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evanescence of wild things



to go where the wild things are. it’s a compulsion, it’s a bad move.
but some guys can’t help it. some dames too.

these sordid encounters, they happen at night. & the night is not
so mean & cold after you’ve made friends with it. an anonymous
cocktail lounge, just off the highway, where the shooters are
lethal & the music is not danceable. but it doesn’t matter, I just
want to hold her close to me.

she’s there on a bar stool with a couple jokers already layin’ out
their bait. moonlight cruise in a Cadillac, fancy hotel suites,
maybe even hard cash. nothing smells as sweet as a fresh
hundred dollar bill.

and it doesn’t have to be that much. I’ve seen dolls do some very
dirty things for a lousy twenty bucks.

she spots me & gives her pinstripe romeos the slip, says she’s
gotta go talk to her agent. we embrace like familiar lovers, my
hands exploring the clinging fabric of her dress, mapping the
body beneath it. her fingers making warm spots on my neck, till
we don’t know who is the predator & who is the prey.

in the trembling shadows of the motel room, her body is exciting &
yielding beneath my carnivorous assault. she absorbs my bites, my
intruding tongue & fingers; her moans, her untamed eyes, are those
of a she-wolf. she pulls me in to where I need to be, & it’s almost…

but it never is. because her face is not the face of the woman I loved
once, long ago. the woman who walked away, tearfully broken by
my terrible obsession  –  to run with the wild things. & once again, I
remember Marquez’s words: sex is the consolation you get when
you can’t have love.

maybe next week it will be a different town, a different bar.
a different dame.

with a bullet, it’s quick: one shot, over & done.
but love can kill you a thousand times…


(Art: Jeanloup Sieff)

     
Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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