips, ready to scream. + I am not great. I am not the girl walking down the street with the legs and ass. I do not make cars stop. And I will have you know, with my lips sewn shut in a mid-scream: this is not why I dress myself with the invisible adornments of everything inside of me – on the outside. My emotions on my garments. I am not edible to the common girl. Like so many around me, I do not prey on simple emotions and, in the span of twenty minutes, have a girl bamboozled. Bedazzled. I notice girls. But as a fractured whole. I notice the moments about girls: the curve of an ass, fingers gripping a glass, calves extended upward in heels, a hip over the top of jeans, the round of a mound under a windy summer dress. I notice the moments: a gesticulation, an articulation, a moment of vulnerability and an eye gone glossy at the mention of a loved one. We are all fractured parts assembled as drifting molecules pulled together by the magnets of cognition. And so when I catch a girl with that look in her eye, when her whole body is tipped in my direction and looking at me – I know several things: I feel it. And, This look, that look right there – it took time. It required an assembly of pieces. An amount of cognitive dexterity. It is this look that tells me: she sees the invisible things. The things that others cannot, do not. Will not see in and on me. Or around us, in this aquarium sea. + My bondage girl has red hair. But, like most everything else about her, it’s not obvious. The red is a mysterious red. Reckless and streaked. In some way, it is quiet unless you look closer. But if you close your eyes, she is loud. You can feel her sitting next to you as though the wind curls around her body as though the wind even knows that it’s too delicate to ever dare push over. You can feel this wind, being diverted and bent and meeting only again once on your face. This girl has worked me into a firestorm without even touching me. It’s her words. Her moments. It’s how she crosses her legs when we’re talking. How she pulled her dress up her naked thigh as I was staring her in the eyes. Certainly, there’s one facet that could be the catalyst for this swell of emotions: that’s she unavailable. More than that: She’s married. But impossibly, the only catalyst that this provides to be is the one that helps me keep my hands in my lap. My hot, heaving lap. + There is an art to flirting in the same way that there is an art to patience. To flirt well, one must also be patient and see the invisible things in others. To flirt well, there must be a two-way road and the alchemical drugs must begin to swell. The night before I was to see my red girl for our cabalistic night, she asked me what she should wear. And I answered as I always do: a dress. Her hesitation said: Red. Danger. Mine obliged and let it drift it away just before she said: red or black? I said that black will disguise what’s underneath better. Wear black. I can’t know. I want to know. I don’t want to know. I can’t know what you're wearing underneath because somehow, this kind of lust will bring me closer to love. That night, when she arrived in a black dress, with heels pushing her entire body up toward the heavens – I greeted her with a hug. I pressed my lips quietly on her naked shoulder. And then the winds kicked up where it was once dead with silence. + Her whole body begins to lean into me as our words begin flying from our lips and kissing each other’s ears. There is so much to say, but little time to say it all. For my bondage girl is straddling those poles of love and lust and alas, her life will pull her away from me in a short, stop light time. My red girl, my bondage girl is loosening her self up. Sometimes her hair falls to her chest, as a lock for my eyes. And as she is leaning into me and I am leaning into her with only words but millions of miles away from touch, she fidgets with the hem of her dress. She slides her dress up her thigh. Then down. And I know that I don’t need to see this with my eyes, I can feel it like a breeze, with my whole body. In this she is teasing me silently. She is saying: You want to know what is under this dress, don't you? You want to know the invisible things, don't you? + Sometimes rust is red and sometimes it means decay. Other times it means something different. Something bigger. A commentary on time. Whichever way the pendulum is swinging in my heart, this red rust keeps my love from lust. And my lust, alas, away from love. Hours into our secret night and my bondage girl rises under the red lights of the patio. I press my lips quietly into her red shoulder again, and she disappears into the night. The knots of circumstance are cinched tighter around my wrists. And the rust on my heartstrings begins to melt. I can taste its acidic leak in my belly… Then, minutes later, I receive a note that says: there wasn’t anything under the dress at all. And I think of the dirtiest word I can, then let it flip from my lips in a moment of silence: flirt. + She is a singer. Smoky in breath and dark and chalky in sexual timbre. I have stayed away. I have obliged the ropes of this situation. I have embraced this rust between my love and lust. And I have refrained from seeing her sing. I have heard it and have barely bore this weight alone. But she sent an invite. Said she would sing a torch song. For me. A torch song. On fire. Days later I saw her on the stage for the first time: in a red dress, under the spotlight. Her dress quaked between her legs, as though her vocal wind was trilling all the way down, between her knees. Her calves ripped with heels and stretched her whole being beyond the club's ceiling. Stuck in-between expectation and hypotheses, I was paralyzed by her voice. By her presence. She and her wind dwarfed the whole place, my self and every word I could utter. I imagined her taste and licked it on my lips. In a moment where song proves that words are sometimes taller than buildings, she sang it three times with the eloquence of a torch's fiery intent. Looking at my silhouette, she sang: "Don't go to strangers, darling, come to me." + There is a part of my childhood reverie, still-existent, that tells me: I believe that if I could untie myself from these ropes of circumstance and grab her, pull her closer and unleash my body’s dictionary on her witness - I could have her while still wanting her. ...as if my lust could bring me love... Still, my adult fear whispers that there is fortune in these ropes. There is a treasure within this bondage and it is more than just the circumstance, …because I know that if these ropes are loosened I may just grab her, pull her near; and not let her go… + I am red with love and lust. I cannot escape it. I do not want to escape it. Since I was a child, this is my fate – like yours: To find love and lust and relish in it. Soak your self in it. From the ancestral lips I have heard it whistle toward me: Love is the greatest virtue in the world. Do not fool your self into thinking otherwise. I want to spend my days with those that see the invisible things, like my red, bondage girl who straddles so many of the invisible, unspoken worlds that we all inhabit - but only allude to with lazy language. And if I spend my days soaked with the heat in-between the poles of these red fires, then I am grateful for my run. For my days were lived vibrantly and predicated on the greatest. The biggest. The beginning and the end. Everything red. For more of The Provocateur's Erotica, visit his site, here: http://theprovocateur.wordpress.com. |
