English · Love · The sexy side of feminism

This fierce and violent infatuation

So I’m lying here, in my bed, sleepless, tasting my own garlic breath, with only a castrated, male cat as my company, wondering where that great love took off. I met him in another town, in another world, in another life, in another millenium. He sat down next to me and said: “What if me and my brothers took you to a room and gang raped you just a little?”. I looked at him with my big, blue eyes and smiled. “Now you made me think of something. I don’t know what it’s called. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”. He paid curiously attention to what I was about to explain. “It’s this little thing that women wore during World War II. A kind of tube, and on the inside of this tube there where knives sharp as razor blades,” He swallowed. Heavily. “and this tube the ladies stuck up in their vagina, because you see: if they couldn’t prevant rape, it should at least not go unpunished.”. I smiled like a cat licking cream of her whiskers while watching his reaction. He thought long and hard whilst his jaw moved back and forth, looking up at the top shelf in the bar. At last he took a deep breath and sighed before he answered. “On the other hand we might as well not.”. He left without a word. He just slipped off the barstool and disappeared into the shadows of their clubhouse.


My thoughts are wandering like ghosts through the night. Sometimes I talk to him like a lonely child talks to an invisible friend, but I’m not a lonely child. I don’t even feel lonely. I feel comfy and varm, wrapped up in a bed with linen of soft flannel. Washed and made late at dawn just yesterday. The bedroom is parfumed with the scent of peach coloured roses. They’re standing on the floor in a cracked crystal vase. Breathtakingly beautiful, soft as velvet, delicat as an angels heart. They remind me of his voice so long ago. A witness of love silently wispering “I see you!” between those lines unspoken.


It’s getting to warm under the duvet and I stick my feet outside it and regulate the heat on the electric sheet. My cat, mon petite ami, is stretching his body in all his length, (which is quite long, his a cat after all), purring and smiling at me with his yellow, oblique eyes. His hind paws are touching my thighs, and I pet his soft ears and silky fur.

It’s nice to have company when you can’t sleep, something that at times happen frequently. I get lots of advice about which pills to pop, but I’ll rather pet my fury petite cherie and weave pretty dreams of love until the tricks of the Sandman makes my eyelids fall. And there, in the dim light of a small bedside lamp, I see the reflection of my own fierce infatuation. My common sense says no, I’m wrong! I’m not inlove with the man. I’m inlove with the idea of being inlove. But my body tells me that my reason is mistaken. It’s very confusing, and yet it isn’t.

Live, adventurous images from times gone wild flickers behind my eyelids in the darkest hours of the winter night. I see his lips against mine, his tounge, his arms around me, hands and fingers across naked skin, his body between my thighs. I enjoy every delightful, impassioned second, and I hate him for this just as often.

May he burn like a fallen angel! May his wing roast as a Kentucky fried chicken! I will cut off his hair while he’s sleeping and weave ginger lingerie that will drape around my breasts and caress me in secret places under my dress where no one can see. I’ll tattoo his toes in psychedelic colours and sacred symbols, and polish his toenails with shimmering glitter before I cut them all off with a poultry scissor, thread them on a string and wear them like a queen as a talisman of horror for my admirers to see. Maybe I shall sacrifice the heads of animals on his doorstep, and make his mistresses disappear? Or maybe not.

‘Cause it’s only a nightflight to an imaginary paradise, a fairyland in my mind tripping. I keep the illusion to close to my heart to hinder the dream from disappearing. I’ll lock it up in a blood filled chamber and let it drown slowly, but forever. And as I release myself of a good morning fart so hot it almost causes my quilt to ignite, I think to myself that it might just be okey that this love kept me wait. For what use do I have of a man who doesn’t even dare to walk up my stairs? I have places to go, things to do, people to get to know, and you know what they say those who know?

Don’t fall into the dicksand, chicas! You know; like quicksand only with dicks!

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