(This won me most creative work at slam poetry. Enjoy.)
“Will you come with me?” She asked breathlessly.
He lifted his head from her chest. “Where are you going?” He inquired.
She had been looking away from him till now and when her eyes met his. He realized how much her journey would mean, to her, but not to him. *How can I tell her this?* He pondered.
The boy in mans body watched her eyeing him, questioning him. She understood his reluctance. It is rarely easy for any human being to try something or someone new. Still, something felt odd. Not quite right. By the time she figured it out. He was looking away, chest fixed. If he were not holding himself up she could have easily mistaken him for dead.
She lay in silence starring at him for a moment. Then, without words, she wiggled herself out from underneath his exposed body. Fetching her clothes from their various locations around the room she faded to the back of the single bedroom apartment.
His face had transformed with his thoughts, and in that way. He was made honest; however nonverbal it was. Still, the thought of his inadequacy made her sick to her stomach. *What pathetic beasts we are. Unable to face each other and the reality we have created.* She stifled a ridiculous laugh. Cause in reality she was more disgusted with herself rather than him, and if she were to laugh. She would be laughing at herself.
He would be another to add to the list simple as that. But it’s never really as simple as that. Her disappointment in partners and herself was growing with the length of this list and combination of short stories.
Not to mention, her choice of walking away made her into a hypocrite, *but what do you say when intuition is your only technically informant to your heart that you allowed him to mislead you into thinking he was single?* The single thought made her want to return and exchange a back hand across his face for the label she was about to receive from society.
Whore. The judgmental costume finally fit her form. Allowing passerby’s to send her broken body and glittering soul to be imprisoned in the underworld. Chaining her there without a hope of redemption, for no one listens to the plea from one so far fallen from grace.
How hypocritical this term: Whore. Falling only on the women who are prepared to express their needs and retrieve it without a moment’s hesitation. The male power, though it is sincerely composed by general society, who savagely introverts a woman’s moment of explosive raw energy. Funneling their would-be strength into the abyss of shame opposite from the woman’s male counterpart who is honored by each relative increase in the number of sleeping partners.
*Men are such rotten pigs* (Though don’t get me wrong, women can be too, but this story is about a weak penis.) She cursed other such profanities as she tossed her afternoon clothes into the laundry basket. After which she clothed herself in the dreadfully comfortable pajama bottoms and sports bra. Not sure if she was hoping he would leave or stay she opened her bedroom curtains wishing to see the sun for the first time, but was left with a mocking ceiling of moonless sky.
As he dressed in the opposite room he kept anticipating a gust of wind to throw open the door. Miraculously providing him with an excuse to flea that failed when the door remained tightly bound to the seam of the panel. He would not be able to avoid the responsibility of facing her again unless he wanted to see her under even more unfavorable circumstances.
Lady of the evening. Strumpet. Tramp. Prostitute. Hooker. Piece of tail. Doxy. Easy. Hussy. Street walker. Fallen woman. Loose woman. Slut. Nymphomaniac. Whore.
One automatically leading to the other, and each rounding back to the one conventional term: Whore. The label covers all the important details a man needs to know if about a female if he is to take her to bed such as; easy, only suitable for one nighters, and most importantly… dirty. Not necessarily a physical dirty. One does not have to have an STD to be considered a whore, but rather this term defines one who is willing to do anything to please a man. Because that has always been the woman’s job hasn’t it. To please the fucking man. This term and ideal is it’s own form of STD passing from one set of lips to another without consideration for what the term stands for, and how it will affect the woman, occasionally man, who is slapped with this demeaning term.
He surprised her when she heard him creep to the doorway of her bedroom. Not by his stealth for he had none. No, it was his bravery that sparked a small flame of hope. Hope for a change of mind at best or words spouting honesty at worst. (There is something I can tell you about hope. It means nothing. It is a vessel consuming energy, but taking you no where.)
It had been his first time in their few encounters that he had seen the room in florescent light. He realized how little he knew about her when he saw her sanctuary. Her dark past collided with the ever-changing present here obviously wishing for a brilliant future. One, which he recognized he would be unable to provide, but was too fearful or macho to say. She could not decide.
She wrestled with her words. She had a choice to make now similar to the one she had given him earlier. If she embraced the power of speech she could guide him to a place of power or of utter destruction. Truthfully she could not decide if he was deserving of any declaration of hers at all. Especially not when he was so willing to stand silently watching her seemingly expecting more from her than what he had already taken. Through this formulation of her own justification she chose to perpetuate the cycle of silence. She would not make this easy for him after she had already made it easy for him in other ways.
Silence. She forced a net to catch words as they were ready to burst from her lips. Despite their burning ferocity she ground them against her teeth and forced them to retreat down her esophagus to the growing violent storm of bile in her stomach. She knew it would not be easy for him to speak, but she needed him to own up to the reality. She needed to know there were others strong enough to do so even if the individual, man or woman, had no desire to link with her path for an extended period of time. She needed to be reminded that an honest man meant more to himself and society than a cowardly piglet.
“Your room is fully of mystery,” he laughed, “Certainly an accurate representation of you.”
She tilted her head to see him peripherally over her shoulder. “Ummm… Thank you?” She questioned both furrowing and raising her brows.
He stepped into her room reaching an arm out slightly before lowering it down. He would not have had to see her face to come to the realization, *She knows.* “I mean.” He fumbled searching for the right words of apology while attempting to maintain one subject of apology from the other just in case he had misread her and she was still unaware of the other.
She twisted her upper half, arms crossed under her breasts, cutting into the dance. “I mean thank you.” She corrected smiling her trademarked smile. Her heart wept. She could not stand to watch this want-to-be man. She would have to leave it as is if she were to walk away gracefully from this situation.
When she repositioned her stance facing him with her arms dropped to either side. She urged him through simple body language- her first and sometimes only language- to take her and show her there was some sort of a man inside the seal of flesh. She had to force herself to keep her hands relaxed and away from clenching her fists, but it is so hard to relax when fighting her appetite.
When he smiled and slapped his hands on his thighs he affirmed her belief of him as a fearful bastard before he said, “I should probably get going. It’s already pretty late.” As if this was some means of saying it was the end of the conversation/page.
Without speaking she glided forward and kissed him with all her prowess. His arms wrapped around her mid-drift. She curled one arm around his neck and another across his lower back pulling herself closer and deeper into him. She explored him. Then released. Stepping just far enough away so that her energy would tickle him and it would not be too terribly difficult for him to step forward and discover the empowerment of resolution if he so desired.
When the shock of her intensity relaxed into his veins he said, “I’ll be back later,” feet still planted to the ground.
“Come again soon.” She teased leading his way to the door. His eyes watched her hips sway, hardly listening to what she had to say let alone the tone in which she said it. *God I should be getting paid for this shit. At least then I could afford food. And have a blessed excuse for the destruction of my body and damnation of my soul.*
Door. Click. Failure. End of chapter. End of story.
But what is one more disappointment? What is disappointment but the recognition of an expectation that did not come true? What can we expect from other humans? Nothing. Everyone is on their own path making decisions to follow the curves or cut new directions. It is our choice to take responsibility or fade into the corruption of pride, or whatever it is that keeps humans from speaking the truth and this thing called honest.