<\/p>\n
There’s a woman I’m obsessed with. Well, really, I’m obsessed with many
\nwomen. But this particular girl doesn’t deserve my obsession and, so,
\nit’s becoming a little bit frustrating as I approach my eighth year of
\nthis illness.<\/p>\n
I can recall everything about her. The feel and smell of her hair in
\nthe morning, the precise shape of her sex, every curve, every bend.
\nShe’s a little mouse, far from beautiful, and so twisted, deep in her
\nmind, that to love her is suicide. I know that, and I know it well.
\nEven now, when these handful of years have put distance between me and
\nthe bad things that happened during our relationship, I talk to her on
\nthe weekends and I hear in her voice that nothing has changed, that
\nshe’s become worse. She runs with the bi-sexual crowd. The women and
\nmen who don’t know which way is which. She indulges their homemade
\nschizophrenia, she plays off of them for power. She devours friends and
\nlovers and family and then leaves them for dead – sometimes literally.
\nAny social graces she may have picked up over the years are an
\naccident.<\/p>\n
She can drive anyone to madness, she’ll use her closest allies for
\nadvancement and security, then drive them away in violence and fear.<\/p>\n
She can be beautiful. As long as she smiles and cleans herself up. That
\nwas rare. Usually her hair was a rat’s nest flying out behind her, her
\nface tired and lined without make-up. Her chin is weak, her overbite
\nsharply pronounced. Her figure is frail but her wide, blue eyes save
\nher from being ugly. She moves with a snake-like grace, and she can
\nturn those eyes onto you like a needy child, or a dog. She can tell you
\na tale of pain and weakness, luring you deeper into her web with every
\nword, wrapping her words around you, confusing you. After all, she’ll
\nbe a licensed psychologist in a year. That’s her job. You fall into her
\narms at her command, where she bares a breast and suckles you. She’ll
\nlet you take her without conscience, without guilt, your hands gliding
\ndown her body and her boyish hips, tearing away her cloths. She’ll only
\nguide you to make sure your mouth goes to her sex. She’s an oral girl.
\nIn return, she’s suppressed her gag reflex, has an untiring devotion to
\nher work and cleans up every drop on her plate.<\/p>\n
She owns you after you slide into her. Always tight, always welcoming,
\nwetter than an English winter. The finest I have ever known. A
\nbeautiful flower, so perfectly formed, so small and unassuming, opening
\nup and flowing around you, gripping you, sucking you dry tirelessly
\nthrough the night, the weekend, the holiday week.<\/p>\n
If you are among the fortunate (or, perhaps, the opposite) then she
\nwill select you as her permanent temporary. Husband, boyfriend, slave.
\nShe’ll come to you three times a day or more and demand rigorous,
\npowerful satisfaction. She’ll change her appearance, she’ll morph and
\ntwist and shape herself into dreams. Her accent will shift, makeup may
\nappear, her hair will be brushed. Or she’ll let herself go. She’ll
\nfollow your lead. Tiny, subconscious alterations that wash through some
\ndeep part of men that cannot be described…and it will control us.<\/p>\n
Is she faithful, then? No. She is addicted to sex, and you’ll get
\ntired. No man or woman living has been able to keep up with her
\ndemands. Constant, sexual gratification, constant emotional
\nreassurance, constant creative input, constant activity. She’ll have
\nyou hiking in the woods, starting a band and finishing a book, her lips
\nand pussy wrapped around your cock the entire time.<\/p>\n
No one has made it. Her female lovers can get as far as starting a
\nband, but the burnout is always just around the corner. She cheats, she
\nlies, she shakes apart. She’ll blow a lover and a circle of friends out
\nof the water the moment there’s a bump in the road. They will try to
\nhold on, addicted to her. But, by then, they are empty shells.<\/p>\n
Men are easier for her. Women are easy, too, but she has to maintain a
\ncertain loyalty. Even under her spell, a woman’s instinct remains. But
\nmen, she can gather many at once and none are the wiser. She can fuck a
\ndozen a week, three a day, or none at all and there’ll be no change in
\nher attitude, no waver in her smile. She plays off of her apparent
\nweaknesses. Men want to save her, to heal her. She a master with her
\nmade up rape and abduction stories, her crocodile tears. She’ll get
\nyour problems first, your fears, your bad experiences. Her issues will,
\nremarkably, be similar. Did your mother beat you? Did you hide behind a
\ncouch? Amazing, her mother beat her, and she hid in a closet.<\/p>\n
A whispered phrase in your ear, the smell of her saturating you: We have so much in common, my love.<\/p>\n
She is the most dangerous predator I have known. She has no guilt about
\nsex. She’ll fuck the married, the underaged, the virgin, the priest,
\nand it’ll all be as innocent as a handshake in her mind. It is a
\nhandshake. It’s how she really connects with people. You can’t have
\nfriends when she’s around. Eventually, she’ll sleep with them all. The
\nmen will demand it, pursue her behind your back. The women will be a
\nchallenge for her and, if you’re in her good graces, she may even bring
\nthem home for you like a cat with its prey. What’s your fantasy?
\nRedheaded women? Asian girls? Another man? High school girls? Your
\nprofessor?<\/p>\n
She’ll go out, this awkward and strange looking girl, and she’ll bring
\nthem back to you one Friday night. She’ll burst into your bedroom with
\nyour living fantasy, and she’ll watch you fuck them the way a scientist
\nwatches a Petri dish. Then she’ll fuck them with her mouth and her fist
\nand her pussy until they scream safety words, push against her, burst
\nout of your apartment half nude and in tears. With witchlike hair
\nfrizzed behind her, she’ll turn with dissatisfaction when they leave
\nand force you to enter her and pound until she bleeds, or until you’re
\nnothing.<\/p>\n
She has done this with all of her lovers. I’ve spoken to a dozen of
\nthem over the years, and all the stories are the same. She is a
\nwomanizer, a predator of men, perhaps quite mad and certainly soulless.<\/p>\n
I am a victim. I love her more than any other woman, I dream of her.
\nThrough this I now realize that I am a weak and ineffectual man. That I
\nam not stronger than those around me, as I always like to pretend. I
\nhave been laid bare, abused and abandoned by this vicious creature,
\nthis night-woman, and I want more of the same again and again.<\/p>\n
And now she has announced plans to visit me, and for me to visit her.
\nHolidays are lined up, flights organized, and I am ready for disgrace.
\nBut, perhaps, there is hope for me. So many years have moved between
\nus, and so many horrors. Something has occurred to me: I’m in it for
\nthe sex. I can’t imagine taking her back, letting her into my house. I
\nwant to fuck her until she breaks, and then I want to get back to my
\ndark life.<\/p>\n
Have I become like her? Am I, now, more dangerous? A fully realized
\nslave to the reptilian cortex, operating without heart or soul?<\/p>\n
Maybe we’ll finally be able to communicate.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[352],"tags":[353,160],"class_list":["post-2496","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-gsarchive","tag-gs-archive-2004-2008","tag-women"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2496","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2496"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2496\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2773,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2496\/revisions\/2773"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2496"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2496"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2496"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}