Black Cat Journal

parental advisory notice: if you are my parental unit of the male persuasion or the female persuasion (including of-step) please note that this post contains strong adult language and situations. reader discretion is strongly advised. unless you enjoy shoving rusty nails in your eyes please stop reading.

so. today. i’m a bit of a corporate whore. not that there’s anything wrong with that. as per a past post i’ve given up the fight. the good fight. the embittered battle over which personality gets to control the fashion. tom boy lost. but, really, she has control over the personality. so it’s a fair trade. nothing says sexy like a sailors mouth and 12 year old boy humor wrapped up in pinstripes, pushup bras, and three inch heels. oh yea. smokin’.

i hate some of the looks i get as i mince my way down the financial district. but then, you catch the eye of a cutie in a suit, and he smiles, and it’s a damn charming smile now isn’t it. and you lower your eyes but bring them up just in time to catch him looking in the moist crevice of your decolletage. you both blush, you with your knowing smile that says i could rock your world, and he with his that says i would rock your world right back. and you keep on your separate paths most likely never to rock eithers world ever, but in the one instant you were both naked and laughing for all of the business attired buildings to see.

and then there are genuinely kind men who would love to win your heart. lead you into a room, hand placed hotly and firmly and protectively upon the small of your back. thumb just barely caressing the delicious rise of your hard to contain curvaceous body. they want to protect you. save you. be saved by you. and they are so sweet and yet. yet you worry. that eventually they will get bored of you. they will find some flaw. they will project their fears onto the expanse of your naked flesh and call it out as yours. they will start to expect and no longer be surprised. or worse, they will stop paying attention. they will ignore you in your pigtails and white kneehigh socks as you stand in the doorway in plaid skirt and a white sweater. as you bend to pick up a fallen item to show your pert derriere in the modest white panties with silk bow on the front, and you turn to show of this asset of yours, this thong clad ass, and he’s not looking. because all he sees is his worry painted over your body.

and there are the bad boys. the flings. the boys you don’t expect to call you the next day. the ones you are frightened of and yet attracted to at the same time. the boys who instead of collecting football trophies or baseball cards, collect the hearts and virginity and hope of countless women and girls. line them up on the mantleplace. let them collect dust. kick them under the sofa. let them dry and shrivel, to be swept up at some later date. the boys who use words as women use makeup. to flatter. to accentuate. to boost confidence. to disarm. distract. detract. to eventually destroy. they are gods in bed. of course they are. they are the james deans. the elvis’. the playboys. the addicts. they love us. they just don’t love us. but that’s usually fine. because we don’t love them. we just want to go for a ride on their motorcycle.

and all of this because of a skirt, a red shirt, and a black jacket that cinches and pinches and slims and lifts and puts on display the breasts that belong to me and only me. and i don’t mind. a friend asked if i ever told that nice boy that i eat men like him for breakfast. i laughed. i wanted to reply that i could eat him for breakfast. but given the fact that he’s in a relationship, and i work with him, oh wait, that really doesn’t matter does it. because all i want is to get laid. yea, it’s wrong. and call me what you will. but i really don’t have any rules anymore. it’s all fair game to me. i’ve been fucked over so many ways this week that. i. don’t. care.

i may care later. but for now i just want to be pushed against a wall and ravaged. to feel something other than the hard press of my pain against my heart. to feel someone’s hands across my back, my legs, my arms, my chest. to feel more than tears slide down my cheeks. to hear someone tell my starlight bathed body that i am beautiful. to feel the reassuring heat of testosterone against my back. to feel fingers trickle fire along my coffee colored nerves. to watch as release grasps our breath and holds it hostage.

i don’t want love. i’m pissed off at love. i need to get laid. i want to fuck. i want someone to tell me the things i’m embarrassed to tell them to say. i want them to do the things i’m afraid to ask them to do because they may be intimidated.

damnit. maybe i’ll go out tonight. maybe this corporate whore will get a special project tonight. perhaps there is a business man who needs a secretary. i can play that part. i can play that part all night long. you just have to ask me politely.