Hello

Hello

Vincent watched her shuffling through the pages of her notebook trying to find an empty page to note down the symbols that the professor had just drawn on the whiteboard. She was sitting on the same row — a couple of seats away — and Vincent had a clear view of everything she was doing. Her eye shade was light blue and the color seemed to merge well with the light blue t-shirt she was wearing.

It was a semiotics class and Vincent usually had the habit of trying to interpret his classmates like they were each a unique symbol with tremendous hidden meaning. The girl wore black jeans and plain white sneakers and resembled a malnourished athlete.

A bit too masculine, Vincent thought. I wonder if she wears a bra. Her tits are too small. That eye shade just doesn’t go with the sneakers. Her hair seems long and lovely though. I wonder if she regularly washes it. It seems straight enough for my liking. But she’s too much of a tomboy. Fuck. If she just wore something more pink, or a good feminine top instead of that polo shirt.

When she took a quick glance toward him, Vincent quickly shifted his head upward and moved his fingers across his hair pretending to cure an itch that had mystically grabbed his attention. When she turned back toward the whiteboard, his attention seemed to just divert itself back to her like he had no control over it.

Why am I even looking at her? She seems so ordinary. Wait, fuck! That’s a Valentino t-shirt. She must be rich. A rich girl with a bad taste for clothes. Fuck.

It was after a long trail of thought that Vincent realized he was now thinking of what life would be like if he married the girl.

If we have kids, it needs to be a son. I can’t imagine a daughter with this girl. She’d be too distasteful and probably a geek virgin till 30. No, fuck it! I can’t marry her. Imagine having sex with this girl. She’d never wear what I ask her to wear. And after I’m bored of her body, it’d be hell trying to convince her to do what I want.

“Professor, I have a question,” the girl was raising her hand. Vincent’s thoughts were too loud in his head to understand what she was saying and his thoughts continued.

Fuck, she’s paying attention. She might know more of semiotics than I do. She might go to graduate school. I don’t think I want to go to graduate school. I love being intelligent in bed after sex. I like saying witty things with intervals in between. But what if she talks too much? I wouldn’t be able to be me. I should stop looking at her.

The girl took a quick glance again toward Vincent’s direction and this time he continued to look at her, but in a way that indicated that he was looking through her at the wall. The girl seemed not to notice Vincent staring right at her.

She’s dull. Fuck, I’m sure she sucks in bed. I think I should start paying attention to the class. But I can’t stop looking at her. She’s not even attractive. Stupid rich bitch with a bad taste for fashion. I wonder if she’s on Facebook. I’ll look her up later. Fuck, but what’s her name? There’s no name card in front of her. Maybe I’ll wait till the professor calls her out sometime. Wait, why do I want to stalk this ugly rich bitch? Her sneakers are so white. Does she play tennis? At least she could’ve played football. There’d be something interesting about her. But wait, tennis players have terrific bodies! Maybe she has a nice body. But that face, there’s nothing sharp about it. There are no proper curves and turns; the kind that a proper pretty girl should have. I don’t think she’s pretty. I should have just jerked off this morning. That’s why this is happening. Fuck it. Let’s pay attention to the class.

The class was dismissed and Vincent raced toward the elevator. As he waited for it to arrive at the second floor, he saw the t-shirt girl walking toward him. He felt the usual currents of discomfort that everybody feels when they become aware of who their elevator companions will be for the next few seconds. Everybody feels it with strangers, and Vincent was no exception.

Fuck, this bitch again! I hope she’s going up.

The elevator arrived and the girl entered before Vincent did.

Fuck, she’s going down.

As the elevator began to move, Vincent’s eye caught the girl who broke into a gentle and pleasant smile.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey,” Vincent replied smiling. It was a whisper that came out in an awkward choking manner.

She’s sweet, Vincent thought. He suddenly became aware of an overwhelming scent of green apple laced with small amounts of lavender.

She’s ovulating. She has to be ovulating! Fuck, what a scent that is. Is that how she smells? Is she wearing something? Whatever it is, it smells brilliant!

The elevator reached the ground floor and the girl started to walk away slowly. While her white sneakers made no sound as they treaded against the ground, Vincent envisioned her wearing black pretty heels that made a loud noise with each step. Vincent turned around to walk toward the building exit. He was too naïve (or careless) to notice that his thoughts were now completely transformed.

What a delicious chick. That t-shirt went so well with those jeans. A pretty athlete; how brilliant is that? I hope she’s on Facebook. My phone’s out of charge. Fuck! Once I get home then. I should talk to her in the next class. I wonder if she drinks. We could go out for a drink sometime. I’m sure she loves good vodka. She looks classy. She definitely likes good vodka. I can’t believe I thought of dropping semiotics. I should form a study group with her. And that smile in the elevator — so . . . soft and genuine. We need more women like her. I could just feed her berries in bed all day without touching her. I’d still be happy.

