|Lothario (standard:drama, 515 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: May 29 2006||Views/Reads: 1854/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Laying my hands over the arch of her back, bumping my fingers across the splendour of each vertebra...|
Lothario Copyright Kelly_Shaw2001 Laying my hands over the arch of her back, bumping my fingers across the splendour of each vertebra, I caress the purity of her skin as she lies lifeless on white sheets. There is something incredibly noble about her lifeless gaze. Her taught and tenuous skin, now cooling, still feels sensual. In the end I had little choice, no longer able to absorb the pain of sharing her, so took my hands to her throat and with spicy fingers spoiled the delicacy of her neck. The stain of terror that crossed her face stimulated me, seeing the tight-lipped blue flood, her eyes begging a misty forgiveness, but nothing would let me relinquish my grip. In the end it was little murder, done without malice or forethought, a spontaneous eruption of grief. She was good in bed, of course she was, articulate and athletic, but for the life of me I couldn't cope with her telling how she still loved her husband. It might seem repugnant, but is it any more repugnant than a man beating up on his wife, or abusing her? I bring a little light relief into the lives of the women who are looking for something, or someone, to change their world. When a woman chooses me over her husband she does so with good reason. I'm giving a service. I'm a Lothario, a Casonova, a man other men hate. I have passion. I bring passion. I live for the impetuous softness of touch, the tears of summer nights, the shudder of forbidden excitement. Naturally, it helps to be handsome though if a man can awaken a woman from a dead union, inspire her to be alive, he need not be so. I think of myself more as a male nurse; injecting charm, mystery, and russet shadows into the veins of women living without desire and adoration. Too often the excess of blood moving my parts finds me working hard for my rewards. There's no easy way. It demands the sacred study of women, knowing when to absorb and satisfy their August obsessions, awaken their ideas of fulfilment, create for them warped worlds and legitimate passions. I have to watch carefully, find them, study them, and wait to remove them from their territorial kinship groups, detach them from their native community. I do it with stories about feathers, or fabric, or seashells while temporarily saving them from a life of servile obligations. My sights are now set on another lonely woman. I will attend church, for where better to find disillusionment and hopelessness, and find her sitting between pews of mahogany, dressed in blue cotton print, brown eyed with no ideas of being ‘flighty'. She will turn momentarily, catching my eye. I'll be in attendance next week, ready to smell her stinking warm breath, the breath of a dull life lived before the chancel, it dripping with gold and satin. I know what she really wants, and with a calm assuredness I will make my move below the priest's pedestal. Within a few weeks I'll be biting her arse. Tweet
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