via Daily Prompt: Flattery
Oh, you Devil!
A vision of youth. Tall, tanned skin, long limbs, blonde ponytail trailing behind as she flies down the street, a prize filly, a first class race horse at a canter, smiling at her own loveliness, totally alive and in the moment running towards her glittering future. Please, please, please, look at her. Stare at her. She IS beautiful. She deserves to be gazed upon. She looks clean and educated and well mannered. The kind of girl you want your sons to marry or your daughter to grow up to be. Please notice her at least? Acknowledge her. Take a sly photo of HER. Devour HER with your eyes if you must if that is all you can do and you can’t master the art of the brief glance, the subtle appreciation versus obsessive memorising of every detail for later masturbative purposes. For you see, I was once that girl. At least she looks like me, she’s my type. That’s who I used to be at her age. But no. The ones he likes aren’t even attractive, not in the traditional sense of the word. Certainly not classic beauties. Mainly just big tits. At lunch as we sit down, a couple arrive and take our table in the sun, not yet aware of the wasp problem which made us move into the shade just a few minutes earlier. The girl wears cheap clothes and fake jewellery and big sunglasses. Too bright lipstick, too thick foundation and too dark and heavy eye make up for the day time. No class. Her breasts actually look oiled and glisten, no, they sweat in the sunshine, pushed together and spilling out over the top of a too tight vest and a bra that must’ve fitted once upon a time but now folds down on the centre of the cups enough to show a dark half circle of nipple through the tight white top. And he just can’t help himself. Sitting in the shade maybe he thinks she won’t see. But she doesn’t mind. She wants him to look. And either he thinks I won’t see or he doesn’t care or maybe he just can’t control himself. As I approach the table with our 2 youngest children, he is shuffling in his newfound seat, facing her of course to get the best view possible. His lusty look lingers for the whole 5 or 8 slow painful seconds as we walk towards him. He doesn’t even realise that he is smiling. He even licked his lips. His eyes have grown bigger and then a sudden jump when I break his gaze and he catches me looking at him looking at her.
I sit down. “Is there something the matter with you?” he asks irritably after a few minutes. He knows that he has been caught out but it’s somehow my fault. His parents are here with us but that makes no difference. It will be twisted to look like I am in the wrong and there is something wrong with me. “Take off your glasses. I can’t see your eyes. I can’t see if you’re staring at me” he says, but he feels it, because the guilty always do. They know what they’re doing is wrong. Some of them just can’t stop themselves. It’s an addiction, porn. And now it’s so readily available the boundaries are blurred and any and all women are objects and ogling is ok, even in front of your partner, your parents, your kids. It’s a new demonic attachment.
He says “The older you get the worse you become”.
I think “The older you get the worse you become”. It has truth on both sides. When I was younger he did pay more attention to me, but he still stared at the others, those types of girls, the slutty dirty deadly ones.
The older he gets the more wrong it seems for him to be staring at girls half his age. Sitting with family is no obstacle. Why can’t he be like those men in the supermarket, shopping with their wives? “I’m bored” written all over their faces. “I need sex”. I catch their eye just for a moment and I know exactly what they want to do. They don’t turn their heads. They are discreet. They can glance and even covet but not give themselves away. Don’t make it too obvious. They spare their wives the suffering. They give the elusive exclusivity I need and have never had because my men have always been flatterers.