Sunday, November 18, 2012

Girls of "Dreams in Ebony"


Tara was new and red and solid. She wasn’t petite; she was substantial. She was athletic and voluptuous. She had an overbite and a sweet smile, a condemning frown, and I saw her scream in anger once and she reminded me of a howler monkey with sharp canines, upper teeth jutting out. Her face was brushed with light freckles and her skin was pale; her face was square with rounded corners and framed in a corkscrew mane of sun-dried tomatoes. Her waist was narrow and her hips full and her breasts fuller and she had full, toned thighs and average feet full of bones and ligaments that seemed too proud to walk on the humble earth. She wrapped them in designer high-heel sandals made by Gucci.
Tara preferred wearing lavender tank-tops that showed her freckly shoulder blades and freckly cleavage and her un-pierced navel. Around that, she had a smooth layer of healthy fat covering muscles and organs and ending right above a pair of six-pocket jeans made in Bangladesh that hugged her deadly sex; a uterus wrapped in denim.


Sheila was small and dense, with short cropped platinum blonde hair, fair skin and dimples. She was Scandinavian and her eyes were the color of glaciers and Norwegian day skies. Her teeth were perfect. She suckled candy every moment she got and she brushed her teeth when there wasn’t candy in her sauna-hot mouth and, as a result, her teeth were white and perfect.
At ninety pounds even, Sheila was a woman you could pick up like a child and she giggled a lot and liked silly girl things. And the mind of her man was confused when she snickered and talked in her baby voice and her mature tits jiggled and her adult uterus shed its lining once a month and she had a grown-up job and she collected dolls and she knew the capital of all fifty states by heart. Her man would see a wife one minute and a daughter the next and she kept you on your toes with this divided disposition.
Sheila, post-Goth era, dressed in flower prints, spring for spring and fall for fall and in winter she wore black with tiny white flowers that looked more like snowflakes. She covered her body in long sleeved blouses with tassels and long pants, never skirts, which terminated in leather boots with average length heels that zipped up along the ankle bone. She was Euro-feminine and I don’t know what that means.
At home she wore cream blue T-shirts or white or pink with a sunflower on the front or an infamous cat with a bow or an old Scandinavian death metal band T-shirt ‘Fetus Stench’ that was full of holes and a bleach stain near the waist for house cleaning days. At home she wore sweat pants and pastel ankle socks and her guard was down and she lay on her stomach on the living room floor, ankles crossed and reading Blender magazine with a picture of a female musical celebrity on the cover and she had a bowl full of butterscotch candies beside her.

Shelby was a queen. She preferred silk and lace over cotton and polymers. Heels were not a woman’s right but her duty and the heels molded her spine into goddess pose eternally.
She had small breasts that she never liked and so she wore bras all the time that made them seem larger. She dyed her hair black every other week and she spent hours in the bathroom. Her skin was gypsum and nearly transparent on Chemo days. Fun colors were for serfs not high born ladies. She walked like a queen and acted like she knew more than most and maybe she did.
Her nails were painted candy red and were manicured in the French fashion, but what that means I don’t know. She was obsessed with handbags, the smaller the better unless she would be out all day or if she were going to Chemo, then she carried a colossal bag that had everything a self-respecting woman would need on such days.
To the stranger, Shelby looked like the ice queen and she didn’t say much except for her eyes which spoke volumes and her lips which said ‘take me’ without breath. To everyone she was unapproachable and dangerous but I was not everyone. I was her inside man, the beast to her beauty, her guardian and champion and the high priest of her holy temple.

Alicia was a beast. Alicia was a fetus dead in the amniotic fluid of earth.  Alicia was the stain of semen on your Sunday shirt.
At times, Alicia seemed emaciated, just bones and skin and a rare bit of fat to protect her barren womb. She was a spine with cornrows and glowing red eyes in the shadows, a wraith with toasted nipples and a burning cunt. At other times, she was full and fleshy and brown sugar and pan-seared butter. And again at other times, she was the African warrior, bare feet, bare breasted, spear in hand and dressed in tribal beads.
She wore women’s clothes with ignorance and despised anything restricting like bras or girdles or stockings. She wore men’s clothes when she wanted or no clothes more often than not. She wore the bed and the couch like thrones and she walked like a panther on the prowl or hopped like a rabbit in the brush. Some days she flew like a Raven in the cold air and perched like a vulture ready to devour your virtues and swallow your morals whole.
Most of her clothes lay scattered on the floor, chairs, stuffed in hampers and she had no need for hangers or drawers. All she hung in the closet was a bright blue dress, an Alice in Wonderland costume, that she wore when the mood struck her and she guarded this dress and the matching tights and shoes with her life, growling at the mouth of the den with her litter of pups inside.

Janet was a mother who wore her age well. She had silver hair she never dyed and wrinkles around her eyes she wore like a noble woman. She had liver spots on her folded hands and on her cleavage above her sucking breasts that were trimmed with pearl colored lace bras. Her body was getting old, time was pulling her skin, her meat, her bones down into the soil beneath her feet and yet a spirit of youthfulness and pride kept her upright and that spirit was sex appeal. In the parlance of our time, she was a veritable MILF.
She was quiet and passive but I know she wanted to fight and dance and fuck. And she hated the number fifty and her expired womb was incredibly still hungry. She came back from Spain, not for love, but to be loved and she knew no other man who had touched her like Adam.
           Yet Adam had moved on and Janet was death and Adam wanted more than an ending.  Adam couldn’t see in Janet’s aging body what I saw, what I’m sure many men would see in Janet: vintage wine. I think he saw Janet’s mother, his own mother, tall panties and menopause, adult diapers and dentures. I think Adam was never found of his mother. Adam was into girls, young and alive and pert.

When Adam touched a girl, Janet got wet and jealous. When Adam kissed a girl, Janet had a little orgasm of death and her maturing thighs quivered with the life left in them. I would watch her when Adam ignored her. I would study her when Adam cared nothing for her.



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