If I were to start by saying: mea culpa or I'm sorry, it would be better to start this tale by saying: all men are dogs; if I could, I would -- but alas I cannot. I am sure there is someone who would add, or even interpolate this: Never! Start stories with words of apology.
Told that many years ago, this saying is also needed: I have learned that, I know that was rewarded with it put on a wet T-shirt. So please do not envision this tale as having that as an opening, -- no, because (1) of my position in the community, and (2) telling anyone about my dilemmas or situations cannot begin that way in tell.
However, let me continue, so being brutally honest I also consider myself far from being a masher (even today, it is hard to think I thought the things of this tale). Yet, this tale addresses my doing something unbecoming; so maybe commencing with the likes of 'mea culpa' is appropriate. Insomuch, as I was told that, rather, since I was told that telling things to strangers is as good as going to a specialist in psychology, here goes nothing.
I: The Devil is in the Details
This curious situation started and ended when a simple enough conversation became delicate. You see, this friend and I had this platonic relationship. And in past years, though disputes of ours or our discussions were usually heated and passionate, in no way had anything about me stepped over the line; -- no, not one thought, not one feeling had before been inappropriate. Yet that time that time. I think I could not help myself. Here it is years later and still, I cannot help but remember how she was that time. She was vogue, sharply dressed in her novel innocent self of an "I am so extraordinarily fashioned" presence, it bested -- no, it beasted(?) me. My old bte noire self returned in that persona of a closeted zealot fanatic.
And what good is fashion, its apparent loveliness, those things of a 'bod' set in whaleback style, if its taken-aback swayback splendor cannot be appreciated for whatever it is beauty for beauty's sake. And damn her chic swayed-back self!
And so what, just because a friend has body-beautiful, and just because of that: agony dwells within my sense of passion, blood boils a pulse through my veins and my arteries; and just because of that I ought to be embarrassed, -- no, I don't think so.
Now imagine me in navy suit and maroon tie. Picture me taking issue with a cold sweat. For the rest of my life I have to think this within regularly daily intervals: If only we can remain friends just one more day. Add to its credit my being Shepard, she being Sheep and the mix of some unintended private thoughts which cannot under any circumstances be gotten rid of, on account of me being a man; -- damn if I don't still wonder if I can get over her.
Let me tell you my side of the circumstances and then we will get to the conversation. Firstly, we generally discuss affections borne and buried in revelation of Christian cynicism. May I add? -- without an account for taste: This (my) quintessence borne in the bosom of her blossom, the region of cultivated blot, it nurtured itself in dark dank crevices my frigid mind. Yet this as wrongdoing will insinuate itself into the least comfort of a few, through some least primrose jagged thorny path and rows and rows of solitary gelded black roses; its design is not too unlike, one Timothy six. This idea of least consecrated ground is liable, but only indirectly relevant to her words. Any other deep moment of pleasurable epiphany between us circumferences, items, dragoons a panning tongue -- by some most golden mean &c. of reverence.
Secondly, that thing least spoken -- more to point, its acquiescence is what I normally discourage: such an anxiety of heeded relevance to 'ir' prefix, if 'ir' is attached to prior italicized word. How many times in a day, do any of us deter ourselves ignoring discouraging fatal transgressions, chiefly as quintessential growth? Dare I think of my platonic, more stoic, friend, in that moment as the one revealing to me herself during our talks -- O' how she kept herself in check, while my frustrated maiden self became naked-arse-fiery -- my essence remained bizarre. My vizard psyche's exposed shortcomings came forth as "Seven deadly sins." That day whipped me! -- so help me, me; it whipped my arse I tell you.
Although this day's discussion and my thought-responses appeared somewhat unusual, dearies, the culprit was more than just, our age difference. She looked twenty-one to me, that day; but she was much more the adolescent. This negative contortion especially, -- more rather my harmonious-toned mood, had its branch-stem stretched from studying great Poetical minds. In a particular group (I studied) there were about twenty -- all during Shakespearian times, and from him down in stature. Of this sinew, its poetical famine, at times I see myself, a hopeless romantic. Reproofing myself, I have found this thus far, what I have told you -- as strangers, a fair accuracy.
In retrospect, also, may I say I have grown out from connoted motherly proportions? Chiefly, I am of the Oxford Tracts (the main thing, pertinent to a child) and those items biblically referenced (Isaiah 11:6 and Corinthians 13:11). Yet and too, age has taken its toll on me. Age has sojourned me to a voluble tacit twist, let us say wisdom begets gist. She, of a more serene navet than nubile sense, and yet unchanged, has upheld less unwonted reasons of youth. Which gave me -- slightly knocked senseless by agedness -- because of our frequency of intercourse, me certainly -- a difficult row to hoe. More rather, when I had figured her subject matter; naturally, as an immediate effort put to save our friendship from disaster I just shut the hell up. In fact, I would have rather been sitting in a box listening to "Father, forgive me for I have sinned;" but it -- the words, (no) the situation, itself -- is a useless Baptist enterprise.
This conversation, of ours, engaged a route of serialized questions. Her part came with the recessed mental retorts of a fully glowed woman's inner mind. Her blandness took me to a place, my breast of breath -- hardly heaving, of convoluted answers; -- whatever I spoke in response came from the least spiritual part of me. I mean, she spoke on one thing and my thoughts raised classically a most discombobulating tryst. However, 'the devil is in the details' of what is diametrically opposed.
II: The Intercourse
Conversation, usually, engaged becomes commerce befitting those involved. Yet our dialogue then, -- not so strange in itself, yet it barely met the proper criteria of words set to be said unpardonably between adult and teen. Nonetheless, she just lit into whatever she wanted to talk about -- I let her, I could not help myself; I wished I could (during), however her appearance or sway helped verily in sidetracking me; but then too there was her single-minded abruptness.
