Succumbing to off-stage requests, she found herself quite unabashedly shagging. Shagging for the sake of it, NSA, just the way it should be. This was her time. Being free, to explore, to experiment, to not care.
Men are insipid, she thought. Wagging their cocks like dogs in heat, desire dampening every impulse for what could be the ultimate experience. Having her. But none would because no one could, not now, not ever. It was too late for that. She’d got caught in her own snare, fallen for the Prince of Darkness, in an unusual and yet predictably unrequited
The affair started off with a bang. Carefully orchestrated, she met with the muses to make it three ways. But on her way out, snagging her sweater in the latch, escaping, she went for a walk. Where are you? Away, she thought. I am away. Which was true in more ways than one, which was more than she could handle at the moment.
That people still believe in love at first sight or worse, that they don’t care at all for anything but their feelings borders on insanity. Who have we become, she thought, that we can’t even spell EMPATHY?
There is great screwing in the wild, but there is no betrayal. There are no secrets. Life just is what it is and it goes on. People complicate; they exacerbate; they prolificate. People want more than they need which makes them alone, because no back-stabber can co-exist within a tribe. There is no place for mutiny, especially inside the fragility of intimacy. She had been tricked and she was too clever for it. Unwittingly, she was pitted to syncopate this tragic motion in progressio and believe it to be her controlled composition.
What had happened is this: A woman brings her well-formed friend to her would-be lover. Casually she slips love potion to the two to make it, for two to make three to become one. And they drink deeply. There they are, in his queen-sized bed, she on top riding him, he kissing the well-formed, not able to take his eyes off her. He moving her pelvis to the rhythms he knew he could create within her. She rocking to his fullness, leans down and in disregard for any other, kisses him on the mouth.
Afterwards, she left just as she’d always done. Had she gone back, she would have sat watching the two of them sleeping naked there. The sight would have found her crying in fearful exhaustion, feeling that inevitable future, sitting alone in his chair. But she had, despite her better judgment. The memory never fully healed. The well-formed and the would-be lying there as if it were new.
More than a gypsy, she was a mystic, and mystics know. Seeing lies as moths that cover in droves the seedy mouths that speak them, not innocent play but lethal deception. In an effort perhaps said to protect her from the truth, but lying none-the-less. Eventually the well-formed was shaken from her heels yet the lover remained. The improbability of what could only be described as two wrongs making a right, would not release her from this cage of knowing.
Finding the key to fit inside her locked-up heart was an impossible task. The Prince of Darkness himself had been the closest but even he got frightened away. She was too wild to contain, even for Satan. The devout, the young ones and the older ones too, none would possess her. Not even the prince although he was the closest. She wanted nothing more than to give her heart to someone, but it had been returned to her by people who did not speak gypsy. There is no returning for gypsies. She knew that now.
The affair ended badly. The worst of ways, in silence punctuated only by question marks she was too tired to answer. Live and let live, he had said. Yes, she thought, I will do both. But not because it’s a choice so much as what I am left with. Leaving or being left, is the same thing. It had become her forte, making her cunningly proud.
She moved on, as solo gypsies do, with little baggage to make the journey light.