You spot him and I together at the bar, my arm casually draped over the back of his chair, hovering around the nape of his head in the hopes of catching his thoughts. It was prior to me realizing that he had none, or more correctly, that what he did have did not suit my purposes. But there it lay behind him, a third hand, a dying bird fluttering lightly, a cunning appendage. You put on false airs as usual, all smiles, all pleasantries, the perfect female, saddling up on the stool across from us, positioning your breasts on the table as if a tray full of brownies for the offering. I understand these ploys whether or not I ever take part in them. Know that. I understand women so well that I like them and love them and detest them all at once. Know that too. So when you come to me, little chirping noises and body parts splayed out like supper on a table, picture my brain penetrating right through yours, no; picture it burning into the abscesses of your character, yanking on the voids that make you behave like this, flirting with someone else's man.
Not that I call dibs. No. This one won't be mine for much longer. There are various reasons concerning that decision but none of them matter enough to talk at length of them. Let's instead discuss you. Better: let's discuss why we are here right now, why two women at a bar are both vying for a man worth neither of our time, a man neither of us wants. Darling, I want to tell you that if I had five minutes alone with you naked I would draw you. Take mental charcoal and run it over those curves. Forget the man sitting next to me. Forget where my hand is located right now, but picture it instead hovering over your nape. Tiny hairs raising, the illusion of felt heat. I'm an artist, darling, I see with my hands. Let me look at you by touching you, touch you by seeing you, feel you and never lay so much as a hand. Anywhere. This is as erotic as it will ever get.
You'd buy it if he were selling it.
More erotic than this dense creature sitting next to us. Ignore him. Let's not laugh at his jokes, let's not amuse him any longer. Look at me. Now. The tits on the table: a nice touch, but listen. Everything works and yet nothing works. Think about it. All of our efforts, all of our giggles and sways and gyrations and false laughter, it works. And yet, time, darling, time will tell that in fact none of it does. Not for long. Not long enough. I'm working against time, the clock is ticking. I'm learning the rules of how to bait and capture quick enough. I used to consider myself sincere. Now sincerity plays little part. Time is running out, let's agree to either do this or not; call heads or tails and make off with what we get stuck with, or else call spades. They're all spades, afterall; they'll cut you coming or going, one finger on the blade smooth as sin one way, a bloodletting the other. Think about it. What's it all worth?
We can continue this game between us, a female version of a cockfight, plumes raised in retribution. Or else we can admit right now that its each other we want; screw the middleman. We want each other's respect, each other's blood, each other's bodies, forever more interesting than the alternative. We can decide now or else continue this useless battle between us into infinity, where neither of us wins, both of us lose out in the end, and he, this ignoramus who sees none of what's actually going on here, will gain everything.
Now. Is that what you want?
