Speak.
(brought to mind by http://deltaofvenus.blogspot.com/2006/01/hoarse-whisperer.html )
Do you have any idea how hard it is to get you to speak? To get you to say these things to me? How hard I have to work for the words "fuck me like you own me" to actually cross your lips? Do you?
You always say "Please," but so rarely tell me Please... what?
I love it when you do.
I wish you would more often.
My God, girl.
Talk dirty.
Do you have any idea how much easier it is to *do* the things that've frightened me than it is to *name* them? There I am, mute and coy, a silent film starlet doing things no respectable silent film maker would've recorded, smiling like the Mona Lisa herself...
The words exist; I hear them in my head. But when it comes to forcing them past my teeth, my jaw locks. Better to spread myself open, shed light on all my darkest spaces than to open my mouth and let these halting phrases slip past.
Words've been my solace all my life; "Maggie" they called me when I was small, because I chattered like a magpie. If I'm speaking, it's because I know very well what I'm saying; the words were chosen for connotation as well as meaning.
But this... What becomes of proper use? Too proper becomes too clinical, an enumeration of parts and functions. Latin names do wonderful things for me, but your time in allied health left you with scars that pull at medical terminology. So that's out.
What then?
The low cant of streets and cheap peep shows?
The rhythm of the language eludes me; I can't come round its connotations. They still feel too much like insults. "Fuck" in my mind is a very specific action, a feral thing with little pause for thought of spirit and love. All teeth and nails and heat and hardness. Desireable? Yes, frequently...but not a thing for conversation. Not proper.
I'll have to redefine proper.
Because when you spin these words out for me, it's magic. It's heavy silk, it's incense. How do you take those words and weave them into something wonderful? How?
I want you.
I want you here, this way, with this attitude, now.
These are the things I want to do to you,
These are the ways I want you to feel,
because This is the way I see you when you're so at my whim.
This is the way I want to be for you.
These are the things I want done to me, and the reasons why.
Because of the way I see you when I'm so at your whim...
Please.
I want you.
Please...
If you want to hear the words, you're going to have to make me say them.
Speak to me, so I know what the language could sound like.
Keep teasing until I find the rhythm of it.
Reward me when I finally do well, but not until.
It's the only way I'll ever learn.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to get you to speak? To get you to say these things to me? How hard I have to work for the words "fuck me like you own me" to actually cross your lips? Do you?
You always say "Please," but so rarely tell me Please... what?
I love it when you do.
I wish you would more often.
My God, girl.
Talk dirty.
Do you have any idea how much easier it is to *do* the things that've frightened me than it is to *name* them? There I am, mute and coy, a silent film starlet doing things no respectable silent film maker would've recorded, smiling like the Mona Lisa herself...
The words exist; I hear them in my head. But when it comes to forcing them past my teeth, my jaw locks. Better to spread myself open, shed light on all my darkest spaces than to open my mouth and let these halting phrases slip past.
Words've been my solace all my life; "Maggie" they called me when I was small, because I chattered like a magpie. If I'm speaking, it's because I know very well what I'm saying; the words were chosen for connotation as well as meaning.
But this... What becomes of proper use? Too proper becomes too clinical, an enumeration of parts and functions. Latin names do wonderful things for me, but your time in allied health left you with scars that pull at medical terminology. So that's out.
What then?
The low cant of streets and cheap peep shows?
The rhythm of the language eludes me; I can't come round its connotations. They still feel too much like insults. "Fuck" in my mind is a very specific action, a feral thing with little pause for thought of spirit and love. All teeth and nails and heat and hardness. Desireable? Yes, frequently...but not a thing for conversation. Not proper.
I'll have to redefine proper.
Because when you spin these words out for me, it's magic. It's heavy silk, it's incense. How do you take those words and weave them into something wonderful? How?
I want you.
I want you here, this way, with this attitude, now.
These are the things I want to do to you,
These are the ways I want you to feel,
because This is the way I see you when you're so at my whim.
This is the way I want to be for you.
These are the things I want done to me, and the reasons why.
Because of the way I see you when I'm so at your whim...
Please.
I want you.
Please...
If you want to hear the words, you're going to have to make me say them.
Speak to me, so I know what the language could sound like.
Keep teasing until I find the rhythm of it.
Reward me when I finally do well, but not until.
It's the only way I'll ever learn.
posted by ~*Luca at 3:30 PM
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