His noble head resembled a soft-boiled egg. Already, at twenty-six, I could see that he would bare his soul and go bald, as all men with virile brains must do. My Baldy-laire. So ridiculous, so childlike, mewling between my legs. How I laugh to remember his aesthete’s ways! Wickedness for him was all a mental sin. I never shamed him with tales of my naughty doings, unless to give him a rise while we entwined. He worshipped my muscularity, the mayhem of my haunch. Still, he blushed at the barbaric blood that coursed through me–his ‘dark, deadly Jeanne.’
His apartments were well-appointed. Although he pinched his pennies, for his mother and myself he spared no expense. And his compliments were always excessive and extravagant. But, to keep myself in lobster and champagne, I kept my other clients, some of them real men who would paw and conquer me. Baldy did know things a normal man would not; how to argue like a woman, for instance, infesting the memory with indelible barbs. He had an insight into the pleasures and punishments of my life a man would not ordinarily possess; he was like a sister, but with a prick. Days and nights of endless diatribe, morose reconsiderations of our relationship. Why kiss at all, since it so demeaned our beings to even need each other? That naked-headed man would put his vile mirror in your mind until the only escape was to capitulate to his perversities. His tongue inflicted paper cuts, and his restless mind encircled one’s molten throat like piano wire.
But why was he late for our appointment this night? I will not admit to worrying about him. It’s not as if I exactly enjoyed our battle of wills, but when one is used to pushing against Gibraltar, and instead finds the canvas wall of a circus tent…. Well, something is simply missing.
Now, mostly, when he was in one of his too-cruel moods, I would go toe-to-toe with him until my own desire began to rise. If I could not trick and twist him into the lagoon of our sunken sheets, I would hit the pavement, prowling for some nubile youth to degrade, or some perverse payee who would stoop to me and keep his yap shut, letting me close my eyes and allow me to thus be with my verbal warlock in silence.
We are all actors in our time; and, as a harlot, I have worn many masks in my nakedness. Our flesh gives us all we need for persuasive pretense. Every human maneuver is at our fingertips; every face floats before our own skull.
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.