GIRL 57
SECRET GARDEN GIRL
Two weeks before Valentines Day, she winked at me from a profile with no picture. The subtitle of the profile read, "Come into my secret garden."
Secret garden. Isn't that a code word for pussy?
The score so far on pictureless profiles was one married chick (who said she was separated) and half a dozen butt-ugly run-for-your-lives hos.
So I was unmoved.
I wrote her back. My usual, sarcastic, why no picture routine.
So then she sent me pictures.
Wow. She was gorgeous!
I made a date to meet her and lingered an hour or so on the phone the next day. I loved her voice. I loved her spirit, she was sweet and gentle and optimistic and tall and slender and blonde. My kind of girl!
She gave me cause for concern about whether she were sexual enough. There was not a hint of sexuality about her, and I couldn't seem to get into her head about it. I avoided being brashly slutty on the phone. You can sometimes spoil a good thing that way. I decided to wait and see.
The woman who arrived at the log cabin bar was much shorter than I had hoped for, and seemed old, really old. She walked stooped over. She wore a shawl over her hair. She had thick wire-framed glasses. She seemed like she could barely move. Obviously a major malfunction. I was tempted to glance at the Rolex and claim a prior appointment. She pulled the bar stool up. I asked if she wanted to remove her coat, and she shook her head no. She slowly removed the shawl, and revealed the first glimpse of something positive - gleaming blonde hair, but tightly pulled back into an old fashioned school marm's bun.
Now, I've formed a reputation for being able to identify stealth sluts. They're the best kind. These are sluts who, for all purposes, seem "normal" and pure, and present a nonsexual face to the world, but there are key signals. How do you spot a stealth slut? Same way you read minds.
A word about clairvoyance and mental telepathy. Most women have some of these abilities and they laugh at us that we don't have them. Functionally, they run rings around us because they have "the gift" and we don't. So they know when we're lyingto them, they know when the outing to the strip club included that "extra" blowjob in the back room, and they know when we exchanged a drunken kiss with that girl at the party in the coat room.
I'm here to report that this is a learned skill. You have to drop your learned male traits to do it, and after you say a prayer to the image of your father, you clear your mind completely of yourself and your own feelings. Like meditation. You construct a blank screen out of your mind. And then you look at the girl, look at her eyes, look at her hands, look at her motions, look at her body language, the rate of her respiration, the sound of her breathing.
I meant it when I said you have to put down your male flesh for a moment. We are all spirits who are both male and female. We have all lived many times, and in our past lives, we have been men and women. Except me. I'm pretty sure I lived about thirty lives as a female. I'm fairly certain that past lives for me involved being a fantastic mother. I am an outspoken critic of female behavior and motherhood because I believe that I have known those two institutions from the inside, and that in my past lives I was a great woman, both as a lover to a man and as a nurturing mother. I believe truly that this is my first life as a man. I also think in the past triumphs as a female I was critical of men, called them stupid, and said to the universe that being male was easy.
I believe that the purpose of this life is demonstrate to my spirit that it ain't as easy as it looks. Men feel pain just as profoundly as women. Men feel stress and fear and anxiety just as females do, but we are by nature and by training creatures who do not show that fear to the world. Nor do we show grief or pain. Perhaps only pleasure shows up on our faces. I had no idea what the inner world of men was like, but I can report to you now, that it is much like being female without the support system.
The male is the creature who has to endure without complaint, without being surrounded by people who will help him. When my second marriage ended, I was more alone than I could imagine. I had no one who could say, I'm really sorry that happened to you. There was no one to commiserate with. My friends were all married, and to a man they wished they were me, suddenly free of the shrew cunt-bag ball-and-chain.
The thing I did that helped me was find female friends. They then became my life support. Some of them were sexual while being friends (witness Corvette Girl). Corvette Girl would go out and buy flu medicine for me and help me get out of the bubble bath, dry me off, put pajamas on me and put me to bed. And when I woke from a feverish nap, she was still there. Show me a guy friend who will do that for you. And when I woke up finally feeling better, she didn't even make me shower, she just pulled down my pajama bottoms, stood over the bed fully dressed, and sucked my cock, swallowed my cum, licked her lips, tucked me back in and told me to go back to sleep.
