As you see me naked.

                                        As you see me naked.
                                                 I am lethal.
                       The thoughts of Sylvia B. by Mark William Darus

I have no fear taking off my coverings before you. You paid me to do this.

Cash from your pocket flowing like water from a blown pipe, wanting more of me, expecting more of me. Allowing yourself to fall victim as you think yourself the predator.

In slender moments shared, your eyes become flaming beacons toward me, beaming energy, fueling me.

Removing my tank, slowly lifting it over my breasts, you shift your posture uneasily. I watch you as I get hungry.

Painfully slow, I lower my knee length flowered skirt before you. Revealing my shapely thighs and grey panties, I hear your breathing increase. Deeper and deeper you inhale as your chest bulges, your pupils widen to take me further into you mind. Into a fantasy you’ve held most dear, perhaps forever so.

I begin to think of my childhood every once in a while at this point of an encounter.

I remember my father. He was a good man taken way too soon. He was 43 when he died of cancer. He’d make me laugh, cheer me on when I failed at something, show me love.

Then there was mom. Christ, what a bitch she was! She’d probably still be if she hadn’t suffered an unfortunate accident when I was 17. She was in her car when it happened, parked in our driveway in a suburb of Chicago. Her cars electrical system freaked out and sparked a fire. Somehow, her door handles failed as did her power windows. It’s truly amazing how much smoke fast food bags can produce when they pile up in a foot well! Dense smoke quickly filled the cars interior and she died, pleasingly slow as I witnessed it outside the car. Her eyes, panic filled. Mine, smiling as she passed.

Bummer.

About a year after dad died, she dated men that like an old Donna Summer song :loved to love you, baby…

They’d party, she’d drink to get numb and instead of fucking her when she passed out, they’d go after me. I, about 13 then, tried to fight them off, but she loved bad ass biker types who bested me by sheer weight alone. Over powered, they’d thrust their dicks at me any way they could in any hole of mine they could easily get at. The smell of whiskey or bourbon from their mouths as they smash their face into mine, the smell of my mothers Calvin Kleins Obession on their necks and chests. Sweat, salt, semen and the disgusting rank fumes of dense foot odor surrounding me while pinned to whatever, where ever they chose to take me. Thrust after thrust they’d go. My vagina, torn, anus bleeding or sore throat from deeping it. Pain, both physically and mentally.

Anguish.

I remember crying and reporting it for a while and it got me nowhere. I didn’t dress or act like the other kids at school and was often looked at as ‘different’. I was a subdivision at school: I didn’t really fit in anywhere into the mainstream.

I unhook my deep purple bra from the front. You seem to make a ‘gulping’ sound when I do this. So expected, you never disappoint me.

“Get undressed, baby, get ready for me!” I’d give my best airy Amy Grant voice. Like Lemmings, they’d always do as told, happily walk right off the cliff without rational thought.

“Yeah, you look so good, baby! I can’t wait to take you into me!”

I’d drop my panties like a bad habit and stand before you.

“I want you so much!” You stand and walk to me, boner bouncing around, it’s head looking like some tiny albino Darth Vader helmet.

I, sucking in their energy, desire, single-minded drive, smile and say: “baby, want to strap on a rubber?”

Surprising how many of say: “nah, it kills the feeling.”

“Kills the feeling, right, baby. You got it! TAKE ME! ANYWAY YOU WANT IT!” I loved the band Journey.

Kills the feeling. So right you men are. Moms men never covered up. One of them gave me a gift.

Glad you got your ‘feeling’ as I infected you with AIDS!

I’m sure you’ll die faster than I have.

You guys can be so stupid, can’t you?

-Sylvia’s thoughts, my words.

-Mark William Darus 04292013

Authors note: Her name is not Sylvia B. I respect those that wish to remain anonymous. Yet it needed a name, so she agreed to the one I chose. Talking to her was little short of amazing. She was frank with her words, speaking with complete candor while gently describing some fairly horrific events in her life. 

As I wrote this out, a single song played with each word typed. Over and over again I played it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XD6RdI1QqCg


We sucked down gallons of coffee as we sat at a Denny’s on the Ohio border town of Findlay. I will, at her request, describe her in generic terms. (yeah, like that’s going to be easy for me, right?) She stood about 5’4”, perhaps 110 lbs, light brown just over shoulder length hair. A tragically pretty face with huge glowing blue eyes surrounded by pure white sclera’s. I say tragically because her face looks so innocent and undamaged. She carries herself with what 63% of the male population would describe as a knock-out, kick-ass, oh-so-fuckable body. ( I personally believe the other 37% of men, homosexuals, either overt or covert, may still be attracted by the confidence in her stride and stance. She dressed for our meeting in blue t-shirt and nice fitting jeans with a wide leather belt. No jewelry. I could be wrong on this though. Judging by the waitress, female, she also attracts women.

At her request, we sat in the farthest end of the Denny’s. This was calculated by her and I soon discovered why. At 4:30 AM in the morning, very few complain when someone lights up a Salem 100 and splashes their ashes into an unused water glass. Seriously, how can you not love Denny’s Restaurants? I lit up my L&M and toked in to meet her.

“Trust me, they won’t pitch us aside.” her cool voice stated. More often than not, the workers would do as a Styx song and light up.

I wish to thank her for her honesty and sharing her hearts desire: To give a type of man in this world exactly what they want.