Lothario (standard:drama, 515 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: May 29 2006	Views/Reads: 3574/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Laying my hands over the arch of her back, bumping my fingers across the splendour of each vertebra...

Lothario 

Copyright Kelly_Shaw2001 

Laying my hands over the arch of her back, bumping my fingers across the
splendour of each vertebra, I caress the purity of her skin as she lies 
lifeless on white sheets. There is something incredibly noble about her 
lifeless gaze. Her taught and tenuous skin, now cooling, still feels 
sensual. 

In the end I had little choice, no longer able to absorb the pain of
sharing her, so took my hands to her throat and with spicy fingers 
spoiled the delicacy of her neck. The stain of terror that crossed her 
face stimulated me, seeing the tight-lipped blue flood, her eyes 
begging a misty forgiveness, but nothing would let me relinquish my 
grip. In the end it was little murder, done without malice or 
forethought, a spontaneous eruption of grief. 

She was good in bed, of course she was, articulate and athletic, but for
the life of me I couldn't cope with her telling how she still loved her 
husband. 

It might seem repugnant, but is it any more repugnant than a man beating
up on his wife, or abusing her? I bring a little light relief into the 
lives of the women who are looking for something, or someone, to change 
their world. When a woman chooses me over her husband she does so with 
good reason. I'm giving a service. I'm a Lothario, a Casonova,  a man 
other men hate. I have passion. I bring passion. I live for the 
impetuous softness of touch, the tears of summer nights, the shudder of 
forbidden excitement. 

Naturally, it helps to be handsome though if a man can awaken a woman
from a dead union, inspire her to be alive, he need not be so. I think 
of myself more as a male nurse; injecting charm, mystery, and russet 
shadows into the veins of women living without desire and adoration. 

Too often the excess of blood moving my parts finds me working hard for
my rewards. There's no easy way. It demands the sacred study of women, 
knowing when to absorb and satisfy their August obsessions, awaken 
their ideas of fulfilment, create for them warped worlds and legitimate 
passions.  I have to watch carefully, find them, study them, and wait 
to remove them from their territorial kinship groups, detach them from 
their native community. I do it with stories about feathers, or fabric, 
or seashells while temporarily saving them from a life of servile 
obligations. 

My sights are now set on another lonely woman. 

I will attend church, for where better to find disillusionment and
hopelessness, and find her sitting between pews of mahogany, dressed in 
blue cotton print, brown eyed with no ideas of being ‘flighty'. She 
will turn momentarily, catching my eye. I'll be in attendance next 
week, ready to smell her stinking warm breath, the breath of a dull 
life lived before the chancel, it dripping with gold and satin. I know 
what she really wants, and with a calm assuredness I will make my move 
below the priest's pedestal. 

Within a few weeks I'll be biting her arse. 


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