The Kid with the Honey and the Bear
"She is there again. "
Crimson didn't say anything.
"The kid with the jar of honey. "
Still Crimson remained silent. I looked over at her ironing her jeans wearing only her wifebeater. My eyes lingered on the curves of her ass. She regularly does housework in various stages of undress. Simply, if she notices something needs doing she likes to get it done, and if she happens to be getting out the shower when she thinks of it then she will do it naked. Then, if she happens to be vacuuming naked, she might decide to sit down and watch the end of the TV show she fell asleep in the night before. Still naked, as long as she isn't cold she often doesn't trouble herself with clothes at all on a weekend day at home.
I am not like that.
I very seldom do things without sitting down and making a plan. Sure, I might pick up the towel that has fallen off the rail but if I notice my empty beer can has fallen to the floor I will make a note to sweep the floor when I have finished writing.
I looked over at Crimson again. She finished iron her jeans, carefully hung it over the back of a chair and bent to pick a shirt out of the pile on the floor. For a moment while she was bent I glimpse her apple pie; the rounded outer lips with the longer hairs she doesn't like to trip forming the long-barrow mounds at which I long to worship; the little jagged protrusion of her inner lips glistening with a drop of moisture. She stands and my eyes flick back to my writing. I often watch her in the hope of catching a momentary, accidental pornographic pose. Picking things up is always good, either with the possibility of her large breasts jiggling and possibly bumping into something, or a momentary vision of her vulva, or both. The stairs are good too. Any of those poses strung together by formulaic repetition by unscrupulous men with no talent other than taking advantage of troubled women and girls before filming in gynaecological detail the incessant forcing of larger and larger penises and other objects into any orifice available.
Crimson looked over at me as I sighed and noticing her movement behind the computer screen I looked out the window again.
"You have to admit it strange, that kid with the massive jar of honey standing beneath the lamp. Maybe even more than one night. Who know, I didn't write yesterday. Actually, I did, but I might not have looked out the window."
Crimson smiled at me indulgently, like it were perfectly normal. I stared out the window for another minute in silence, my flash of anger gradually dissipating. I was not angry at Crimson's patronising smile. I was angry at the obsessions inside my head. It is true what I wrote, that is what I feel about pornography: it is talentless and abusive and relies on men like me who come back again and again to fixate on the latest order of gynaecological poses interlaced with groans, swear words and the occasional smile. I am frightened to write the truth, as I think about the words I can feel the anxiety creeping up my spine as if it were a real monster wanting to look over my shoulder at the computer screen, a real monster who would laugh at my stupidity, calling all his friends to come laugh at my stupidity. The truth is the porn has insinuated its false promise completely and universally in my life. It is not just when I secretly watch Crimson, for it is secretly that I watch her, whenever she looks my way I pretend not to by lusting after her. My voyeurism is not for mutual benefit, I am not thinking of ways in which I can turn her on, ways in which to pleasure her. Sadly, I am seeking ways to personalise the pornography I will be watching later. It is also when I go to the shops, whenever I go out the house. If I am feeling strong I will keep my head up and smile at the people I meet, if I am feeling strong I will know they are real people who need to be respected, not characters who will be lending their faces and their bodies to my entertainment as I browse the endless online porn after Crimson has gone to sleep. If I am not feeling strong I keep my eyes on the ground just 2 steps ahead of me worried that I might give them a hint of the role they play in my fantasies.
I stared out of the window again. The girl under the streetlamp wore a light loose white top, short red shorts, white bobby socks and plain black shoes, she had a jar on which she had written hunny. She was very sexy. The loose top falling down to show off her nubile body, her young breasts forming pointed peaks as her nipples were clearly stiff with the cool evening air. Her shorts clung to her hips in an awkward way of a cut designed for less ample hips. I watched a taxi pull up across the street. I bear opened the back door, stuck its head out and waved her across. She got into the taxi and was gone.
A sign perhaps.
I have just spent a few minutes watching Crimson ironing another shirt. She looked over at me and I smiled at her. I kept her eye for a moment before making a decision. I am going to finish this paragraph, file this writing away never to be read again and then watch Crimson until she looks at me. Then I will tell her how sexy she pert little bottom looks today. Then she will come over to me, I will kiss her, I will touch her, and I will think about the sensations my real fingers, my real lips, my real cock are causing to her real body.
Keeping it real.