Smile at me, the way you did when I first met you that warm summer day.
Rub the spot right above my ass, just like you did during our first kiss.
Let your eyes go soft and lazy, as did the first night we fucked.
Or can you only do it for her now? This one, the new one. One in the string before and after me.
Pretty pearls-rose, white, pink, silver, gold, black-all arranged in a row, beads on the string of your memory.
I thought I was your black opal, your blue garnet. The red diamond that fascinated you.
But your eyes slide away from my brightness. Seeking other stones, different gems. Left cold once you take your warmth away.
a sad but apt metaphor for a serial lothario … and humbling when we realize we are just another bead, not the gem whose shine dulls their luster.
I was thinking of the recent scandals of the US cheater politicians when I wrote this. I am not sure what a woman feels who is under the spotlight and must mouth the correct spiel of forgiveness.
I would like one of the wives to punch her husband in the mouth.
But I am known to be a bitch, so excuse me.
what I can’t handle is the bovine acceptance of their cheating spouses by the wives; it tells me one of two things; she is as invested in his career and its refracted prestige as him, or she needs a serious dose of empanciation .
Ahhh, S.
If one has been socialized that not only must one comply but it is expected that one day an affair will occur, then cow-eyed acceptance is the only recourse.
Yes one does get refracted prestige, as the title is Mrs. A number of women would kill to put Mrs in front of a man’s name and introduce herself as such.
Emancipation? You rabble rouser. Listening to you, there will be a heady drop in the birth rate. *wink*