Saturday, August 03, 2013

Reflections on a certain look

There was this smile I saw yesterday; she smiled on her face something like an advertisement saying she knows what she has on me. It was a smile I've seen too often, and for a younger me, never enough.

It can be seductive to be the object of fantasies. To see that look of hunger and desire, dreams indulged and necklines exposed, one might wish for such a constant reminder of being attractive. Fame, what so many want, popularity, what so many believe cures the insecurity and instability and depression within, has only the minor reward of a brief buzz, but they don't tell you, because of their lack of introspection, they constantly remind themselves that fame and desire are fleeting, must be maintained, must be attended, must be given to the ravenous and insatiable, or it will all collapse inward leaving a person with years of compounded interest on the debts of despair. They make you work for fame and their ecstasy, and they reward you with little, and they build it all up, just so they, and only ever they, can take it away from you at the first pout.

It can be seductive, though, to find vulnerability in people who love you past the looks and the charm and the bag you carry everywhere with you. As well it should be seductive, because then you're free as they are free to indulge in the honesty requisite for transcendent love, if you focus on the souls, or for becoming the body parts of another, if you focus on the bodies, or for solidarity in thinking, if you focus on the minds. The effortlessness in being exposed as the chaotic soup of cognitive functions, being what you are to reveal who you are, is worth all the panties, daydreams,  suggestions, lascivious eyes, opened nostrils, hidden messages. There is nothing quite like being devoured by a lover who touches you where you keep the secrets and the shame, and who shows you their fierce anger and riotous danger because they know you need to be judged, accounted, and redeemed. Not with blood shed, but blood drunk ceremonially, metaphorically, ritually, literally.

You find new meanings in the old things, sometimes, and it makes you wonder what they changed to make it more palatable, when you see the magic and the movement in the old meanings in the old things.

Mutual, shared, consensual, and most importantly: com-passionate. Sharing a passion with the others, sharing admissions and confessions, sharing lovers and beloved, being members of a body much larger, growing at its own chosen pace, and not buried away, squirreled away, even from one's own public self, but encircled around the bonds, cloudy and time-ridden like those of molecules, making it all from the outside look like a single thing, like water or graphite or benzene.

They fantasize about an experience, an insertion or a moan or a romp. They don't even dream about whether you're going to lie there in the sweat and fluids or clean up afterwards. Normal things you do think about.

You live out being elemental, material, transcendental, all very human, all very difficult, all very earnest, all very exposed, all very real, all very passionate.

Like the passion of watching your other parts fretting in sheets as the sun annoys her skin and her bladder signals and her hair tangles. That passion of no-passion: this what they don't fantasize about, but it is what you live through, live with, and it makes you happy that such phrases bring images of pain and struggle and grief to some, but in such a moment, it is the apt thing to write.

Because love is a pain, a struggle, a grief, at times, those best of times where you learn from them how strong the bond really is, how materially it holds together, how reinforced it becomes. Fantasy is a different kind of bond that leashes, and while I do not fault anyone for desiring the leash of an Owner, the difference between a good leash and a bad leash is the dynamism of the consent. Ownership that's strong and wise understands the need for consistency and firmness in the leash. Owning the object of a fantasy is petulant, uncaring, and fickle.

So, while I cannot change how a person looks at me or seeks to leash me to them, I know, being given over to love, that the power of being desired always depends on the little owner within, the little boss, the little master, the little seducer.

We are only seduced to the extent we are little.

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