Reflections of a Man
I liked a woman once.
No, I’ve loved a few.
“It used to bother me,” I’d say, “that she has a beautiful husband.”
They needed me and I wanted them to.
But what the hell, they were lovely, they were young.
I was lovely, I was young.
I wanted them, I dreamed of them.
I needed them and they wanted me to.
In the warmth of the day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of the evening, when he was high and blown away; they loved me, the horse of me.
Only half drunk was I, and I’d bathed.
I was dangerous and they sought a thrill.
They knew me, they understood their ache.
They wanted me, they dreamed of me.
I knew them, I understood their need; and I unlocked my door.
They were sad and neglected; I’d give them their thrill.
“Let us have our fantasy,” they’d say, and it felt good to me.
They’d sneak away to be with me.
They smoked their pot, I drank my scotch.
We’d laugh, we’d talk, and we’d pet each other.
They were free for the moment and horny.
I was lonely forever and horny.
They’d undo their buttons, I’d undo my belt.
They’d wonder if they should, I’d convince them they could.
We fucked, I fell in love.
They cried from their guilt.
I wouldn’t ask about their tears, I knew the answer that would come.
I was patient, and I watched the ceiling.
In the warmth of a new day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of a new evening, when he was high and blown away; they stayed to smoke and sniff with him.
They’d had their thrill; they’d had their want of me.
I wept, I drank my scotch; and I left my door ajar.
No, I’ve loved a few.
“It used to bother me,” I’d say, “that she has a beautiful husband.”
They needed me and I wanted them to.
But what the hell, they were lovely, they were young.
I was lovely, I was young.
I wanted them, I dreamed of them.
I needed them and they wanted me to.
In the warmth of the day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of the evening, when he was high and blown away; they loved me, the horse of me.
Only half drunk was I, and I’d bathed.
I was dangerous and they sought a thrill.
They knew me, they understood their ache.
They wanted me, they dreamed of me.
I knew them, I understood their need; and I unlocked my door.
They were sad and neglected; I’d give them their thrill.
“Let us have our fantasy,” they’d say, and it felt good to me.
They’d sneak away to be with me.
They smoked their pot, I drank my scotch.
We’d laugh, we’d talk, and we’d pet each other.
They were free for the moment and horny.
I was lonely forever and horny.
They’d undo their buttons, I’d undo my belt.
They’d wonder if they should, I’d convince them they could.
We fucked, I fell in love.
They cried from their guilt.
I wouldn’t ask about their tears, I knew the answer that would come.
I was patient, and I watched the ceiling.
In the warmth of a new day they loved their beautiful husband; his money and his friends.
In the cool of a new evening, when he was high and blown away; they stayed to smoke and sniff with him.
They’d had their thrill; they’d had their want of me.
I wept, I drank my scotch; and I left my door ajar.
posted by Erik Ivan James | 8:41 AM
9 Comments:
Hi fellow traveller!
Ivan
A man’s best writing often reflects his greatest truth; such truth often reflects a man’s deepest pain. And in the spawning ground of truth and sorrow, art is born. This is writing at its finest, when words evoke emotion.
Welcome, ~me. Wonderful to see a new face.
Yes, pain can certainly be a motivator. Pleasure, though, is by far the better one.
Lovely and sad.
Thank you, December. I had hoped it would it would read lovely, and sad.
Boy toy pov.
Interesting take.
Very melancholy. But pretty.
Donnetta
Interesting thought, Bernita. When I wrote this, I wasn't thinking about "Boy toy pov". I suppose that certainly works, though.
Thank you, Donnetta Lee.
Post a Comment
<< Home