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I don't mind being overshadowed.
Parts of me only live to be covered.
If I die in a traffic accident
Or wash up on some stony beach
My mother won't be able to identify my body without fluttering doubts.
Framed by the sparrows tattooed on my back
Which she's never seen.
Their wings will spin wild fantasies of hope for her that I'm alive.

But to have my late January birthday papered over with greeting cards
And red-wrapped chocolates that come too soon?
To have it gnashed to pieces by chalky heart-shaped teeth
Printed with "BITE ME" and sold to women who have never blushed at work,
Wondering if the mottled purple marks of His mouth
Will peek out from the hems of their skirts?
I may be a pervert, but that's just perverse.

I like January fine, it's good to start the year
Lean and cold and wrapped in thin ribbons of air
That cut like scythes in fields that grow only summer's ghosts of wheat.
It's a clean, white sheet, corners crisp, before the rioting blanket of spring is pulled over
And winter is forgotten until the shock of the first October frost.
January should be as pure and uncompromising as the heavy white paper in my hand
With the slanting script stretched across it like bare trees leaning on the wind.

You are Required
To obtain one dozen long stem roses, organic
Color inconsequential
One lace and satin teddy
Color inconsequential
Twenty feet of stout cotton clothesline
Color inconsequential

You are Required to present yourself, with these items, at 7 o'clock.

I went to three florists today, avoiding roses
That are the color other people think they should be.
Those are for other women, who shrink their expectations of love
Until they fit in a lace-rimmed box with the different flavors of truffles typed across the lid.
I take the ones meant for a woman like me,
Yellow like a bite mark three days later and
Circled with tan paper like they're hiding under sleeves.

I shift from foot to foot wishing my sexiest shoes didn't dig so into my pinky toes
January's cold fingers twist up my towering heels to build momentum
For a shot up the seams of my stockings
Digging in over the tops and pinching my pristine thighs.
The chill is only a teaser for my real present:
The slight flare of His nostrils when I curtsey on the doorstep
And let January rush against my breasts to show him
I am wearing nothing but those sexiest shoes, those seamed stockings,
And one lace and satin teddy,
Color, violet,
Which still smells like the cardboard and opulence of the lingerie store,
Circled only in my tan trenchcoat.
I follow Him in, mindful of the clicks of my shoes on the wood floor.

He lifts me easily onto the table, tucks my legs under me,
Draws me back and curves my spine over my heels like a bow
Which He strings with twenty feet of cotton clothesline,
Color, white,
And wraps around my wrists and ankles together,
Tighter than a candy heart "HUG ME" could dream.

My open thighs frame His dinner plate.
I can't see anything but the ceiling
And where it meets the wall behind me.
I lose myself into that angle, crawl away and disappear
Into the scrapes and tinks of his knife and fork,
Into the smell of a red steak and a baked potato and my impatient, swelling sex.
Into my place where it doesn't matter that property taxes are due
And my brother is having an angiogram next week.

I am so lost in myself, to myself, I barely register his chair scraping back
Or his steps around the table.
I am conditioned, though, to the thin note of His zipper
I have my mouth open even before He hooks His hands under my shoulders
And drags me back to the edge of the table
So my hair hangs down and waves like the blanket of dark chocolate in a candy commercial
While He thrusts His cock deeper into my throat.

I don't remember what He looks like getting hard.
I'm always blindfolded or bent over,
Kneeling and staring at the backs of my hands
Or my eyes just closed against the pleasure snaps of the cane.
I have forgotten He can be anything but hard
It's just a matter of where the heat goes:
In His thick-ridged cock as He fills the parts of me that crave Him
Or in His pinning-stare, the only thing that leaves me naked.

He cradles my head as his thrusts shake the table beneath me,
My lipstick smeared across Him like war paint and
My floating mascara trailing back from my eyes in two thick, black branches.
He pushes so deep He can't move,
I can't breathe,
I must wait
Like the ice waits, straining and stretching for that first liquid crack
And the torrent to follow.

He roots two fingers inside me, pushing my secret, swollen places to the brink
Then pulls them free before I can clutch the edge of release.
I try to hide my disappointment in the hollows of a moan.
I never succeed in concealing anything from Him,
How can I when His eyes on my skin are sharp as a hawk's
Over a fallow, snow-dragged field?
My reward for trying is the silken brush of one long-stemmed rose, organic,
Color, yellow,
Against the singing center of my pleasure.

He slides the silver flat of the bandage scissors from my knee to the crease of my hip
And lets them snap and chew the lace and satin
I chose because it looked like deep shadows across my skin,
Opening a pale swath across my belly until the fabric frames me in two dark wings.
He bends me forward to untie the ropes.

I wait, leaning, with my palms flat to the table, sexiest heels spaced wide
As He methodically strips all the petals from the roses
Until there are yellow drifts to my ankles
And he has a dozen flexing switches in his hand.
He drags them slowly from one shoulder to the other
And the thorns pull against my skin like the needle skipping the groove
At the end of an LP.

I don't have to see Him to know how His elbow bends
Giving that first, full lash,
How His wrist doesn't hesitate
So the thorns don't bite into my back but skim across me
Raising red lines thinner than a strand of hair,
Until my back is as hot and broken as the thin ice in the middle of the lake
Yielding to the spring sun one more time.

When my back is so full of lines that I'm a sketch of a woman,
He kneels and digs His fingers into the tops of each stocking
And chuckles deeply as they rip between His fists
And draws my thighs over with those stinging, razor lines.
When I can no longer stand,
When my knees shake and my ankle bones wobble against each other
He lets me fall forward across the table.
When He kneels behind me His shins crush the petals
And my nose fills with rose
As he fills the rest of me with his tongue.
He gives me over and over what I've held back from myself.

Later, there's a hot bath covered in yellow rose petals
To soften and close my marks.
There's a steak waiting for me on a plate in the oven,
But no clothes.
When I lay my cheek against His thigh, curled on the couch
He covers me with a blanket before my goose bumps resolve into a shiver.

There is no card for a woman like me,
No card with birthday cakes or platitudes about cutting loose on my birthday
No card covered in hearts or professing love can contain me.
I am more than loved.
I am Required.

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3 Comments
ElectricBlueElectricBlueover 8 years ago

This is so good, so good. I read it out loud in a low whisper to myself, and the cadence is perfect. Fuck, this is good.

HoneyAdoredHoneyAdoredabout 9 years ago
Read it and read it again...

...and I'm sure I will read it again too

Beautifully written and had me captivated from start to finish, well done 5ed

sheabluesheablueabout 9 years ago

Beautiful. Visceral. Sensual.

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