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“Boys play at love for sex. Girls play at sex for love.”
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Mr Allison passed on this pearl when I was 19 years old and I’ve never been able to make peace with it.
It troubled me then, and troubles me now. To often it’s been true, and always been too cynical …
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My most quiet self speak mutters,
Please God, don’t let this be X’s deal. Sick and cruel.
It’s so, so quiet, distorted, mumbled, I almost can’t hear it.
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Still it gets quieter,
I’m such a stupid, weak, girl sometimes, so desperate.
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Quieter again,
I deserve everything I get 
no more, and stop, END.
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I never turn the volume up. I can’t. It’s too hard, too ugly, too wrong, too black, too bleak, too dead, too cold, altogether too much.
And then, my husband? Playing at love is most certainly not his caper. Sexless, he plays at absolute zero.
Lying on the couch, reading a book, he is an unkempt garden. Weeds growing out of his ears, I don’t even know how often he shaves anymore. There’s just hair all over the place; mono-brow, chest, legs, pubic, head, arm-pit, facial.
He is the oldest and youngest 30 year old alive and has completely forgotten himself.
From the ground up -
- Pink trainers
- White ankle socks
- Hairy legs
- Fluorescent, Hawaiian print, long, board shorts
- Lime green t-shirt
- 1 x navy blue backpack
- More hair
- Chubby little face
- More hair
- Everything clashes
- Everything’s crushed
- Nothing is age appropriate
When he flops out the door like that, everyday, dressed as an unloved teenager, he walks past a wardrobe that contains half a dozen Saville Row suits. Each one worth thousands of dollars, each one made for him and each one turning to moth shit.
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It’s getting quieter again,
Of course suits like that just don’t fit those that flop out doors but rather those who once ran, or might still run, marathons.
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Still quieter again,
He was so, soooo, beautiful, such a very, fine young man.
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And even quieter again,
What happened to him?
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Just a whisper,
What the hell did I do to him?
no more, and stop, END.
Black and blue, this is what happened …
X was miserable on the plane.
Arrived in China.
Checked into the hotel.
Had a shower.
Got changed.
Had a half dozen cognacs.
Left the hotel.
Went to a strip club.
Drank a couple bottles of champagne.
Picked up a Russian hooker.
The hooker scored his coke.
Bought condoms from the 7-Eleven.
Went back to the hotel.
Did some blow with the hooker.
She was on top of him.
He passes out cold, mid-f*ck.
Woke up in the morning, alone.
His credit card was gone.
He was cold.
He was frightened.
He was sick.
But still owned a Rolex.
I got to hear this directly from X. It was just me, him, my husband, two other random business associates and a cocktail waitress. The boys all laughed, thought it was a funny story. The waitress pretended not to hear, right before she evaporated.
Grace under fire – I held it together, just. Nailed my Caprioska in one, NEAT, and excused myself from the table. Then I turned and strode my Max Mara clad, stiletto wearing arse out the door and onto the street.
No crying. I just smoked and walked. Long steps and breathe, “just breathe”. I walked up the street, took my time, looking at my own reflection in the shop windows. Without recognising any details I wandered for more than a bit.
So what do you when someone you love f*cks up so categorically?
I told you so? NO
Perhaps some sanctimony? NO
Abandonment? NO
Praise God he woke up? YES
Be thankful he bought condoms? YES
Wonder why your husband thought it was so funny? YES
Re-enter that bar but hang back until suitably numb? YES.
Perhaps a shot of Sambuca? YES
Hold yourself above it? YES
Another shot? YES
Be uncomfortably open to the possibility that although it was a distasteful development, it may well have been for the best? X might have been laughing about it but surely his fingers were burnt, and to a cinder at that. YES
Just one more shot? YES
Leaning against the bar, watching the boys from a distance, laughing, it occurs to me that perhaps they may just be too stupid to ever recognise that the only reason they continue to move forward in this life is down the grace or mercies of much, much, better women.
I mean even a Russian hooker in China managed the small mercy of leaving a perfectly nice Rolex with obvious sentimental value on the bedside table. That detail, which I doubt was an accident, escaped the lot of them.
F*cking idiots?
YES.
Morgan Layne …
This artwork was based on a pornographic images borrowed from Definebabe, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
Unknown Nymph …
This artwork was based on a pornographic images borrowed from Bad Glamour Models, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
Aletta Ocean …
This artwork was based on a pornographic images borrowed from pornstar.com, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
Miss Sasha Grey … Turns out I’m quite fond of her …
This artwork was based on a pornographic image borrowed from sashagrey.ws, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
Miss Grey …
This artwork was based on a series of pornographic images borrowed from sashagrey.ws, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
The Talias …
This artwork was based on a series of pornographic images borrowed from definebabe, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.
This artwork was based on a pornographic image borrowed from Sapphic Erotic, and was touched up by Charlotte Wildsmith for CWildsmith.com.