These days a slut is a liberated woman, who controlled who
she has sex with, while continuing to have a much of it as she likes, sometimes
with questionable characters, other times with men she thinking might provide
her with opportunities in a world where men rule, often leaving a landscape strewn
with cuckhold men, who mistook her attention for love., men like me, who watch
her walk off with men I know, or others like husbands or boyfriends who
mistakenly believed they could keep her corralled, when there is no attachment,
a fashionable lady ahead of her time, doing what is a fact of life, a pretty
woman who prowls night clubs and other dives like a shark looking for guppies
to devour, while men like me continue to adore her.
I wake and it hits me, not hot or cold, just there, pressing
on m chest and groin, I struggle to breathe.
How do we love this away, born each day bearing the same
burden, the constant urge, the irresistible temptation, the struggle to
overcome what we generate inside, love, an illusion we hang on to in order to
decorate something we wish for rather than anything real, the roughness of it,
rubbing against us each time we move until it rubs us raw. We stagger with it
all day, sleep with it all night, waking again elevated, needing to appease it,
stroke by stroke, a remedy that works for so brief a time we forget we had
relief at all, until it overwhelms us again, we lion tamers without chair or
whip to keep back the inevitable.
Thinking back, it still haunts me, a double life in which we
live day or night, as if we are different people, and I find I lost you in the day
light and cling to the one I secretly crave by night, life once a romance amid
paper clips, file folders and mistaken emails, divorced from when someone better
came along, the man or men with that Midas touch, and the determination to keep
you – as if you could be kept by any man, you keep yourself, while I became the
cuckhold on the stairway between two floors, forced to bear witness from afar,
imagining the worst, men doing what I wished I could still do, a secret life live
behind the meetings and memos, while in the end, I tried to avoid the angry
looks, the cold shoulder, while knowing the real view from her desk was of
somebody’s bed, breeding nightmares in me that are still nightmares when I wake
up, the illusion fading now that someone else has that desk, a strange face I
see when I expect to see yours.
I would bring her a box of chocolates, but she would only
hate me for it, just as she did that night in the bar when she humiliated me
for bringing her flowers and candy, when she never told me she hated those kinds
of gifts, and that somehow, I should have been aware of this fact, that night
when she seemed ready to turn me into a cuckhold, inviting me for this belated
birthday drink only to spend most of the night flirting with the bartender, so
intimate their connection, I suspected that night she would likely leave with
him, when I exercised my only option and left.
I still recall her screaming at me over the phone, as to why
I left her at the bar, as I took the long stroll up the hill for home, as if I had
spoiled one of her grand plans, even a box of chocolate could not make up for,
and every day since I have relived those moments in the bar and afterwards, revisiting
it all, examining into the most minute elements for something I might have
missed, might have done differently, something I could have changed that might
have brought about a different outcome, assuming finally I could have done nothing,
she would have gone off with the bartender, condemning me to watch.
When her nails click on the table top, I think she’s angry,
though at times when I look up into her eyes, she seems calculating.
All this might be wrong.
But each time we come to the same place at the same time, I
check out her fingernails,
whether they were
polished or not, what color they are, do they match the color of her lips.
The brighter the color of lips and fingernails tells me she
must be horny, other colors mean other things much like a mood ring.
They are darkest in a bad way when she looks at me.
I recall her nails being blood red those few times we dated,
a color she long ago abandoned, except when around other men in our office who
I think she’d like to date. It drives me wild to think about, even if none of
it is true.
I didn’t know it at the time, and only learned it now, but with
a girl like her, it has to be pleasing her or it will never work.
This is what sissy world and their goddesses understand best,
and I think that was the lesson she learned on the cruise with that old lady.
Men are best when they serve her interests, and that their who
lives should be focused on ways to make her happy, not their own pleasure.
This is how women really survive, shifting the balance of
power, if not literally castrating men, the way Goddesses do when creating
sissies, then making sure the men who want her attention must serve her first.
as I noted, the pills the doc gave me don’t work, or at least
I didn’t think they did, and so I kept on increasing the dosage until they did –
moderately, enough to wrap my hands around when I got there.
Since the surgery, I religiously kept to the prescribed
dosage, feeling the tinkling at times, but nothing dramatic. Upping the dosage
did enough to keep me content, even if I had to create the satisfaction for
myself.
Had I been wiser, I might have read the instructions better.
While I did take the pill at the same time every day – a pill
that would allow me to be ready on the unlikely chance I would actually need
it.
What I did not notice was that the effects were cumulative,
safe enough at the recommended dosage, but magnified with each escalation.
Thus was the shock when I saw the pretty young black woman
on the train, a woman who made things worse for me by wearing an amazingly
tight white blouse. Not only could I not stop staring (a repeat of those
uncomfortable horny days at our office years ago), I dared not leave my seat,
having mysteriously grown a third leg.
She noticed me noticing, too, shifting from foot to foot at
the far end of the train car, but never fully away, as if she enjoyed someone admiring
her. When a seat opened after several stops, she sat, but did not turn away
completely, leaving me full view of her blouse, her amazing boobs, and yes,
also amazing legs.
When she got off a stop before my stop, she looked worn out,
as if she’d made love in her brain the whole trip, glancing briefly at me
through the window at where I still sat on the inside of the train.
When my stop came, I still didn’t move, figuring it might
take a few more stops there and back to shrink the leg my excess use of the
pills had provided me with, leaving me more than twinge when I finally got up
and out – a lesson learned the hard way.
