Complications in Shallow Breathing

PART ONE. I was dreaming. We walked into a bar, colored by red and butch made women. They held hands and wore mullets - more man than we were. In fact, I wasn't sure what we were doing here at all.

I had been there before.

With friends. At the bar he leaned over and we were close. I was glad but apologized. And in the darkness he had done it on purpose. Leaning in closer and smelling my hair. Breathing deep loud takes of air. My ear exploding with heat. Uncomfortable, yet soothing and it made him so incredible, awkward and vulnerable. When I have so long seen him as the one to choose. I was the one to need acceptance. And here I - accepting. My hand felt the backside of his shirt, under and around. Fingers against smooth, warm skin. Soft and gentle. It wasn't sex. It was open. And silent. We were in public.

And comfortable.


PART TWO. Reality sunk this evening. I was shallow breathing. Vulnerable. Undressed. And mistaken for someone more attractive. A pale slab of skin lying watched and disappointed. Desperate for attention. Acceptance. Untouched and made to watch as others enjoyed their skin. Missing fat. Thriving muscles. Embarrassed. Unsettled. Uneven.

And then words from another crept in drawing on more discouragement. Things that once made me eager now made me shutter - seeping into hidden shelves. Locked away.

Sex made appointments call for sex made eyes and ideals unrealistic, both fantastic and disappointing. All fears and embarrassments come rushing through and the dream that led you to this point has turned to gross and worrisome reality.

The reasons we hold back come rushing in.

And again, I float into these moments. And a quiet kiss or shallow breath is not what drew me into these scenes but some unrealistic, far fetched fantasy. I am dirty and shallow. Eyes have told me so.

PART THREE. My step father is a five year old. And a whore. Who demands the two women in his life. My mother and his girlfriend - be at his beck and call. He found himself touched by women in the delicate years of puberty and now it is his safety net for all things wrong.

I too was molested.

His girlfriend now understands his sexual needs. His fantasy. He is allowed to feel comfortable in his sexual desire. That fantasy unreal. My mother is reality. A shallow breath. And he'd rather keep them both. For when the mood strikes. And it doesn't matter who is hurt in the end - as long as he is satisfied. In reality and not.

I fall between the cracks and want that too.