you have a way of making sex a woman's weapon (no matter how it actually turns out for her in the piece itself) and a mirror that can't lie. what i love about your work is how honest the pain and the realistic realizations are; how nothing is done with a shrug and an apology for the way the chips fall.
what i really want to stew about/gush over is how formatting is always a hit or miss with me, but with you it's a well tuned instinct and every bit of this is exactly as it should be, perfectly expressing your sentiments and highlighting with brain pictures and punctuation as words cannot.
i want to hug you and rant about boys masquerading as men and hug you again for the awfulness that awaits a girl who feels too much and too deeply to settle for less than a gorgeous mistake waiting to happen in a sexy tight blue shirt, and the inevitable scar tissue that makes us better at what we do, what we turn to in search of solace. viscious cycle or just a way of doing things to make every drop of blood, sweat and tears more authentic to an audience positively catatonic and numb in comparison?
gorgeous girl, never stop creating, but i hope we both can find a better methodology. *hugs* thanks for sharing.
It really takes a lot of skill to make exposed claws poetic. And you, by my estimation, you have done just that.
I think sex stops becoming "sex" when it becomes a chore; when you have to sabertooth yourself from being a kitten just to make the caveman happy (regardless of how many offhand curves, lumps or fat veins his cock has.) What's even worse is when it becomes too much of a fixed thing... like when the number of thrusts becomes a fixed variable.
What I like about this piece is the construction. It comes across as a jaded "oh-not-again" piece with a strong shade of wicked wisdom.
But what's more important is how you gave the ice queen-ish persona of this piece a strong sense of bitterness that can only come from someone who has a heart. I think that it takes a sophisticated play of words and concepts to achieve that.