Now to utter she is pretty -- means more than adolescence ought. She has a very cute mid-autumn leave tint, -- colored skin with freckles, representing old blood, maybe magick, or either some god awesome thing having to do with black Irish mythology -- maybe, as I understand it. Therefore, she nicely built, had abruptness, which tasked me. And she, being poignant, communicated her most obvious interest.
(Yet on that particular day, her weighted inducement dissipated the somberness of my impressions until now, here where I insinuate myself into resting. However, this was after that: I, -- lain in that weighted abeyance, that paroxysm of rapture, its recurring revenants, -- ululated that hyena cri de coeur: O' that wistful light of all following days. Sadly, razor sharp words within me stayed [faith tried to take up the fight, cudgel through, but transitory terror raped my mind anyway] and sliced my soul as icy gash cold through skin to bone; I thought: Damn! You look good!)
Our conversation began: "You ever wondered", she started in, "what they call a person who makes the sick, well". Oh yes and by the way, that was when I first found out she definitely could be a snazzy dresser, her hair was excellently groomed; to have a shining long thick black hirsute mane -- still at her age, to me this is awesome?
"In today's world wouldn't we say some kind of doctor?" I said.
"Hmm. How about one who can take a little food or liquid and do things like, making one more and the other, change its taste of beverage all together." Hear me; imaging incredibly bizarre positions for my fainant self. I awoke incensed, enswathed; what wraft of the least waving quake of oceanic damask had enslaved me; was it come by zephyr of wine and roses? While watching, rill feelings lain in repose, the soul of her swayback self stretch and reach for the too high cupboard of the profound, skulked some ferocity. Points of her protruding bod's aroma could also task a very nice smelling perfume and together they make a silent angel breathe a fragrant bouquet of quintessential radiance.
"Perhaps a farmer or chemist, wouldn't you think?" I said as she gave me a bright scarlet succulent hint of witchery. I'm damned if I can't, but I'll have to rob the sun of its rubric method to orb, just to encapsulate, -- no, 'To Can!' that angelic rubescence of hers, I wanted to separate that from amber, as one would yoke the white of an egg, -- her smile.
"Yea maybe; but how about someone appearing to defy gravity or nature, by embaying a spoiled sea, stand as its un-calmed water mollify itself; -- isn't mollifying the sea like controlling rain in the sky?" She has the swayback, whaleback (Bettle: 'Get back Loretta!')stature. It more than rather had jiggled out from corners the saliva of my loving-lipped protrusions. While she talked, her words are enough to make a grown man's dry face redraw his geographic mountainous routes. But I am not an old man, though better it would be if I were: I'd have whelps on my face; whelps worn enough to create a road map; a map that would streak additional tiers atop of old salty tracks of tier tearing tears. Tears put there by others -- whether other women or sad situations needing tears.
"Yea, I would think illusionist, magician or someone of that sort". Damn wondrous perfume, indeed!
"U-huh; and someone who can speak to the dead, or tell the future, in some shape, or form; I guess you would consider them a fortuneteller of some kind.
"Yea, u-huh; why sure, would not you?" Every time every time I've looked at her today, I look at her and there seems more to her persona than what my eyes could ever aesthetically expand to detail ergonomically for my mind to ever stand -- as if a car is better made some days than on others, she had to have been a Wednesday baby.
"I'm guessing there isn't much to going into a place that is considered one of worship and tearing it apart."
Man, if I could, right now, I would too; "Huh; -- oh, yea, one like that is nothing more than a devil worshipper; I would suppose don't you?" Was my query "Or some evil doer like that, don't you think?" Dearies, if she only knew evil as I knew or wanted to know evil.
"Casting demons, calling out names, wouldn't that be considered witchery from days of Salem; rather than any time before?" Perfect heart shapes just below the belt line and on the upper torso of her ever-loving body. Such is the charisma of her "all-encompassing which witch direction" charm. It redraws the enchantment of vain and artery etchings pulsing to the heart of my soul. All because exactly where they should be, is what sinewy of force can't help but becast its disuse; my rapture of turbulent protuberance top to bottom can't be handle by this here throttle; -- so rerouting, it must be necessary.
"Most definitely;" I said, "and where are you going with this?" of course my query was a bit late in requesting, but better late than never, -- well in most things anyway.
"Well, let me ask you one more question, Madam-Reverend. How about someone that can bring the dead back to the living after many days of burial, and this is to include himself, and shall we say that all those things of the other queries too, -- them, he has done."
"Huh?"
"What about bringing back what has long been dead! Is not the answer to that and these others of being historically in human bondage and beholden to nature's will, both biblically and traditionally... seen as being of a more spiritual nature when comes the fire of God into ones soul, rather than water and brimstone preaching? Now lets be honest what are your thoughts?
O' temptation of man: As God witnessed then, letting Lazarus, Jesus best friend rise one day; let Him so witness in this, and whatever comes here after now, and if He be not, -- Let the great god Thoth speak his "As above, so below." I had hoped that then forethought forgiveness has something to do with forgiveness now, or is that which comes with grace. However hope came in that moment of hidden closeted prayer, what I had crossed, while in that River of Jordan, zipped was my virtual voluble scarlet-lipped, unbit, unbid, un-bloodied mouth. In and during these ejaculations of funereal terror, I had and do hope that I would have known what to do. That is, if I had had a hornbeam staff and had been on some knoll of grass. Even Moses knew to lay his down and kill that snake. I still ponder whether I would be so lucky -- if luck begets virtue. Would I have? Yes... and surely one of us would be knelling death's bell. I said or thought about nothing more from that day to this.