Vincent pulled out a cigarette to light as soon as he stepped out of the building. He looked around him and then adjusted the waist of his jeans to hide the pounding erection that made the cigarette tremble in his fingers.

 

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Netted

Netted

We’ve heard much; her hair,
Curled into a past filled with strong hatred,
Spice, ignored interest, and consensual harlotry
Aha! Well, she’s a maze,
Quite the intricate confusion that I desire
The broken piece of human cutlery,
That I prefer to shelve instead of dispose
She’s made of sharp pieces,
Of edges that will make you bleed
That look blunt in the dark,
And sparkle only in starlight
She’s broken, secretly; broken enough,
For me to want to fix her

Too much time sometimes, I conclude we spend,
In the treacherous abstractions of poetry,
In the brushstrokes of unseen colors,
And unread letters
Describing this tremendous woman,
Selling tiny crumbs of our souls,
To find words that penetrate,
The heart and mind of meaning
Sometimes, all it takes,
Is to look at her legs.
Netted in the finest black satin,
Calling out to the animal in you
To forget the mannerisms of polished etiquette,
And unleash the brokenness,
That wishes for nothing more,
Than to simply be heard

Instead of watching,
Her walk down that supermarket aisle,
Picking tomatoes, cilantro, and cooking oil
Staring like an otter in the middest moment of dawn,
At the appearing horizon
Go tell her, tell her about her netted towers,
Of the most artsy glory you’ve ever seen
Tell her how they torment you at 3 AM,
When all you can think about is her,
And how you’re human,
And weak,
And as honest as a summer sunrise

Sometimes, nothing matters,
Except those netted stockings,
That clothe the most glorious art ever seen,
Two legs, two towers, that breathe beauty,
That emanate the cleanest glow light can afford
Sometimes, some things need to be told,
Cause people aren’t erotic enough,
To embrace the sweet secrets of humanness,
That make living, worth living.

Victoria

Victoria

Victoria stepped,
Into Woody’s; smelled like old wood,
And fresh turpentine
She walked up the aisle,
Picked up a can of orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro,
Looked at her reflection,
In the transparent Coco-Cola refrigerator
And turned behind to see,
The thirty something bearded man,
With light blue eyes and untrimmed stubble,
Staring viciously at her pale white thighs
And as he looked at her looking,
He turned back to his keys,
And pretended to jab in something important
Her shorts, were so sweetly short
And she walked up to him,
And billed her stuff
And some cigarettes
And walked out,
Biting her lower lip,
Answering some strange form of want,
Deep inside her

Tuesday went and so did Wednesday,
Victoria walked into Woody’s on Thursday
Her pale white thighs,
Moistened with herbal creams, and
Some other tropical delights
Her shorts, shorter than before,
Her nails conditioned, cared for,
Looking delightful in the autumn sun
She walked up, to the counter,
And saw a boy around her age
Eighteen, seventeen? She didn’t know
She pretended to have entered,
The wrong store
Whipped her hips around,
Stepped back outside

Thursday went,
Friday, Saturday, Sunday
And two more months after that
Victoria learned,
That her autumn lover,
Had traveled north

Victoria walked into Woody’s,
One winter Monday morning
She wore jeans,
Her hair undone, her nails,
Shabby and cracked in the cold,
Her face pale, and raw in celebration,
Of a pimpled landscape
Picked up the orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro
Billed her stuff,
And some cigarettes
Walked out into the winter sun
Her lips intact

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

You can lie for courteousness,
That you never look
But I know where the flame begins,
In that private space inside you,
In which you can never help but look,
At that pretty bra strap of hers,
Peeking at you,
Begging you to be tugged,
To come and explore

Forget all those sweet manners,
That hold you from your aches
That never give you enough vision,
To appreciate your animal self
Look at that wonder skin,
Decorated in clothing so tender
With those two black straps,
Peeking from within,
Asking you to come tug at them

You can’t hold back,
Because you know,
You’ll dream of those hidden gifts
Through nights when you’re lonely,
Wishing to lie at some woman’s bosom
With wine,
And chicken by your side
Watching bad television,
And speaking absolute nonsense

Those bra straps bring back nostalgia,
Of love lost,
Of things said at soft bosoms
With that pretty young lover,
Who promised you the world
Those bra straps,
They make you feverish

What is it that the breasts of a women,
Tinker with in the insides of men
It’s more than just touching,
More than just holders,
To embrace while making love
They symbolize tender care,
A hospitable pillow for tears
And those bra straps,
They conceal man’s hope for peace
A false hope

Bra strap and wonder skin beneath,
You must touch,
The things that make you tingle,
Life’s not a moral struggle,
It’s a little tale of wonderful things