The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Influence

Celebration

The late December sky confuses its followers,
duping them with a froth of violet quartz
and seeping slivers of melon before reeling back the light,
leaving the bedazzled to grope frantically as
the cold comes to own their invisible skin.

With the finale of another year comes
the finish of trying births and deaths,
tired themes waved away by drunken hands.
The failures and fatalities are left behind in
a scattering of days on lustrous paper,
like the worst is over and surviving it
was all they had to do.

Swift realizations come with the gong of the clock:
less references about eternal beauty and
an emphasis on the virtue of personality;
a collective determination to find faith in conviction,
gifted perfume masking the stink of submission.

The clothes are comfortable; black and elastic,
with careful positioning which works to hide
the other sleeping Decembers.
No one is looking at the slow-splitting cracks
and waterless tributaries which snake
the eyes and mouths; it is better to sip the drink slowly,
so as to ease the horror, bringing civility to it.

Tabletop candles are lit for mood,
they’re there for romance and tribute, but
the rolling, clotting wax and the lessening wick
are unnerving reminders of their slow passing.
They flare, flicker and plead before their
spirit curls toward the heavens,
taking the atmosphere along with them.

There is no reference to the fear of what is coming,
only the well-intentioned crash of cheap glasses
and the spill of drink on the carpet.

Which everyone tries to clean up,
as if it were blood,
as if it were going to save them.

**This is what happens when I listen to Joy Division all day...

**********************************************************************

It's been ages. I stopped with the pill last...March? I can't remember now. It was eating my libido and spitting it out in sloppy, jagged bits. I stopped with it because I needed to find one which wouldn't do that. The point of taking it is to have sex without consequences, at least, the sort of consequence which needs diapers. So, the doctor gave me three months worth and for some reason not readily available, I have opted to leave them in the bathroom cabinet, untouched. In some of the more heated moments, when discussion is not always appropriate or welcome, he has asked if I've been taking them which I respond to truthfully because I'm not necessarily in love with the idea of becoming a second-time mother. His reaction is to find other ways to please me, and he does it well, but I miss having a part of him inside. A so-called 'normal' sex life has never been part of my reality, what with my inexperienced and overly eager former partner always panting around me, expectant and desperate, and M. with his more desirable attributes and well-honed style somehow becoming less available once we got comfortable, and I am feeling...restless?

And angry.

I feel re-virginized. It wasn't fun to lose it the first time, though the second time (after a sexless year with R.) was better, but still not otherworldly. To have to find a way to go through it a third time is not a thrilling prospect and I'm feeling bitter. There are other ways, I said, other methods he could have been responsible for. I don't care if he can't feel anything. I'm way too selfish at this point to care much.

We lay in bed last night laughing about it, at first. What with my intermittent innard issues and lingering cold, and his mother's death as well as his lingering cold, we've not been feeling 'it' for a while. Then, I got to thinking. Is this how it's supposed to be? Me, moaning about all my woes like a seventy-five-year-old and him coming to bed, red-eyed and exhausted from building fantasy aircraft? Where's the passion? The lust? The need?

I have heard myself say that sex is not that important, and really when you look at it from a different perspective, it isn't. Then, you go without it for ages and you begin to crave it like heroin. It's becomes more important than food and you start finding blame and desire in just about everything you look at. I watched 'The Other Boleyn Girl' last night and found myself ridiculously envious of Mary Boleyn's position when King Henry essentially took her on as a concubine. Oh, the excitement in being the sexual plaything of a man of power! Then, I chastized myself because for one thing, I hate the British monarchy and even moreso, King Henry VIII was one of the worst there was, offing wives when they no longer suited him. Ridiculous bastard. I was disappointed in myself for being so easily enchanted. Of course, Eric Bana is likely more attractive than the fat, pasty-skinned reality was so there's a chance I would not have succumbed to his advances. Then, I had a dream about being propositioned by an aging primetime sitcom star in my high school bathroom and I very nearly took him up on it, only declining because I had to get to class. Always the conscientious student, I promised to let him ravage me after the bell rang, which was almost as hot as actually doing it. I woke up frustrated and red-cheeked.

So, I need it. It makes me feel younger and more alive; pretty. I need to feel like a beautiful whore even if just for a moment. Once, R. promised to buy me a pair of Doc Martens if I shaved myself entirely in front of him, which I did without thinking. The whole time I was trying them on afterward, selecting the length of the boot and the colour, he sat in the chair next to me with a cheshire cat smile and I felt kind of dirty, but in a good way. I then wore them with his favourite floral dress (black with tiny ivory florets) and tied him to the bed before taking my time to remove everything but the boots. It was good.

M. wouldn't be into that, I don't think. He says he could care less about lingerie, which usually suits me because I'm not a fan of it either. Still, to feel the eyes of a hungry lover on you is one of the better sensations in life. I don't know if M. has that kind of mechanism in his brain. He keeps his cards hidden which only serves to drive me mad. I never know if the flip of my hair or a coquettish look has any effect on him so I don't bother. I wait. And wait and wait...until he surprises me, reaches for me, usually when I'm not wanting it or needing him.

The problem is that we're similar in that we are too much in our own heads. I'm now understanding what R. felt all those years and it has been quite a revealing lesson. I've grown to appreciate his patience now, his anger and frustration. Oh, how I get it. That said, I know where M's coming from too and I have to think about what would work on me if I were him. More often it's just patience and quiet. I latch onto the moods and move my body differently, something R. always recognized. He'd start to rub my back and the way I moved my legs, my behind, told him that I was feeling 'it'. Other times, I only wanted the backrub and he could see it in the way my muscles stayed loose and my body stayed flat. Words were never necessary back when it was good.

I'm not missing R., though. Thinking about the more intense sexual moments is pleasant, but it does not rouse any residual longing. I know who I want, how I want him. I can taste him if I close my eyes.

I think I need a nap. Or something.