I used to know this woman who had the most beautiful tattoos on the top sides of both of her hands. She was forty-three-years-old, and as far as I know, had never yet been with a man. It's not that she wasn't attractive--she was beautiful--but it was the way she interacted. She was aggressively passive, to the point where she would've intimidated any mitt that ever tried to catch it.
On the right hand, she had a tattoo of a nude girl. She claimed it was what God resembled. But on the left, she had a mirrored image of the same female, and this one, she explained, looked like the devil. I remember once watching her touch her own breasts, how the tattoos smiled as they stared down her stomach, as if anticipating when it'd be allowed to caress the sweet flower that they both seemed to hunger.
Now maybe I was high, but it felt so right. Heaven and hell both take to this woman's warmth. It didn't make sense, how she could commence, touching herself with me, wide awake, in the same room. But if I've learned anything in my years, I've learned I no longer believe in surprise. But what happened next damn near stole my tears, the tattoos came alive right in front of my eyes. They both slowly stood up and climbed off her hands, and showed me why she never took some time with a man. They climbed deep inside of this woman's garden. She closed her eyes and she gently bit her bottom lip.
I stepped, I left, and I don't regret leaving. And I'll never forget all the things I saw that evening--a glimpse of religion, a piece of coming closer to understanding more about what intrigues me most. I didn't get turned on, I just got turned. I wasn't as aroused as I was concerned. For each one of them I've hurt and everytime I've been burned, I've got a lot to teach, but even more to learn. So now I keep my eyes open, hoping to take in all I can, about a woman taking in all she can. And for as long as I breathe I'll save a receipt in my memory for that woman with the tattooed hands.
There's good and evil in each individual fire. Identifies needs and feeds I desire. As long as we keep our spirit inspired, she can bite her bottom lip all she wants.
Post a Comment