When he first came to her, he was wet. She didn’t towel him down; she let the cold send a shiver to his bones to teach him of her touch. When he dried it didn’t take much, she already had a cadre of broken men. She places the lighter in his hand and places the cigarette between her painted lips. It takes him a moment to interrupt the gestures, but he lights her cigarette aching to please her. He abandoned his young wife to dress her in white pearls, but in the aloofness of her eyes he could see what she wanted.
She wasn’t birthed into luxury, but learned early on what it meant to be a woman. When she was a daughter she was mothered by weak women, women who never partook in the wants of life but wrapped themselves in the necessities. Male mannequins fathered her. She could even see the plasticity in the man’s eyes while he wrapped her in silk. He kneeled at her feet and stared at the cleanliness of her white shoes. He awaited the sweet wine of her voice to envelope him, but after moments of no reward he looked to his mistress’s frown. She said nothing as she brought the lit cigarette to his forehead. She wasn’t surprised at all to burn through his plastic so quickly. [Jak Mussington]