The Best Laid Plans of Mindfucks
“The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.” -Marcus Aurelius
She wanted a full literary analysis, a personal response. Something she will leisurely sink her teeth into over her morning coffee when she is once again alone, and I am at work an hour away. She wanted a hero, an escape, and an opportunity to flirt with impunity. I could oblige on all accounts providing it fit with my schedule, providing I know the rules. I have never been good with rules, which is weird for a socialist really. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for rules when they apply to the collective. We need rules and regulations to keep the big fish from eating the small. We need social order, and wealth distribution, and Medicare. But when it comes to me personally, I have more of an anarchist philosophy. I do not want others telling me what I can and cannot do. I want to establish my own boundaries and have them ebb and flow to the context of my circumstance. I want to march to my own drum, wave my own flag. I want to define my own labels and create my own syntax. What can I say; I am a Mindfuck, a dichotomy, a shade of gray in a sea of black and white. Or, maybe, I am just a hypocrite. The verdict is still out.
She sent me an article on “Butch Glam” earlier today. “I think it is hard to claim an identity when the mainstream view of it is different from one’s own experience.” Her words, not mine. “Large parts of our identity are often contradictory;” Again, her words. She is right, of course. All Mindfucks know this. There is a loneliness that comes from trying to embrace a cultural stereotype, even the marginalized ones. Butch/Femme. Black/White. Boy/Girl. We cling to these labels like a lifeline and through them we seek to connect. But what happens when it is the lifeline that is drowning us? This is going to be hard, impunity that is.
On a warm summer day among friends, she swam naked in the pool. She wanted to be noticed. She wanted to be seen, but let us be clear, that is against the rules. She is taken, claimed, like the last Oreo in the package, or baggage on a passenger flight. She is an exhibitionist who cannot be looked at, a good girl who wants to be bad. She is a Mindfuck, just like me.
So, we meet in the places in between. We share. We connect. We veer into the lane of another life, and then back into this one. This is how accidents happen, I am aware, but I do not care. Ask anyone who rides a motorcycle without a helmet or has sex sans condom; safety has a way of stifling an experience.
Tonight, she asked me to read an erotic piece she wrote; a true story. A glimpse at an exhibitionist is often a mutually beneficial endeavor, a chance to see and be seen, a chance to veer into that other lane for a quick intimate peek before the lights go out, and you’re left masturbating in the dark.
She is very beautiful, I’ll admit. I have a thing for “the girl-next-door” look. You know, the type of beauty that is organic, not bought. A brand of attractiveness that looks just as good in an old t-shirt as it would in an evening dress. Truth be told, I have never been one who embraces blatant sexuality. I am the Lord of the Subtle, The Master of the Imagination. I could get off for a week seeing a woman in her pajamas, but not look twice at the same woman prancing in front of me in expensive lingerie. In fact, the more sex is shoved in my face, the more I seem to want to repel it, but that is besides the point. It is after midnight. I have to work in the morning, and her story awaits.
Images of a cute, small town girl, being erotically revealed through words and sentences fill my consciousness with a forbidden presence. Not subtle in narrative, but definitive fuel for imagination. Mission Accomplished. It is going to be a long night. Stories will do that to you; especially, when written by a Mindfuck who looks just like the girl-next-door. But don’t tell anyone because that would be against the rules, and I do not want to break any rules.
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