Her Taste

Her Taste
Love is the devil, the deceiver, the elusive one. A fallacy that is whispered in darkened rooms, read about in romantic novels, weaved into a story of foolish belief that only unsound minds would believe, and he did not believe in such fatuousness. And to think one could fall in love at first sight. A misleading notion, for fools to think that it was possible without knowing the mind and the spirit first. Let the romantics believe in such fatuity. Let the poets still believe in such lunacy. Let the middle aged women with BA’s in English, who read the works of Shelly, Lord Baron, and Yeats think that love will knock on their doors and sweep them off to bed, to feel the ache, and groans of love.
To him, love is a void. A cobweb, to be dusted away, or to linger, trapped in the corner of an old musty house, a nonsense of sorts, that tangles at the soul’s core, asking questions, stirring insecurities that had been stuffed away, only to walk into the silkiness of a web weaved so tight that nothing can untangle the feelings of regret.
But fucking is real, tangible, mutable, and doesn’t hurt, not until he fell in love with her, and then everything became real, and he could no longer fuck her. Mentally he was not equipped to fall in love.
He had called her after the first time, hooking up after a couple of drinks -that always makes it fun- and masking the underlying insecurities of bedding a complete stranger. He had gone to her work, watched her from his parked car. She was dressed in a black mini shirt and fishnet stockings, Goth-type boots that laced up to her knees. Her long black hair fell gracefully down her back, and her tight fitted tank top showed a bit of skin. He wanted her, but not in the way of fucking her, not after the first time. The first time, he did fuck her, hard, and afterwards, he felt bad about it. He knew he had used her, briefly, for his own needs, and yet, he felt she used him too. That’s what fucking is all about, to use each other, and then to say good night. Love opens the wound of need and want, and casts all logic to the wind, to later to be spit back, like a pebble, causing a small crack in windshield of desire, later to shatter everything that once was true and mutable.
But after the first encounter, he wanted more from her.
It was the chase.
He brought her flowers at work. He sent her cute, adoring text messages until she agreed to go out with him, again. He never before asked a girl out. He never spent money on a girl, but this one with hair like a horse’s tail, and gleaming black eyes, he took to expensive restaurants downtown. He enjoyed watching her eat. Her lips were slender, and her jaw bone was perfectly defined. She looked like Cleopatra, not the Elisabeth Taylor type, but the ones depicted in ancient text. He was intrigued by her. When she laughed, she showed off perfectly white aligned teeth. She confessed over dessert of chocolate mousse with fresh raspberries that she was a half breed, part Mexican and Navajo. In her land, she was called a coyote because she was kicked out of her house when she was thirteen, and learned to fend for herself. She was missing her forefinger on her left hand. A snub that he had not noticed before, but didn’t bother him to look at, as she took his hand in hers, and confessed that she weaves for a living. Her work hangs in popular galleries in the city. He asked her how she weaves without the use of her fore- finger. She smiled, and laughed and said,” I taught myself to use my middle-finger, but sometimes, I would try to use my stub, and tickles of my blood with intermingle with the yarn, fusing with my design, making me really a part of what I weave.”
When he finally got her home, and was kissing her softly on her neck, and fondling her breasts under her black silk shirt, he knew he had fallen in love with her. Something strange at taken over his senses. Her scent, spicy, yet pungent like dirt, enticed him, made him want to give to her. But he knew nothing about her, except that she was beautiful, and weaved works of art out of reds, rusts, blues, and greens. ”Colors of the earth,” she had whispered to him that second night.
In the dim light, her hair appears indigo, a blue-black tint to it, an illusion of sorts, because black is never truly black. Her eyes are closed as he unbuttons her blouse, exposing her breasts, cupping them in his hands, squeezing at her taut brown nipples. She does not stir. He lifts her left hand to his lips, kissing at the palm, licking at her fingertips, and then he examines the stub of her forefinger. He sucks on it, and she moans, softly, and he feels energy pulse through him. He wonders if Shelly, and Lord Baron, and even Yeats sucked at their loved ones, like nectar, like the fruit of the forbidden. He moves down her body, he wants that forbidden taste, the offering to the gods, the intoxicating liqueur that only weeps from the altar of a woman.
“In Navajo legend, Spider Woman gave the Navajo people, the gift of weaving.” She whispers, as he rests his head on her belly, moving his other hand in between her legs, the sensitive skin between the thighs. She wasn’t wearing any underpants, she is smooth, freshly shaven. He draws his breath across her belly, inducing the first wave of moisture between her legs.
And he thinks, “What is the difference between love and infatuation, from greed and need, lust and want? He is in fervor. He feels her warmth, “a fools-fire,” he thinks, as he bends forward, as if in prayer at the altar of the divine. Her sweetness is what he craves, the nectar of the gods really is the hidden juices secreted from a women’s sex.
“Spider Woman was given her wool by changing woman,” she whispers with her eyes still closed, but moves her pelvis closer to him, his lips are at her opening, he moves his tongue up and down over her, and she tastes like nothing, but yet he continues to suck at her, wanting something, wanting something to be revealed, some taste, some all empowering taste of her.
“Spider Woman has no real form,” she says moving her legs around his back, pushing him into her more. He likes the feel of her silken skin upon his lips.
“She’s not exactly a woman, and not really a spider, but she is very real to those who seek her.”
She wraps her legs around his back, and pulls at his hair, pushing his mouth closer to her opening. He licks harder, sucks harder, to make her come, to make her juices flow upon his tongue. He wants her to scream out for him. He feels the first of her spasms on his lips. She sighs, a low whisper, as he moves his tongue around her sex, he feels her lean into him, grabbing more at his hair. She comes again, bucking at his face, pushing him more into her. He laps at her, wanting more of her, wanting to feel her spirit, her inner core. He wants to be inside of her, but she pushes him away, opens her eyes, and in one swift move, pulls her skirt down, and scoots back from him. Her taste lingers at the tip of his tongue, crisp, and unforgiving, he is still on his knees.
She stares at him, not blinking; she buttons her shirt, pulls on her boots, and begins to lace them up, still staring at him. He is still on his knees, not moving, afraid what she will do, or not do. He watches her in silence, her strong aftertaste still on his tongue. She is no longer nothingness; she is the altar of his existence.
“You are a greedy,” she says, standing up.
Still on his knees, he watches her leave.
He was left with the longing, rolling in a ball upon the floor. He knows now why love is a wicked mistress, a fingertip of desire, a misuse of adjectives, love does not quench the hole in his soul, and love does not beacon forth sweet sonnets. No, love is the trickster, the fool, the temptress, the fly in the web, struggling to free himself, knowing the silky threads will kill him, slowly, softly, without remorse.