Quote Day- Patti Smith

“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads us to each other. We become ourselves.”- Patti Smith. The singer-songwriter turns 68 today. She wrote a beautiful memoir, Just Kids, about her deep friendship with artist Robert Mapplethorpe. The book won the National Book Award in 2010 (Goodreads.com)

http://www.last.fm/music/Patti+Smith

http://nymag.com/arts/music/profiles/63035/

Recline, please

RMPfacetouch

She kicks off her shoes and settles back. Her left hand’s fingers interlace with the right and together, both rest upon wrists,  upon hipbones draped in the grey cotton wool of her dress.

He places his hand over hers and his ear to her cheek,  finds the curve of her breast and the underlying beat sounding out rich and deep in her chest.

He lets a deep sigh escape his lips before he can make the effort to hold it back.

It hangs over them for the fraction of time it takes her to uncross and recross her ankles.

He looks down over the outline of her thighs, sees the bony bend of her knees, the straight of her shins, the flesh of her muscled calves.  He has viewed her crimson toe polish from similar vantage points… sometimes while her feet are resting on the wall of the tub, sometimes as they grip the sheets of the bed while he feeds her his manhood while standing behind her beautiful head-  her mouth open to take him, no concern over how she appears from above.

In automatic and care-taking fashion, she gathers in a sigh and without a thought she unlocks the casual hand stance she has taken and reaches up to smooth the hair off his forehead,  runs her fingers through his hair, traces her finger down the bridge of his nose and lets her palm massage the hollow of his check before allowing the slide down over his jaw, then over his chin.

He looks up at her and shifts position so he is looking into her eyes. With elbows on each side of her body he lifts his weight from her form, uses his hands to frame her face, and cradles her head.  Lifting her lips to his and breathing into his nostrils her exhaled breath,  he gives it right back to her, somehow transformed into the fragrant depths of a summer-morning’s kiss.

.

He tasted like the dew of morning, his lips wet with a sweetness reminiscent of fresh clover and coffee.

.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

My Pretties

RMPcrypt

He is an admirer of the beautiful and artfully lays claim to what most men cannot. He adores the line of a long neck, the symmetry of a face,  the depth of dark eyes,  the valleys and curves of his woman.

He knows this.

He’s quite discerning, yes.

And simply put, his prey is willing and begging for his attentions.

He chooses from the offerings based on a myriad of his desires at the time.  With a wave of his hand they fall.  Each kneel before him is a beginning.  And each touch, and stroke,  and promise an experience each has agreed to explore.

His gravely tone instructs and adjusts them. His breath comes deep from his chest.  His roar revving up, while his mind and core is swelling. And his women dance and twirl and attend him.

The beauties give more than each meant,  most generous, so sweetly, with vulnerable and honest intent.

He places each one on a pedestal of his love, for a time.  Until he remembers his elevated needs can never be met by just one.  With regret he mercifully turns their hearts and minds to stone. They forget. They forgive.

He decorates his garden with each new failure and walks amongst them in the early dawn when the light is less harsh.

All around him,  his lovely frozen art teases his memory and hardens his resolve to do better. Next time he will exhibit more control.  Timeless vows, always broken; as is his promise to stop sating his appetite with the devouring  of the compliant darlings of his liking.

In the moonlight, his goddesses arch pretty spines, set stubborn jaws and strike romantic poses. Each reaches for the shine of starlight; one with delicate wrist bends in beckoning; the next,  an ageless lover,  calls forth a simple man.

Ivory skin, the curve of flank,  her ornamental thighs and breasts no longer yield to his enraged grimace.

Exposed to nature’s whims, the seasons of his choices burden the shoulders of his women.

Smothered by jealousy, her feminine ways are extinguished and her giving nature flies headlong into the concrete walls of his lair,  just like all the pretty faces have gone before, each mirroring fears he tried to assuage through the hunt and the entanglement, and the owning of the prize.

Dark or dawn, it is revealed; he is forever unable to pleasure a captured songstress tethered with iron shackles to his heart within love’s fortress.

Standing testament to his truth,  his muses all stand- now silent-  in homage to his prowess.

And he walks, again,  alone.

.

 Don’t dress him up as a common gentleman. Separate the gentle from the man. 

