She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not...

Her face left quite a lot to be desired,
but she had a lot to make up for it:
Her glorious crowning mop
of thick wavy blonde ringlets
like a painted angel from renaissance Italy;
Her long, long, perfectly-toned,
shapely, greyhound-lean legs,
which segued pleasingly into
a firm, mouth-watering, peachy-round pair of cheeks,
tapering seductively upwards
to a lithe, sinewy, sexy waist
with just the right ripple of feminine washboard.
She had the body of an ancient Minoan bull-jumper
moonlighting as a high-class call-girl;
the curves of an athlete born to bear children.

Furthermore, her personality was as bright and sunny
as july at the equator,
with an exuberant, tail-wagging friendliness.
She was a true taurian embodiment
of the earth-goddess archetype,
and as genuine as the ground beneath your feet.
A walk in the woods with her
was like a Walt Disney movie
with birds and butterflies alighting on her shoulder.
But what really ensnared me
was the ultra-sexual musk that wafted from her;
a highly-charged pheremonal brew
that she exuded like a natural perfume,
and which enveloped me like a helpless bee
tumbling into a voluptuous flower.

There was a down side however.
For one thing, she was ten years older than me,
and her leather-lined, weather-scorched face
next to my bamboo-shoot, baby-booty smoothness
made the difference between us seem more like twenty.
For another thing, she was married,
and, like a bemused Johnny Carson,
I did not know that when we first met.
I was given the skinny on her status by a mutual friend,
and when I confronted her,
she admitted she was unhappily married
and seeking a divorce.
The high court in my head called an emergency meeting
and after a brief debate,
decided that continuing to fuck her
was morally acceptable.
Especially since she possessed a potent sexual force-field
that pumped me up from a reasonably skilled lover
to a genius phallic artist of lofty carnal pleasure.

We made love in the woods,
where black bears and flapping crows
ushered us to our bed of brush and brambles
and our impassioned yodels and hollers
were offered up as prayers to Gaia.
And as we lay together, love-stoned and sticky,
with the cool breeze teasing our sex-flushed skin,
she penetrated me deeply with her eyes,
and behind the dazzled, post-coital glitter,
I could see the pleading, yearning, damaged stare
of the tragically abused child she had been.
A child raped and molested by her brother
from the age of three,
and used by her brother's brutish friends
as a fuck-toy:
a warm, fleshy, miniature blow-up doll
with real-life mouth and cunt-holes
to blow their wads in.
And the eyes of that child,
glistening with fear and longing,
were asking for a comfort
I was not sure I could give.

Her husband found out about our affair,
and despite his theoretical separation acceptance,
the reality of someone else's cock inside his woman
was not received with resigned equanimity.
She came to me straight from the blow-up
and we fucked with a mad intensity,
like crazed monkeys on crack.
Her face wore the fierce, cum-wracked expression
of someone trying to wipe away rage and frustration
with orgasmic cleanser.
Our fluid-spattering, acrobatic coupling
was comfort food for her;
like sexual mashed potatoes and gravy.

She clung to me like a cub to it's mother's belly,
and her bruised and raggedy wounded child
ventured a few wary steps closer to me.
Had I been older,
with more of the festering rawness of my own childhood
swabbed and scabbed over,
I might have known what that little girl needed.
But the little boy who sat in my cockpit,
looking out the eye-windows and pulling the levers,
as if steering a giant robot in a saturday cartoon,
was still looking for a grown-up mommy
to make him feel safe and loved
like he never had with his own,
and this poor little match-girl standing before him
with her beggar's bowl and ruptured hymen
was certainly not going to be able to fill his tall order
with her meager scraps.

And so, the disappointed little boy threw a tantrum
and turned the steering wheel sharply,
and I marched away from her robotically
and kept on going over the horizon,
leaving her little girl distraught and abandoned once again.
The sunny open spaces and brightly buzzing meadows
we had found in each other
were cast into cold-shadowed eclipse
by our own ravenous, consuming, stunted-crutch hunger.

I saw her again years later
when I was sleepwalking through my second marriage
and she was likewise shadow-boxing with a live-in lover.
We hadn't learned much apparently,
but I did realize that I felt guilty
for not being able to glue together
the shattered porcelain doll inside her
and bring peace to her ravaged, pillaged, war-torn heart,
in the same way that as a child,
I could not dry my own mother's tears,
or soothe her anguished, wide-eyed betrayal,
or be a substitute for my father's
strong, enfolding, reassuring arms.

David Aronson
March 2006