Individuals

Life is painted with colors provided from its people, so the sidewalks surrounding me are flooded with color as I walk them, and my mind is filled to pulsating with imaginings of these individuals’ lives. And when seeing people blatantly exuding color from their clothing, and hair, to their physical gestures, my mind releases spilling […]

Life is painted with colors provided from its people, so the sidewalks surrounding me are flooded with color as I walk them, and my mind is filled to pulsating with imaginings of these individuals’ lives. And when seeing people blatantly exuding color from their clothing, and hair, to their physical gestures, my mind releases spilling its interpretations to the page.

~

My blood surges as I turn the corner seeing everyone gathering before the doors, and I have to pause to slow my breathing, and preen because I need to cast a strong glow to part the sea of those desperate to pray. Fortunately, the vintage brooch that I am wearing against my staple blacks captures the light of the many headlights flooding the street; it sparks, and the doorman nods to one of his minions, and the velvet rope drops, and I step in to his kisses one to the left cheek and one to the right. He is a lovely creature dark, and strong, but I have feared him sharing too much of himself with my fellow parishioners, so he receives more than this gentle touch never. Well, he takes my arm and escorts me up the few steps leading to the temple of my delight. And once opening the door, I am awash in a powdered haze and his words of charm; still, I am not intoxicated to relinquishing me to his desire.

My flesh is weeping from the touch of heat that he is throwing as it is overtaken from the pulsating beats reverberating from the centuries old stones. They are pummeling me while lifting me pulling me away from him and to those casting their scanning glances: there are those desiring, and those evaluating, but there were those deriding never. Always, it is a game walking into and standing within this space: you pose throwing flirtations while scowling for pleasure; however, I want to hurry to step from the broad stone entry hallway to pass beneath the massive stone arch, and be gripped from the heaving mass of sweating bodies, and the flashing lights grazing the images playing over the enormous screen suspended before the massive rosette window.

I feel myself being absorbed into the energy of people whom I have met never, and I feel every thought, and upset being taken. Within the nave of this church, I dance while looking to those wilting over the gallery’s rail above, and I wallow in the heat of them consuming me because much has happened for me here. Yes, layers of memories unfold revealing stories: I had completely forgotten about the little black card. Oh, it may seem childish to cherish a bit of plastic with such passion, but it opens the door to the inner sanctum where the avant-garde of the individual is flaunted to be embraced. Well, I have to hurry to this room to absorb its riches. Oh, I am not speaking of money and prestige because they give way to difference born of individuality.

Every moment flashing before me, I absorb as I pass through this hallowed chamber; I allow them to etch my memory while I grip, with great lucidity, a duo of platinum blondes: Severe and wrapped tightly in black with long black leather gloves enshrouding their hands. Only the white of their powdered flesh, and their cigarettes’ glow, diminishes the glow bouncing from their hair. They are a vision; I feel myself being drawn in to them from this first sighting, and they are scanning me as I am scanning them: we are as birds examining the plumage of the other nearly rotating in place while rustling our feathers. Wait as the more severe of the two has expelled smoke while throwing back his head with locked gaze upon my brooch: “Darlin’ that brooch is blindin’ me!” His tone is as severe as his appearance, but his expression is embracing me as his gloved fingertips extend reaching to lift the brooch from my breast: “I’m Trey.” Marvelous, the door is open.

His attention remains pinned to the brooch as the cigarette penetrates his lips. And when sucking in, his cheeks nearly kiss the stain of its filtered tip rendering his face skeletal. Still, his flesh, and the smoothness of his snow white bob glows as porcelain, but his words distract. I want him to silence because he is a study that I cannot study if he keeps speaking; he’s introducing the man standing next to him, but I do not hear his name because he is lacking in comparison despite his presentation being a precise copy: his body isn’t slight; his features are not frail; I acknowledge him as a caricature wearing a costume.

I’m looking to this man questioning his need to emulate authenticity as Trey recaptures my attention lifting my hand while announcing: “We should dance.” He pulls me drifting behind him from this sanctuary’s tranquility through the heaving mass filling the nave. And when we stop, he turns releasing himself from a puff of smoke: his cigarette is lifted towards heaven while his other hand drifts swirling between us, and well above his hips swirling in unison with his hand. I am stone as his liquid expressions are washing over me. He really seems to be melting into himself, and he is without any regard to the room surrounding him. I cannot move, and I cannot lift my eyes from his hips: they are as blades when pushed forward against the black sheath clinging to his dampening flesh.

He taunts me with his touch until I am moving while laughing more and more from appreciating his accent accessorizing his cutting criticisms of those surrounding us. And, yes, he is unabashed while releasing them, and he is very aware of those whom he is criticizing hearing him. Oh, he isn’t being cruel, and he is not being received as cruel because his tone is as the cutting pleasures of this environment, and his cutting expressions are the accessory to his appearance. Why, they are appearing to be as essential as nectar to hummingbirds as those surrounding us are hovering while drinking him in.

Well, the evening is beginning its close, and I have to have more of him: “Can we meet again.” “Let’s lunch tomorrow darlin’. I know a charmin’ café.” A time he sets for the next afternoon once telling me the location of the café.

