Deja Vu Woman
I wondered, first, about her broken heart, the indecency of what she had suffered. The love, too. I felt from the first time of seeing her she was no ordinary woman, no mere adventurer caught up in someone else’s life. No, there was more; a damaged woman for sure, or not.
I didn't say anything. I kept staring.
I suppose I am a sensualist, regarding the sexual side of my life with some indifference and yet, at the same time, reveling in a society of pleasant, intelligent women after being in love once…and maybe another time in a lustful passion that passed for love in the eyes of the onlooker. I thought the latter so full at the time, but it wasn’t, it was shallow. My fault though. I allowed the pleasure to dominate me, sex for sex sake and ended up wondering what love is all about, but not too much.
The first thing I noticed in the darkened, seedy room was the purity of her youthful white skin under the spotlight, the freshly tousled hair for tonight’s performance, and wondered what fruit abounds under the costume that left her back and shoulders bare. I felt myself wishing for stockings, a garter, having put her performance fantasy together in my head.
She knows what I’m dreaming. I can’t hide from her the imaginations my eyes can’t wait to see. A shoe to fall, a rolling of silk down the leg and my brutal desire to bite her arse.
Back when, a scared fifteen year old, I ran away from poetry’s obsessions, but the running away provided the perfect excuse to write a poem. By twenty, my vision of happiness was connected more to the love of environment, and I was to be accompanied on this adventure by a woman who would treat me kindly and whose laughter would part her lips enough for kissing.
What glorious loves I dreamed.
Alisha, with a swing of her hips starts to strip. With a finger on her lips she asks for kisses as the top of her dress comes undone, breasts not dangling, shoulders shimmer. How madly in love with her I could be. Blimey, her last piece of clothing falls to the floor, bright and sparkling, as my eyes scan the softness of her naked features.
The rhythm of my breathing is shot to hell. What it is to love a woman who will change her name for you, even for one evening, and strip herself naked for another man’s pleasure.
This woman will never allow herself to be broken, never suffer the indecency of love lost. No-one will need to mend her broken heart, repair her dreams, for Alisha is the best stripper in town.
