There is something about those little flaming protuberances that look so alluring in a woman’s mouth. Simple, so much potential violence. Burn a cross onto your flesh and it is agony, but it creates a story worth wasting ink on. Action is just literature not written down. Scratch and moan and burn all you want… give me a passage on it. Give me a character. Show me not how a woman screams for the pain but what screams from inside her despite the pain or even, god forbid, because of it. Because I know she is screaming. From across the bar, the café, the bordello, wherever we are whatever we are doing I still see her and she is still a woman. And I still see her smoking, and sucking in the ashes that would otherwise disfigure the wooden floor. Oh let me extinguish those little fires on my tongue. They’ll hurt so very little and so very briefly, but the memory of the pain will never abate and will grow ever stronger as I grow ever more in need of pleasure. Breath them out, those ashes, onto me. I weep for them. I cry.
Smoke. Drink. Dry alcohol and even more desiccated conversation. So many businessmen and so little business. Oh every time you ignore them they grow ever more attached to you. Like a grasping, leaching weed that thrives on those dripping from your eyes, and your armpits, and from the crumbs that fall from your teeth. They cling to you without touching, and send out their invisible but inescapable vines and shoots into every crevice that they cannot touch but through their thoughts and eyes and nose. I am not enough of a Narcissist to delude myself into believing I am not one of these men sending out his roots to search and possess you. I am just not a businessman.
One of said businessmen, one with a mustache, he whispers something in your ear. I somehow know what it is he said. You should slap him for that. Not how you talk to a lady. But you don’t slap him. God forgive me I am disappointed for the man. I had wanted to vicariously experience his rejection. I know I will not be rejected. I can’t be rejected. You already accepted me in oh so many ways. Remember? You do remember… You smile and you flick your cigarette into the trash. You light another one. Not three seconds pass between the last puff and the first drag. Oh damn. I want to smoke, but it is so very, very filthy. I enjoy filth, don’t misunderstand me, but I wish to experience such grime through the lips and spittle of a beautiful woman. No man needs to smoke who has a woman who smokes. The taste, the sick, the retched addiction. All the existential sensation without the cancer, the yellowing teeth or the wheezing cough. It is sweet irony: The partaking in such an insignificant ill leads to such an unparalleled cure for wanton ardency.
Yawn! Yawn! I do see you yawn woman. Your mouth open, braving the moths that float about the fluorescent lights, beckoning the tongues that will not have you, but will lick the very blood from your bones in their dreams. Is it such a painful bore to be a woman? Is it such an ordeal to stand and attract the attention of men and boys and dogs? Let them all sniff your scent. Push them to frenzy. Order a cosmopolitan and dump it on the floor. Watch as they order you another one.
It is a cruel truth that all sensation leads to sin. I can lust for you through my ears woman. I hear the breath feed the fire that burns the weed behind the filter on your cigarette. If the world were quiet enough that breath would bellow through the ether like the raging furnaces that belch for the fires of hell. Your breath would burn bodies, consume souls, roast the hopes and dreams of a billion hearts, including mine. For I listened to that breath, and was transported to the deepest, the darkest realm of Sheol. I want to go to hell darling. Send me to the pit. I would gladly burn in the fires of your miasmic exhalations. What about your habit moves me to such dark profundities I spew? I just enjoy the smell of tar mixed with a lady’s sweat, the rest is just my artistic nature. I told you I was no businessman. But… No I have not told you that yet. But I will. When we talk again for the first time.
I finally catch your jaded eye. You smile that smile, that smile that lies like a fornicating politician. I scowl because I do not feel like lying to you. But I do take a deep breath, and you see that I do, and you breathe some smoke in my direction. I cough, and grow ever more aroused. You can tell and I think, I think it disgusts you just a little bit. I walk towards you, finally ready to receive what was always mine. You bite your lip in such a post-ironic way. It almost turns me off… If I had wanted the truth from you I would have taken you against your will in the alley earlier that night. I want to be lied to. I want the only truth that matters: the truth I choose to believe. You extinguish this, your second cigarette in 20 minutes. I reach into my pocket and give you another one, a different brand, but still a cigarette. You ask one of the businessmen to light it for you. Of course they do. You inhale. I ejaculate. The businessman gives you his card.