Tears filled her eyes as I told her we'd watch the sun set from the Seine river someday, some distant July in our minds, in our future reality. And we'd sip Bordeaux after cappuccinos with cinammon sprinkled on top. I laughed hystericaly on the inside and thought of how easy it all was.
I first discovered my proficiency in words in fourth grade, when I had to talk Stacy Boland out of jumping off of the top of the bleachers behind the high school. It wasn't my "suicide" deterrant speech per se that I was proud of; rather, it was the ardor that I incited in her breast, the love that drove her to the brink--all a result of my delicious little nothings I'd spew in torrents from my gullet. I told her I was moving to Colorado that day. And I did.
las palabras
Now, sex was the mission and it proved to be just as easy as love--far, far easier in fact. Love requires a sick desperation that lingers in your eyes and attaches itself to every word that you speak. You can't help it. The only thing is, everything about my demeanor, all that I say and do is contrived. Completely and utterly contrived. You see a man with a sexy smile, the end of his lip reaching up and contorting everything into an evil, undeniably desirable entity that cannot be stopped.
So, sex is simple. Cerebral topics and expertly crafted sentences are a buzz kill for sure. If you stick to something light and playful the palace is yours.
But, ladies and gentleman, I am no misogynist. So las palabras weren't for me.
die worte
My presence is imposing. When among company, I am the only person in the room. If and when I want something done it's done. Done before I suggest or merely imply that such a thing would be a good "something" to be done.
But, I like words. And the mere implication of speech is not for me. I am stolid and sturdy, sure. But I want to give and take, not just command.
Now what?
I first discovered my proficiency in words in fourth grade, when I had to talk Stacy Boland out of jumping off of the top of the bleachers behind the high school. It wasn't my "suicide" deterrant speech per se that I was proud of; rather, it was the ardor that I incited in her breast, the love that drove her to the brink--all a result of my delicious little nothings I'd spew in torrents from my gullet. I told her I was moving to Colorado that day. And I did.
las palabras
Now, sex was the mission and it proved to be just as easy as love--far, far easier in fact. Love requires a sick desperation that lingers in your eyes and attaches itself to every word that you speak. You can't help it. The only thing is, everything about my demeanor, all that I say and do is contrived. Completely and utterly contrived. You see a man with a sexy smile, the end of his lip reaching up and contorting everything into an evil, undeniably desirable entity that cannot be stopped.
So, sex is simple. Cerebral topics and expertly crafted sentences are a buzz kill for sure. If you stick to something light and playful the palace is yours.
But, ladies and gentleman, I am no misogynist. So las palabras weren't for me.
die worte
My presence is imposing. When among company, I am the only person in the room. If and when I want something done it's done. Done before I suggest or merely imply that such a thing would be a good "something" to be done.
But, I like words. And the mere implication of speech is not for me. I am stolid and sturdy, sure. But I want to give and take, not just command.
Now what?
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