When I don’t even try

Many years ago a girl with a halo of golden curls smiled shyly as she strummed her guitar.

On a velvet evening when we could still be called young she sang this Joni Mitchell masterpiece for me in a voice that was imperfect, fragile and beautiful.  She had learned the song because she said the man featured in it could have easily been me..

She tells me, after all these years, that I haven’t changed.

 

Woman of Heart & Mind by Joni Mitchell

I am a woman of heart and mind
With time on her hands
No child to raise
You come to me like a little boy
And I give you my scorn and my praise

You think I’m like your mother
Or another lover or your sister
Or the queen of your dreams
Or just another silly girl
When love makes a fool of me

After the rush when you come back down
You’re always disappointed
Nothing seems to keep you high
Drive your bargains
Push your papers
Win your medals
Fuck your strangers
Don’t it leave you on the empty side

I’m looking for affection and respect
A little passion
And you want stimulation-nothing more
That’s what I think
But you know I’ll try to be there for you
When your spirits start to sink

All this talk about holiness now
It must be the start of the latest style
Is it all books and words
Or do you really feel it?
Do you really laugh?
Do you really care?
Do you really smile
When you smile?

You criticize and you flatter
You imitate the best
And the rest you memorize
You know the times you impress me most
Are the times when you don’t try
When you don’t even try

 

Ring

She was the golden girl of her generation.

Her intelligence was deep, her beauty flawless, her skin perfect, her body stunning, her movement full of grace. She played guitar like a gypsy and piano like an angel.  She was peaches and cream and yet she was rock and roll.  Everyone wanted her or wanted to be her.

The first time I saw her she was gliding through a party and turning every head.  When her gaze rested upon me my whole world was turned utterly inside out and upside down.

What she saw in me I still wonder to this day.  I was a writer, a revolutionary, a dreamer, a child in the body of a man.  I was penniless, lost, a rebel who had failed his cause.  I had nothing to give except hunger, and the wide and restless pursuit of something undefined.

Yet she danced for me alone in the small hours of a magical night when the air was soft and the moonlight silvered her hair.  She gave herself completely, her body wrapping itself about me, her heart beating to the rhythm of my own.  We became lost in each other and we found each other.  I gave her all my dreams and she showed me a paradise on earth.

In the morning she left with a smile that made me dizzy with love.

She still wears my ring.

.

 

Tiger Cub

The first submissive girl had hair of fire and wide eyes of startled, startling green.

Her skin was creamy and she tasted of summer when he kissed her sweet, caramel freckles.  She was young and petite and demure and took an age to bewitch.  Once under his spell she gave herself without expectation, definition or guideline, entirely from instinct and desire.  Her innate submission called out to the Dominant that had waited curious, impatient and ever insistent inside him.

When he slowly stripped her perfect, quiet limbs, spread her lovely arms and parted her delicious thighs, he realised he had found himself.  And she knew herself to be his slave.

He taught himself how to play on her pale, willing, trembling body.  He learnt how to make her heart pound with the softest of commands.  He found how to use pain and control to make her wet and hungry.  He discovered a dozen ways to take her, writhing and shuddering, to a tumultuous and noisy climax.  He acquired patience and a sexual generosity that surprised him.  He acknowledged and accepted his own sadistic streak that made her cry out in pain, fear and urgent arousal.

He called her his tiger cub because of her colouring, her freckles, her feline movements, her kittenish face and her sensuous purr.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

(originally posted in my now deleted ‘Shadows and Dancers’ blog)

Photograph stolen off the internet, provenance unknown. If it is yours please let me know so I can congratulate you, and remove it if necessary

 

My eyes

She is tall enough to reach the sky.

We met almost beyond memory, amongst the first hopes, possible dreams, and endless days.  She was long limbed and perfect with grey-blue eyes that could search souls. Her hair was a wild storm of golden curls – a sun bleached halo about her lovely head.  Her smile banished clouds. She turned heads and captivated without guile.

Time has been kind, barely thickening her body and touching her face with honest lines that define her beauty rather than diminish it. She has taken on the mantle of age with ease, elegance and grace. She still commands a second look from hopeful strangers

We are no longer lovers yet we are much closer than that.

Her children have my eyes.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano