Maybe it was sleep deprivation from a rough biz-trip, or the three rum and diet Cokes on the plane, or mild hypoxia from the altitude or a combination of these but while flying home today, my new friend Mary popped dreamlike into my mind and stayed there for most of the flight.
Writers typically use ‘white space’ to draw the eye to a piece of text surrounded by an expanse of white. An excellent writer, Mary projects an image of dark eroticism; a blackness as sexy as a black silk slip. There’s a richness to that shade of black, it’s deeper and richer than what a videographer would call ‘Zero Black.” In his world as is so on our computer screens, all colors are formed by percentage combinations of red, green and blue. Black is the absence of color and so Zero Black is 0% red, 0% green and 0% blue. Graphic designers live in a richer world with a four color palate, Cyan, Magenta, Yellow and Black. The rich, deep hue they use for black is sexy deep on glossy magazine paper and with that as a background and the subject of interest in the foreground, usually slightly offset, the result is stupendously eye catching. That’s how I see Mary. An image of her soft white skin in an expanse of blackness so dark that one struggles between fearing to fall into that abyss or the exquisite urge to jump headlong in, not caring if it’s pleasure or pain that awaits.
The lust begs questions, many of them. Is this lust for someone my own daughter’s age a sin or a symptom? Do I even care? Would I suffer more by denying the warmth of these feelings? She’s married but not a stranger to other men. She’s as sexy as they come. Is Madonna Whore complex afflicting me and if so do I have even the slightest desire to be cured? Will I march into hell for a heavenly experience? My memory floods with the very first gallery images I saw of her. One photo showed her ripe, full breasts and just the lower part of her face. Her pouty lower lip, was there and the sexiest part of a kiss - or half a blowjob.
Another image showed Mary’s engorged cunny lips, topped by a plaid schoolgirl’s skirt, pink and open with only her clit hidden. Despite my considerable respect for her intelligence, writing skill, personhood and her marriage, I found myself wanting to write a love letter to Mary’s vagina. How would such a letter read, I wonder?
Dear Mary’s vagina,
I want you. Your fullness and wetness captivate me and I hunger for the taste and feel of you. I can all too well imagine the taste and texture of ‘her’, the tang and the precum. I almost can feel Mary’s heels on my back, sawing at me as she nears a cum. I want to fill you with mine, and release a torrent of swimmers, motivated, angry and purpose filled. These sperms will tear through your body searching desperately for an egg to claim as their own.
Is this crazy, a midlife crisis or the simple reaction to one who inspires such lust in me? Cars are a midlife issue for men my age and of course I’ve bought a play car with nearly four-hundred horsepower and a six-speed transmission. The car turns heads on the highway and Mary has turned mine here in Seat 1A of this big Airbus 320. Funny isn’t it, how a man can completely respect a woman and then desire mightily to bend her over that pedestal on which he places her and then pummel her like a beast only to throw her away briefly and then love her tenderly afterwards and until next time. That he can stand in awe of her and still want to see her tied to a headboard, helpless before him and perhaps for others as well is a paradox. And, what of Mary’s desires? Is my goal to please her with such passion as to turn her from her husband? Or, to bind her still closer to him; in her gratitude for his permission to be shared? To be seen, touched and filled until she is spent.
As the big jet sinks to earth, a haze hangs low over my city and the view is ethereal, something from the Twilight Zone and lends itself to the vapors of my fantasy. I hope we become good friends.
