Raw Lust in the Time of War
She runs fingers through her hair and those lips part, and you forget to breathe. Just for a moment, but it's enough. It's enough to make you realize that what you are seeing simply isn't human. It's female ... those hips don't lie ... but it's not human. You don't want to say it's sex incarnate. That sounds too cheesy. No, this is otherworldly. This ... magnificent mistake of nature has one purpose, and you know if she looks your way you're gonna crumble. The way she walks, the way she talks ... she knows the power a female has over the male, and you know she can use it.
Your hands twitch. You long to touch her, but you're afraid. What if this sight before you is just an illusion? You'll never get her out of your mind. She'll never leave you. No other female could ever measure up. Those lips. Those eyes. Those legs. You don't stare like a stalker. You stare like a blind man who has suddenly regained his sight only to find himself peering straight at the sun. She is art, and you are watching creation.
Your hands twitch, but you don't move. You won't disturb this display. You can't let her know you are there. She won't bolt, but she will devour, and you know that if she touches you at this point, your heart will explode.
"Embrace me," you whisper, "in your graveyard embrace. Drag me down into the depths with you. Make me immortal in this limbo in which you dwell. Wrap your pale flesh around mine and tear my muscles from the bone. Bring your lips to mine and use those teeth to draw blood. Devour me as I yet breathe, and drain my soul dry."
You whisper that, praying she doesn't hear. She does, and she looks at you. You know you're done.
Bea Arthur 5/13/22 -- 4/25/09. Rest in Peace, Golden Girl of the Golden Dawn. Your memory lives on.