Chapter 7
Those pleasures so lightly called physical.
- Colette, Meìlanges, 1939
7
Casandra
Looking back now, I only ever had one standard by which to judge Chloe – my ex, Casandra… though the comparison wasn’t a fair one.
You see, there are different kinds of love. None is any better or worse than the other, but some tend to be a bit more “guilty.” I loved the two in very diverse manners.When I close my eyes, I perceive Casandra in a general sort of way. Her skin, being partially Native, is light brown, like coffee with too much milk. She has a virgin’s eyes, chestnut hair, and Julia Roberts’ mouth – this is all the detail I can envision – the museum of my mind having allowed her exhibit to diminish somewhat. Of course, certain displays within the Casandra Wing have been well-maintained. Emblazoned within me will forever be a sort of profligate image of her. She is leaning forward. She is on her knees. “Doggie style” – her favorite. Her smooth ass is arched toward my vision, up into the air, supported by young, toned thighs. The rest of her body is jockeying. She leans lower and lower upon her forearms, moving her upper body forward in a way, her ass moving higher.
Her breasts heave.
Searching… she’s searching for that perfect angle… for the right kind of rubbing. She will do anything to inspire it –
anything to help my artists brush to rub firmly against the heart of her canvas.
I loved those moments… those ecstatic screams… those liquid outbursts.A record player sits next to this particular display. There is a scratch on the track, but no one minds too much… her words repeat, again and again… echoing…
“Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please… Do it to me from behind Marcus, please….”
I can feel that ancient breath upon my neck – incinerated gasps.
And so she remains, my one still perfect memory, bent forward, sleek, sensuous, and begging for what she most desires. A delinquent slut, in a Christian school-girl’s attire. I did love her.
Chloe, when I close my eyes, is less fun in a way. She is a nearly exact replica of that which I still hate and love so well. From her exotic eyes, to her sun-filled charcoal hair, to the smallest freckles and moles… she appears in exquisite detail. There is no need for the imagination, as no elaboration is necessary. It’s just her that I see – not that I could ever complain about that. Both keep me entertained upon occasion… as both help me to fetch milk at least once a week….
Casandra – her taut, arched buttocks, moving pleadingly, so seductively, granting me brief glimpses of her quim… shooting through my mind… and of course, her request.
Chloe – chocolate pouting nipples, begging to be devoured, teasing whore’s eyes, and perfect ‘V’… trimmed and not coarse.
For only an hour with both, what would I give? A prophetic question mark of another manual-session… another polishing of the displays.
No Phil....
4 comments:
ok, first of all, i get it, hes black. i kinda thought so, but now im sure.
but, youre doing it again. being all deep and poetic in your writing, then, BAM! a crude sexual refence. it just doesnt fit.
First of all, no, he is not. He's not black. So apparently, whatever "it" was, you missed it... lol. He's a whitey.
The crude references are intended with reason... you'll see why, trust me, as early as section 12, on which I am currently working.
Major
PS --> why did you think he was black? Noone's ever said that before.
i thought he was black because of the way you described the girls. there were several times you used terms like, chocolate, ebony, and dark to reference their hair, skin, etc.
and you said that the girl went to the basketball games that HE played in. not that white people dont play basketball, just mixed with those other subtle things, i assumed he was black.
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