Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Dain - An American Tragedy

Young Dain makes me sad; she is beautiful and perfect in every way and she makes my heart ache with a desire to shave twenty years off my life. Her lovely and prominent nose (not quite aquiline, but definitely Jewish), dark almond shape eyes and soft pouty lips send torrents of arousal cascading through my body. I want her. But, I am just a big brother type (old enough to be her father really) and she sits on my lap for comfort – not sex – her face burrowing into my neck. The cold dampness of her nose tickles. She has been crying.

My hands – resting just above her hips – aching to slide up her toned, slender torso until they cup her small perfect breasts. I want to press my lips against her long, lovely neck made accessible by her stylishly short hair. Her warm breath caresses the back of my neck I shift my hips awkwardly so as not to give away the evidence of my desire – my arousal pulsing through my jeans. My face flushes. I am every bit the awkward adolescent I was years before this young beauty was even born.

She is not a cookie cutter beauty (I tell her), which makes her all the more beautiful. This just stokes the fire of her razor sharp anger over her body, her self image destroyed because she leaves it in the hands of the men she dates. They’re boys really. They don’t understand anything beyond their genital and hormonal urges. I didn’t at that age either. Twenty is a rough time. Not really a man; not really a child. Society expects so much more from them. They want men, but they are really just animals driven by a procreative urge they don’t understand.

I love you! My heart stops as the words escape my lips. They are a barely audible whisper and I hope Dain is too in her head to notice. But she does. Taking my face in her hands she kisses me softly on the forehead, my eyes and chin before saying I love you too – a curious moment of intimacy with a young woman who has daddy issues. But, since I don’t drink and yell obscenely at her not daddy enough. She feels safe (she says again for the umpteenth time) and she wraps her arms around my neck and presses herself hard against me for all she is worth. She is so small and vulnerable. I am ashamed by how she makes me feel.

The angel and the devil dance their centuries old dance. The devil says “take her.” The angel says, “Resist the urge.” I resist the urge and just hold her close to me as she collapses into another sobbing fit. Her tears tickle as they drip on to my cheeks and down my neck cooling my overheated flesh leaving me to wonder what would happen if just this once…

Later that night I wake to find her reading in bed next to me – some horrible fashion magazine from the size and glossiness of it – I remember her laying her head on my chest at some point, lately she has been sliding into bed next to me when she isn’t sleeping with one of her boyfriends. I am a life sized stuff animal. There is nothing sexual about me as far as she is concerned. And that makes me sad…even a little depressed. There was a day once…but, that was years ago when I was as young as she was. All men travel this road eventually. It’s a desperate little path starting somewhere in middle age when people stop seeing you as a sexual being and look upon you with a more companionable affection – if they see you at all.

Dain stares intently at some cute young face – an actress whose name I can’t quite place – but cookie cutter cute. I tell her she is much prettier. But she just threatens rhinoplasty and breast augmentation believing the lie that surgical violence will make life better. My heart cries out to her. Let me love you. Let me cover you in kisses and drink you in, but she can’t hear my heart over the crisp sounds made by the pages of her Vogue magazine as she leafs through it searching for her next face.

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