Sweet Child of Mine
It’s perfect in its imperfection. Perhaps that’s why I embrace it. What was once *I* had suddenly become *we* and strangely, I welcomed it. For a man who craves uncertainty, I’ve more than I bargained for. It’s stunning actually, as if my mind was twisting unconsciously like one of those balloons fashioned into shapes for a child’s amusement. The realization continually inspires panic; how I eagerly fold, kneel, compromise to please and be pleased. This was never my way before; never, before her.
I flee at times, excusing myself to my would-be occupation, running far but never away from her to find a place void of serenity and the mild things. But I come back, always. Like the loyal pup, she has me trained. Collared, chained and disciplined by her gentle nature.
At times the emotions go deeper than I care to admit, all flame and fury with empty threats prone to passion. I fear someday the empty will fill and I’ll not be responsible for what follows. But no matter what harsh, cruel words I sling, she soothes me with her dominant calm. It still stings every time my eyes take in her beauty. She knows her power, wields it like a proficient warrior. Her strikes are invisible yet deathly accurate and she never misses.
Others stare and gawk and whisper their judgments, making it all the more sweet to capture a seductive kiss from my Lolita. I bite back my tongue as I nibble on hers, keeping from crowing to a prudish, envious world of how miraculous her lips feel banding slick along my cock or how her arse puckers so preciously as I plunge within or how her taut quim quivers with my thrusts, begging penetration so deep we might never part. Every fuck is a celebration. Only then do I feel the chaos she hides from others, that part of her that's only for me.
It will end miserably, I’m sure. She will discover another, taken in by a bright and promising, young lad. I will slink off once again into the backdrop, willingly abandoned once more, as is my usual punishment for giving a damn. Or perhaps the imbalance of my life’s work will be mended and in death, release her to a real life and not this perverted illusion I hold her hostage to.
Until then, I'll take what gifts I can, abusing our time in cherishing all that I might selfishly squander. I'm well aware of how it ends too quickly. I’ll not miss my moment, regretting my lack of having. For a flicker of an instant of a tick of time, she is mine and mine alone.
Someday when all other words fail me, I’ll surrender to her unconditional charity. Someday I’ll tell her my heart.
I have only the response to fear, that and what comes after.