Topic 28 - Sex
It’s written on his body, in the way he stands and leans. The way he stoops his shoulders to disarm men and the way he opens his chest to enthrall women. So carefully constructed, every move calculated, every thought distilled of any obvious intention.
Press deep enough, run your tongue hard along his fingertip, deep into the helical etchings stretching over knuckle and sinew and nerve and soft pads of flesh, and you’ll taste the elements of his composition. Graphite. Motor oil. Bootblack. Gunpowder. Grape jelly. Spilled blood.
He does crossword puzzles in pencil to mask his arrogance.
Machinery can be coaxed to respond to his desire, so he restores vintage cars.
The risk of true self-expression is one he dares not take, so he pledges false allegiance to ideals, to a greater good and a greater god.
Booth pretends he can follow, but I know better.
Sinister lies curve on our seductive tongues, expelled by mutual agreement and the force of breath. Lies that deny the inevitable convergence of poverty and privilege, authority and anarchy, subservience and freedom. Lies that forestall our destiny.
I don’t believe in the destiny of love, but I trust in the eventual breakdown of control and the corruption of power. Command is an artifice that crumbles to dust with the promise of a kiss from desire-plumped lips or the sting of silver beads on tender, bruised flesh.
Imagine the delicious havoc wreaked in the collision of a dangerous mind and a caged soul.
The thought isn't enough to make me come, but it’s a promising start.