“Maybe she was once a fragile, shattered girl, exploited by her father. Maybe you hunger for her, in need of your protection. The time for rescuing has lapsed. Her defender never showed. She has went into that cocoon and came out a carnivorous butterfly. You still hear the echoes of the damsel but don’t think for a second you can connect with that girl. “
She came into my life like many others, but covered in gloss. The kind of story that realism doesn’t have much of. A crush that became a trauma, a concussion, a coma, and then a dream. And none of it was real.
Her legs were outstanding. God damn them. As long as the nile and out of her jeans, petite ankles and the tops of her little feet delicately placed into high heals. It was all smooth skin and sex running through my mind. She was long hair and cherry lips from what I remember of it. If you’re into that sort of thing. If I tell it right, it’s the kind of objectified portrayal of a women that these days could just down right piss some off. But no apologies. It is an opus to the carnal alpha female that men desire and most could never be. There are shades of her in every women. But the full brunt of her power over men, her mind games, her smell, her affections, and finally the absence of affection, are like much of the dead. Ghosts in this old man’s mind.
Like memories so often do after many years, all of the unpleasantness has faded away with the gray matter of my brain. Who knows where it all goes. There is little imperfection when I think of her. No extra fat around the hips, no bags under the eyes. We were young and oh so good looking. In the mirror of time I see her by my side, so pretty, but the framing of the mirror is now out dated and the fashions have changed many times over, and over and over again. And in that same mirror, I look back at the same man. Now just an old man with his Chesterfield cigarettes.
“Did you know, now don’t hold me to this, but I read somewhere that Chesterfield Cigarettes will kill you! That’s right, all be damned!”, I told that slack jawed nurse this nearly once a day. God help her, she has arms like two Buicks. Good for hoisting me up onto this Gatch medical bed. “Put the rails up honey, thank you. You know if I smoke enough of these cigarettes I won’t have to pay extra for assisted suicide. Now how does that grab ya? Does my HMO cover that?” She pays no mind to me. Truth be told I don’t think she knows enough English to have the faintest what I’m talking about. More truth too be told, I smoke just one long stemmed Chesterfield 100 a day and mostly for spite but its enough to get the nurses in a tizzy. Just enough to let the them know, ” Hey, I’m still in here.” “Yea, you’ll get there one day too cookie.” They let me get away with that sort of thing. “Cookie, Doll, Totsy, I mix’em up. One of the few pleasures in getting older. You could ask the Princess of Whales to bring you tea and hardly anyone takes offense. And I love that.
Getting old is not for the feeble. You have no idea. The closest I could come to it is the feeling one gets when coming down with a wretched cold. A cold that endures until the end, of your damn life I mean. Just an old man straining to sit up in a hospital bed. Don’t all the most idiotic, “feel good” stories start out that way. You know the kind that tell of the wisdom of years gone by. An old man, in his last moments, with a noose around his neck waiting for the man in the black mask to pull that cord. Well, all hell if this ain’t that story. Nearly. This has a twist. This is a smutty story. A real blood burner.
It’s back to the day dream for me. “Dianna”. I know what you’re thinking and I can feel your judgment. Maybe you’re right. Maybe a dirty old man shouldn’t be thinking on such baser memories, reminiscing on old flings. It’s hardly emblematic of my life as a judge and a man of good standing. Maybe I would be well content just to sit in this bed of sweaty sheets, god awful hot as it is, and thinking on my five beautiful children and my beloved, late wife Anna. These things are nice. And I do. I do think on these things, incessantly. I go over my life, reshaping, moving the pieces around, looking for themes, trying to find meaning and telling the stories to just about anyone who will listen. I’ve fashioned that story to bring a tear to your eye. It’s a good one. It’s my life. And it’s all true. 100% of it, with sincerity and love.
But you know what? There are other stories. Stories I don’t much talk about. Stories that not only contain love, in its own way, but obsession and lust. And those stories, the ones that won’t be told in good company, well, those stories will grab you by the nuts!