She races her shadows, slowly. Through the night’s hours. Her stilettos two sizes too big. Black, from melted mascara to sheer tights. She is not too young, just too little. And yet her persuasion seeps through push-up bras and her seduction exudes from her tightly positioned ass.
She has wondered through streets with nothing but cigarettes and golden earrings. And the way she smokes and glances, the way she tripped upon trivialities has always found home a captivation.
The first night was rough. An infuriated man who just recently removed his ring, for as she jumped back and forth, his finger holding her small sized breasts had a seemingly lasting mark. She felt his supressed fury in rough gestures that seemed to have pleasure merely marginal.
A night along her second week included an unexpected masochist who asked for more, and payed for such. The marks lasted for the night on her, all over her. But she didn’t even feel the pain, which infuriated him further. He lashed more, he tried harder, but no squeals were even merely audible. At the recognition of his pain-pleasure complex she then merely faded a couple of screams and only then did he penetrate. Arched backwards she felt not even humiliation but exhaustion from such ways. She remained unamused.
Then, three months later, came across one of those facades she recognized and tried to prevent encountering. She tried to walk closer to other cars, show disinterest but it only provoked him further. One of those chase-her-until-she-stops-running complexes.
Well-dressed with eyes that gleamed with false charm. She might as well experiment. She has already ridden most types of cars and this seemed like a fairly good challenge.
First she felt unprecedented tension, and then he lit her a cigarette. This was unusual for her. They usually drove rapidly while finding their way under her skirt, feeling her thighs for pulse. But he was intimate. He wanted to invest in feelings before pleasure, and that confused her.
In her childhood she encountered several love stories but none of them lingered on, she always shook the memories off her mind. She never understood how they loved until the one time she truly loved but still then she shook the memories more violently, hitting her head against her beige unembellished walls. But she never spoke or thought of it again. She never wanted to feel these things. She chose to merely wander, from ride to ride, street to street, and aimlessly from face to face. It was not a desolate love for strangers, nor was it for pleasure, but both surely rose as side-benefits. She just chose to do these things and never know why. She was aware of an underlying reason for her strongly held belief in science, but she hoped to never know it.
This stranger however, wanted more of her than her body can offer.
He spoke to her.
Words coming out of his mouth.
Words not gestures.
Feelings not fingerings.
She remained unamused, but felt merely estranged by this sense.
The sex was okay I guess. She said to herself. But only inside of her she did not understand. She actually did, but she was still confused. She understood the reason why he did what he did, but she just did not know.
She never thought of it again.
That was her second love.
beyond 