~

In my bed, the images of him play through my mind. Oh, I am not attracted to him sexually, and I knew this while standing before him; rather, I am amazed with the freedom that he possesses, so I am excited to know if his freedom relents to the light of day.

~

It is late in the afternoon as I sit waiting at a table outside of the café. A glass of water, and a menu, accompanies my burgeoning anticipation when I hear his accent bouncing from the building’s stones, so I turn absorbing both he and his friend striding towards me: cloaked in black, on a hot summer’s afternoon, the sun’s light bounces from their white hair and their powdered flesh surrounding the large black sunglasses covering their eyes. Suddenly, they see me, and their greetings rise to silence the city’s voice as their stride accelerates, and I am mesmerized. And before I can recover myself, I feel my body lifting from its seat and being pulled over the black iron railing beside me in to their embraces: I hadn’t acknowledged their red lipstick the evening before; now, it’s approaching me glistening from the sun’s caress, and I can smell it, and feel it dripping to my flesh as their lips touch my cheeks.

Well, they have released me in a snap, and they are hurrying around the corner, and out of sight beyond the café’s wall. A moment passes, and they burst through the doorway opening to the sidewalk seating area as I notice everyone turning to them; however, they are without acknowledgment as they present the disregard of celebrities met with reserved fans. Again, they lift me to kisses before sitting when they push their menus aside while extracting cigarettes from their clutch purses; then, they light their tips from flames flaring from shabby plastic lighters and lean back wilting over their chairs. And once expelling their first smoky breaths, they order the single cups of coffee that they nurse for hours. We do not order foods, so we do not dine: we share lively and cutting chat only until they rise: “Darlin’,” as Trey speaks, “we have to get home to nap before preparin’ for the evenin’. Will we see you at the club?” I agree, and they lift me to kisses before drifting away leaving me with the bill.

~

I’ve passed through the entire church, and they are not here: “Are they avoiding me from something that I’ve said.” This thought is wrenching me; I have to get out; I have to walk to let this go.

~

Oh, there’s Sable; this is not her name: no, I named her this because the tone of her flesh was as rich as the tone of the sable coat falling from it on the night when we met; she was magnificent diminishing the night when rising upon the spikes of sharp stilettos; her skin gleamed with the luster of pearls before the flames rising from the barrel beside her. Wait as she’s with a man, so I will slip into the shadows to absorb her beauty.

~

I remember passing through this neighborhood west of the church: I was on my way to another temple; however, this was a warehouse beside the highway banking the river, and this became a pale prospect once seeing her as she shown more brilliantly than the blood trickling between the cobbles bedding her stance. Anyway, it was incredibly cold, hence, the barrels burning around us, as she stood there: her left hand turned back pushing back the coat before resting upon her hip above a predominantly bare length of her body. Well, my eyes darted up, and down without stopping upon the sinewy leg rising above the severity of the stiletto: over its exaggerated musculature, my eyes travelled until gripping its broad thigh; I remember pausing while looking to it as the strong hindquarter of a thoroughbred. And above it, a slender strip of panty drifted over her pelvis as a ribbon of fog. It seemed to hover beneath the rigid bones of the bustier holding two healthy breasts seemingly struggling to free themselves from restraint; they were caressed from a tracery of glittering crystals dripping over them, and her lips were as plush as pillows and as moist as cherries beneath eyes as deep as the shadows surrounding us.

I was overtaken, and incredibly nervous as I felt my feet stepping towards her, and my expressions were as impetuous as my steps: “You’re wonderful!” She smiled: “You’re a sweet little think, so what can I do for you honey?” I was stunned to silence as she smiled as a mother looking to her confused child; she stepped towards me placing her hand to my back: “Sweetie, no need to be nervous: I will be as gentle as a lamb, so what is it that you want?” I blurted: “I’m gay,” and she laughed: “Well, honey, that’s no matter here.” I began stammering: “I just wanted…. Well, I was watching you, and I wanted to tell you that you’re beautiful.” She was silent until thanking me, and I began praising each, and every, element comprising her appearance as she turned her hands back gripping her hips extending her leg while tossing her head and pushing her pelvis forward.

She was overtaken as I acknowledged her beauty contrasting the bloody brashness of the meatpacking warehouses surrounding us. And she was engaged with me fully until returning her hand to my shoulder: “We have to appear to be doing business because here comes my boss.” Abruptly, I offered to leave, but she strengthened her grip: “No, he won’t cut you because you are with me, and I make more money than any of his other whores. You just hold tight.” She released her touch stepping towards him presenting the swagger of a boss while I looked to the other girls emerging from the shadows: they were haggard in contrast to her, and they presented as cheap beside her richness.

Well, she stood talking to the trite man: tall wearing a hat with a broad brim, and a long leather duster over a cheap suit accessorized with a colored shirt and heavily patterned tie. And when he stepped away from her, he disappeared as if the night absorbed him. Well, she returned to me, and I asked: “Are you in trouble” “No, honey, he was watching that’s all, but you’d better go as we are being watched always.” I thanked her, and she invited me to stop when passing through the neighborhood again, and I did: I stopped many times; in fact, I found myself walking to see her without any thought of visiting the club because I found her authenticity refreshing, so here I am hovering as a moth reaching to touch the brilliance of her light.