.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

Tell me

RMPchaisecouch

Sometimes the further she went to find herself, the more she wished she had remained lost.  Despite appearances, she was not on some damn journey.  She knew exactly where she was going and why.

She traveled alone- always- every bit of searching outside of her head became fodder for those who wished to label her.

She learned-she did not burden her friends- instead, she confided in strangers, shared her story and via their clicks and responses and comments, she eased her conscience, gave credence to her reason.

As she wrote,  every bit of testing of the waters became a litmus for where her mind was going,  or had been.

Words on a page became  a radar detector, identifying the gutter in between her ears,  proof she steeped herself in venial sins.

Hell, her eyes wandered to belts and the gait of his walk even during Sunday morning services. Morality became a false mirror for an honest need.

And as she wrote, every bit of half-truth and exaggerated emotion carried her truth.

Yes, all of it was hidden casually behind candor and words dripping with touch.   Her mind connected with her keyboard like lovers and 900 thread-count the linens on hotel beds facing the sea-  the ones she didn’t have to think about washing the next day,  but stained in places where her back arched as she lifted her hips by her heels.

She notices.

The desk clerk always smiles when he hands over his credit card,  stands staring at his card a little too long.

And despite shoulders squared, hair slicked back, his lover standing next to him, her man of the moment feigns indifference to naive judgement.

Speaking her truth means facing the risk of misinterpretation. Or worse, the fear of true understanding by another. Her distractions serve as proof she has fallen into the deep crevasse of his heart but she denies it, always crediting lust.

In her defense, she has pulled herself way from the edge of dishonour.   With white knuckles placed no more trust in this path of give and take,  she swears she will not let herself fall into such exquisite languor ever again.

But she does.

Finger wagging aside, she takes the leap beyond the limits of her mind and spills all of it in fits and tantrums,  dressed and undressed in fine French lingerie,  the unmistakable mark of her perfume layers his memories.

.

She lived. She should have never loved.

.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

 

Have None

 RMPwisewoman

There are no regrets, so they say.

After all, the frail yet smiling elderly admit to none.

Have you heard confessions to the contrary?

No?

Then, I will be the mouthy woman -the one you hear shouting them out-

my wrinkled fist waving this crumpled but still burning list of longings!

This body-  she’ll be bony and frail-

But honest.

My limbs will be numb- and still hurting from exhausted love making-

And fearful of facing life’s failings,

if never ballsy enough to stake out and escape

from living

these proscribed and limiting lies.

.

Oh, yes, there are regrets. No one will admit it.  But, Goddamn it, they exist.

.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

Come Home Early Hon

RMPluxuryitalianoffice

Mmmm.

(listens)

Good to hear from you during your busy day, hon.

(listens)

You are such a turn on. Your lovely gift arrived by mail this afternoon.

(giggles)

Yes, I’m wearing them. Thank you. You know me so well; stockings are my weakness!

(joyful smile. listens more)

So, tell me how today’s deals went?  I know you had a full schedule. Yes, I know you were on a conference call all morning with the Chicago client.

(leans in, rests her chin on the back of her hand, wrist bent, elbow on the table, listening, suddenly sits up very straight)

You closed it? He signed, then? Yes! Smart move on his part, yes.  They are going to be so happy.  Fantastic deal for them. I had no doubts you’d lock it in.

(listens. raises one eyebrow)

Mmmhmmm. Yes, you’ve met end-of- quarter projections, again.   Excellent. Proud of you.

(inserts stern but playful tone into her voice)

Now, tell me you can’t get the same results while I’m sucking you off and letting you get an eyeful of my pretty ass.

.

Work didn’t need to come first. But it did.  

.

#for Reticent Mental Property

Walk Ins Welcomed

RMPhiscloset

She saw his hand in the texture of her wardrobe,

his tasteful preference wanted her in silk and satin

and in the night time, black lace.

The drape of each piece he had delivered,

boxed in tissue,

and red ribbon;

each lent life to her days.

She dressed for the performance in the colours of his palette,

her bits tied up, neatly,

in ribbon beneath.

The collection of his choices she willingly attended;

her closet- a playground-  spun in the colors

of sultry cuts

and timeless

grace.

.

She knew one thing for sure when it came to the dressing: always trust in a loving man’s eye.

#for Reticent Mental Property.