No male friend on earth could compare to that. That's what we men miss in this flesh. Our guy friends are comrades. Brothers in arms. But no one wants to know how we feel about things.
The reason I say to drop off your maleness to be able to be clairvoyant is that when a male beholds a female who is a sexual target, he sees her through the eyes of his penis. He sees breasts and legs and lips and eyes. He sees her sexually. To read the mind of the female, you have to temporarily stop being male. You have to see her not as a woman with a pussy who could please you, but as a spirit.
As a spirit. Remember, the woman in front of you is as a much a soul inside a flesh costume as you are. Think of her as having existed for thousands of years. Maybe you knew her in the between-lives. Maybe you were brothers or sisters or friends in the past. Try to shut your eyes and listen to the past. Open your eyes and see her spirit separate from her body. Now look in her eyes, past her eyes, through her eyes, and listen quietly. Form no opinions. Carry no bias. Have no preconceptions. Just listen. Watch her hands. Watch her body language.
I beheld Secret Garden Girl. I saw her clenched body language, her tight bunned hair. Her buttoned up jacket. Her legs clamped together. I looked past those thick glasses to her eyes.
And beyond.
Trauma, I heard. Horrible fear. Fear of men. Men. Knives. Big knives.
I came out of my trance and just tried to talk to her. As one minute melted into the next, she got a feeling for my warmth, for the father spirit inside of me, for the maternal spirit, for my nurturing side. And she seemed to bask in its glow.
And as I watched, her jacket came off. Her glasses came off. She sat straight up. Her thighs unclamped. She arched her back as she reached for her bun with both hands and shook out her long, blonde, gleaming hair. As she did so, her tight sweater revealed two lovingly crafted breasts, and my palms tingled with a desire to touch her. As I watched, a ninety year old woman bloomed into a thirty-five year old. The hag blossomed into a bombshell. There in front of me sat the gorgeous woman of the pictures.
I was at a fork in the road. I could either proceed and ignore the previous strangeness of the appearance she projected when she arrived, or I could probe what I'd detected in the dark cellar of her mind.
Men, I thought. Knives. Big knives.
Curiosity overcame me. I took the other road, that of the reporter.
So tell me, baby, I said. What happened to you?
At first she acted confused. I had to go back into her mind and tell her it was okay to speak to me. When I came back out, she looked at me and told the tale.
Thirteen years old. Playing with her friend in the woods beyond the back fence. A blonde man with blue eyes. Early twenties. Carrying a machete. He took her and her friend deeper in the woods. By knifepoint, he made her take off her clothes.
Her memory blacked out. When her memory tape restarted, she was screaming and running naked from the woods into the back yard of her next door neighbor, who was a benevolent old man in his seventies, a hobbyist bee-keeper. He was wearing his white bee suit and hood. Secret Garden Girl ran shrieking for him and hugged him in abject fear.
When she pulled away, she saw red. Blood staining the entire front of bee-keeping neighbor's white smock.
They never caught him, she said, small misty tears forming in her eyes.
For the next hour I spoke to her as one friend to another. I walked her to her truck, a massive Ford F-250, gleaming white, bristling with power, a vehicle that said, "don't fuck with me."
I looked at her. Her coat was unbuttoned, her hair shone as it lay like a halo on her shoulders. Her face was beautiful. Her expression was deeply sad. She knew she was losing me.
I have to do this, she whispered. She drew me to her and kissed me. I hadn't been kissed like that in a long time, and I felt it all the way to my bones.
Then she got into the truck and roared off.
I stood there for a long time with my hands in my pockets. Snowflakes began to fall then, until I was surrounded in a constellation of white stars.
I walked to the truck and started the engine.
The dry spell would last for the next dozen women.
No comments:
Post a Comment