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Written by nacho
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There's a woman I'm obsessed with. Well, really, I'm obsessed with many
women. But this particular girl doesn't deserve my obsession and, so,
it's becoming a little bit frustrating as I approach my eighth year of
this illness.
I can recall everything about her. The feel and smell of her hair in
the morning, the precise shape of her sex, every curve, every bend.
She's a little mouse, far from beautiful, and so twisted, deep in her
mind, that to love her is suicide. I know that, and I know it well.
Even now, when these handful of years have put distance between me and
the bad things that happened during our relationship, I talk to her on
the weekends and I hear in her voice that nothing has changed, that
she's become worse. She runs with the bi-sexual crowd. The women and
men who don't know which way is which. She indulges their homemade
schizophrenia, she plays off of them for power. She devours friends and
lovers and family and then leaves them for dead - sometimes literally.
Any social graces she may have picked up over the years are an
accident.
She can drive anyone to madness, she'll use her closest allies for
advancement and security, then drive them away in violence and fear.
She can be beautiful. As long as she smiles and cleans herself up. That
was rare. Usually her hair was a rat's nest flying out behind her, her
face tired and lined without make-up. Her chin is weak, her overbite
sharply pronounced. Her figure is frail but her wide, blue eyes save
her from being ugly. She moves with a snake-like grace, and she can
turn those eyes onto you like a needy child, or a dog. She can tell you
a tale of pain and weakness, luring you deeper into her web with every
word, wrapping her words around you, confusing you. After all, she'll
be a licensed psychologist in a year. That's her job. You fall into her
arms at her command, where she bares a breast and suckles you. She'll
let you take her without conscience, without guilt, your hands gliding
down her body and her boyish hips, tearing away her cloths. She'll only
guide you to make sure your mouth goes to her sex. She's an oral girl.
In return, she's suppressed her gag reflex, has an untiring devotion to
her work and cleans up every drop on her plate.
She owns you after you slide into her. Always tight, always welcoming,
wetter than an English winter. The finest I have ever known. A
beautiful flower, so perfectly formed, so small and unassuming, opening
up and flowing around you, gripping you, sucking you dry tirelessly
through the night, the weekend, the holiday week.
If you are among the fortunate (or, perhaps, the opposite) then she
will select you as her permanent temporary. Husband, boyfriend, slave.
She'll come to you three times a day or more and demand rigorous,
powerful satisfaction. She'll change her appearance, she'll morph and
twist and shape herself into dreams. Her accent will shift, makeup may
appear, her hair will be brushed. Or she'll let herself go. She'll
follow your lead. Tiny, subconscious alterations that wash through some
deep part of men that cannot be described...and it will control us.
Is she faithful, then? No. She is addicted to sex, and you'll get
tired. No man or woman living has been able to keep up with her
demands. Constant, sexual gratification, constant emotional
reassurance, constant creative input, constant activity. She'll have
you hiking in the woods, starting a band and finishing a book, her lips
and pussy wrapped around your cock the entire time.
No one has made it. Her female lovers can get as far as starting a
band, but the burnout is always just around the corner. She cheats, she
lies, she shakes apart. She'll blow a lover and a circle of friends out
of the water the moment there's a bump in the road. They will try to
hold on, addicted to her. But, by then, they are empty shells.
Men are easier for her. Women are easy, too, but she has to maintain a
certain loyalty. Even under her spell, a woman's instinct remains. But
men, she can gather many at once and none are the wiser. She can fuck a
dozen a week, three a day, or none at all and there'll be no change in
her attitude, no waver in her smile. She plays off of her apparent
weaknesses. Men want to save her, to heal her. She a master with her
made up rape and abduction stories, her crocodile tears. She'll get
your problems first, your fears, your bad experiences. Her issues will,
remarkably, be similar. Did your mother beat you? Did you hide behind a
couch? Amazing, her mother beat her, and she hid in a closet.
A whispered phrase in your ear, the smell of her saturating you: We have so much in common, my love.
She is the most dangerous predator I have known. She has no guilt about
sex. She'll fuck the married, the underaged, the virgin, the priest,
and it'll all be as innocent as a handshake in her mind. It is a
handshake. It's how she really connects with people. You can't have
friends when she's around. Eventually, she'll sleep with them all. The
men will demand it, pursue her behind your back. The women will be a
challenge for her and, if you're in her good graces, she may even bring
them home for you like a cat with its prey. What's your fantasy?
Redheaded women? Asian girls? Another man? High school girls? Your
professor?
She'll go out, this awkward and strange looking girl, and she'll bring
them back to you one Friday night. She'll burst into your bedroom with
your living fantasy, and she'll watch you fuck them the way a scientist
watches a Petri dish. Then she'll fuck them with her mouth and her fist
and her pussy until they scream safety words, push against her, burst
out of your apartment half nude and in tears. With witchlike hair
frizzed behind her, she'll turn with dissatisfaction when they leave
and force you to enter her and pound until she bleeds, or until you're
nothing.
She has done this with all of her lovers. I've spoken to a dozen of
them over the years, and all the stories are the same. She is a
womanizer, a predator of men, perhaps quite mad and certainly soulless.
I am a victim. I love her more than any other woman, I dream of her.
Through this I now realize that I am a weak and ineffectual man. That I
am not stronger than those around me, as I always like to pretend. I
have been laid bare, abused and abandoned by this vicious creature,
this night-woman, and I want more of the same again and again.
And now she has announced plans to visit me, and for me to visit her.
Holidays are lined up, flights organized, and I am ready for disgrace.
But, perhaps, there is hope for me. So many years have moved between
us, and so many horrors. Something has occurred to me: I'm in it for
the sex. I can't imagine taking her back, letting her into my house. I
want to fuck her until she breaks, and then I want to get back to my
dark life.
Have I become like her? Am I, now, more dangerous? A fully realized
slave to the reptilian cortex, operating without heart or soul?
Maybe we'll finally be able to communicate.
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Newsflash |
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For the love of god, we've changed the front page. Stop emailing me! You now have to go to WWW.GREATSOCIETY.ORG. Just lose the "fpm" up there. These are the archives. |
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