Dagger's regret

You could almost taste the self loathing in her as she applied the sheath. Shaven pubis designed to impress rather than express wild theatricality. On insertion she clenched like the teeth of a rabid hound, pulling at my cock like an adolescent hand; nervous, desiring approval. This was sex like a murder scene and it depressed me more than any unspoken word in our three week relationship.

It was alarming how quickly the cracks began to show. There was an incredible connection , seductive in the extreme which at finger tip touch felt like the romance you'd make up in the depths of loneliness - embracing, exhilirating, complete. Our bodies too felt like they'd known each other for centuries or more, rolling, swimming, arching and caressing like a fluid song without need of lyrics or crib sheets or even communication to show us where to go. It was poetry, the kind poets never speak.

Until penetration, which was by contrast horrific. The lady's head would rock back remembering lines from a school play, or maybe sex ed class or teen manual. As if recalling was easier than direct confrontation. Relaxation and release more harrowing than the fight it would let loose in her body. Her eyes weren't closed but rocked back almost showing the whites, memories self-recalling to avoid scrutiny. Clockwork rotations of her hips lost of the sublime rhythm that characterised them moments before. Characterised us for fuck's sake, but now us polarised to them - careening now far apart albeit locked in a clench akin to a strangle and me horrified at what torture had converted this girl's mind to translate to physical agony.

Men: we have an easy time, we fuck and play, bury our trauma in antagonisation of others. In playgrounds and sport cars we mete our revenge. But the lady she takes it in and buries, not permitted to even moan or be afraid, part of her lot, Eve's curse, be glad-wrapped, anaesthetised, turned from the eyes of prying man.

How did we learn to hate her so?

Polluted mother's expression chastised, unable to to vent and so here lays another of her precious dames, beyond attempts of tender caresses to reassure, make good what this body's been through. As if I could - hate myself for even trying as the lady drifts further into a somnolent, verging on ecstatic purgatory. Making myself responsble to bear the pain better, that my faults easier than the twisted molester who made her like this - whether lover, father or media hypocrisy he's made these eyes unreachable, robbed us of our dream.

Could I leave her here? Or reach ever further back behind the whites, bring some sense back into sight, see the lady again not the corpse that she's become.

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The Ever Rolling Snowball