I don’t come here often.
I feel just a little gauche and out-of-place. An unwilling voyeur, drawn most often to the picture. There is an aesthetic that is shared although… that isn’t unique to he and me. Join the crowd I must, there are sometimes gems in his words, tossed out like the lyrics of a rock god to his gaggle of groupies. My eyes wade through the written atmosphere of heavy perfume, heaving bosoms and lascivious looks and leave me wanting to shower after I read.
I am utterly intrigued. Not by what is revealed. Truth be told, it’s getting rather old and tawdry. The subject matter really doesn’t spark my imagination or fire my libido. Certainly, the schoolgirl simpering, painful attempts at clever and unadorned pandering to his ego make me wonder what the appeal is… but there is so much more there. I feel deeper, more intricate thought that is withheld from public view
I come but rarely leave a word or give a sign.
Not that it would ever be noticed. We are so far apart in temperament, preference, not to mention geography. In truth, his benign arrogance is irritating. His finite adjectives leave no doubt that we would probably never have a conversation. I am not, nor ever would be his “Type”. He is far too fond of the sound of his own voice, a little too worldly, a little too jaded to appeal to my fey, unfettered soul. He would be aghast at my hand-me-down finery and Blue Collar pride.
There are moments though, after reading his thoughts and perusing the slavish devotion he inspires; I wonder if just that improbable conversation might be the very spark he seems to miss. There feels an osmosis of thought there at times. A convergence of tastes, longings and desires that transcend the superficial titillation. Something more sustaining that is served up between the lines of spun sugar popular fantasy he spins…
I won’t come back again for a while.
11 September 2014