About Nude Not Naked

I am sure you know her. Everyone does. Every head will turn each time her presence is near. Whispers will move from one ear to another. Girls will roll their eyes and look away in disgust. They say that she has gained weight. Some other girl said her breast were bigger 6 months ago and her dress does not match her new haircut. But take a good look at the foot of every man in the room and you will soon realise that all are pointing in her direction.

She takes one frightened step forward. Her eyes glance across the sea of people. She is searching for her friends. She wears a pink lace blouse, a calculated slit at the center, revealing a juicy fest for the eyes. Her head is held a little higher than the rest. Her eyes blink ever so slowly. She has a knowing smile. She works her way towards the bar. The crowd parts as she steps near. She looks into your eyes with her piercing eyes. She never smiles.

Up the ladder. Up, up every boy’s ladder. Every single blouse she wears is a calculated opportunity to position herself higher on everyone’s ladder. She does it ever so delicately. Maybe not too delicately, especially since not many girls talk about her in a positive light. But it does not matter, not since the boys are busy placing her on their ladders. She looks away and she sees all the pairs of eyes that are staring back at her. Come on, up, up on every boy’s ladder.

She tip toes to the bar and stretches her right hand towards the bar tender. Like a lazing leopard in the heat of the sun, she stretches her hand across the cold marble bar top, towards the busy bar tender. Her drink arrives a second later, without even the slightest utter of a word. He smiles, gently pushing the tall glass towards her. It is on the house.

It is.

Always.

On.

The.

House.

She only drinks vodka. The bar tender knows it. Boys who buy her drinks know it. And if you did not know it earlier, tonight will be the night you do. A fresh glass arrives three minutes later. The bar tender whispers into her ear. She smiles the knowing smile, her eyes danced across the bar, trailing after the marble top like the yellow stones to Oz. The gentleman smiled. She blinks her eyes.

Men like him were classy. Men like him buy a drink for the lady and expects nothing more than a smile. That’s classy, now you must remember. Men who expect that his drink will buy her company do not know how to woo a girl, what more a woman like her.

Her friends arrived soon enough. She is relieved. She is no longer alone at the bar, staring at the groups of lusty boys and angry girls. She gives her friends each a welcome hug. She is thankful that they are around. Glasses and bottles will clink, each signalling yet another drop of poison in their veins. Her mop of hair tumbles across her shoulders. Pearls of sweat mixing gently with the vodka, she is now a heady cocktail of physical attraction.

She steps to the side and gently plants herself on a high stool. She swings her legs like a contented ten year old, carefree sitting on a fruit tree in harvest season. The man turns around and sees her.

”I am sorry. I’ve taken your seat.”

“How did you find it?” the tall stranger in Armani blue shirt asked.

“It appeared like magic,” she said.

He placed his right hand on his left chest and chuckled. He took a step closer towards her.

“Would you like to share the seat then?” she said, patting the edge of her seat. She takes a sip from her tall glass. It was an invitation for the stranger to reclaim what was his a few minutes earlier before she stole the chair. And she steals more than the tall chair. She will steal his heart and mind for the next three days.

“Only if you let me sit on your lap,” came the sharp reply. He smiled. No more words. That is it. That is the connection that people make soulfully. Some people bond with a physical hug or a fuck. She bonds with you in the spirit realm and you communicate with her with your body.

Sometimes the best talks are silent. Everything feels more distinct and memorable against the loud music and wild twenty year olds riding up and down each other, like a cheap strippper pole in Las Vegas. Sexy is in gentle tousle of her curly hair and secret smiles. Sexy is never on the lollypop sucking high school girl with black kolh eyes. She knows this is true and even if you do not think it is true, her very sway of hips will convince you.

She blushes. She carves a smile and then she looks away. She joins her friends in a merry conversation. They are looking for a deck of cards to play “King” again. Tonight she hopes that she will not kiss another girl again.

Whatever she lacked physically, she made up in pure sex. Each move. Each breathe. Each look. She makes sure you notice her and that you remember her. Two hours from now, all you are left is a glimpse of fantasy. This is the silent stranger with piercing eyes. She never smiled but she will have her way tonight. She will make most boys smile with at the blink of her eye.

The girls do not like her. She has an attitude, that’s for sure. Her confidence does not rub on them, unless they are confident in themselves too. She used to wish for friends and she never understood why the girls did not want to be around her. And if they are in her company, they choose to have very limited communication with her. They will live in their own little aquariums. But now she knows what she is to them.

They despise her confidence and the way she carries herself. They do not like her look. The girls think that she is snobbish and there is an air about her. So they dance their little merry dance and they drink their bottles of beers and their glasses of Frozen Magaritas. They rub themselves against each other and do the sandwich dance. They do not realise that the more they desperately do what they do, the higher on the ladder she goes.

Sex is in the most primal instincts. They never understood that but perhaps they will. Her eyes watches but her lips move not. She is not saying a word. She stands by the bar or against the wall. Men walk up to her and whisper little secrets into her ears. She only listens.

Her scent is embossed into everyone memory. You will know that she was in the room because her scent lingers. It is unique, almost as unique as her. She creates signatures, little messages that announce to every person that her charismatic self is just around the corner - her scent, her drinks, her words, her little dance. You will know that she was there because you saw her in the most minute details.

She creates signatures in her moves and in her words. It is like a little gift she sets into the minds of men, in the most subtle ways. It could be a song she sang while she walked with you to the pub. It could be a piece of clever words strung into a conversation. It could be just the silent walk and a knowing smile. It could be the way she fussed over your new hairstyle. Her words are chosen and her body language, a poetry in motion.

Late at night the little movie will dance in your head. You will smile because she imprinted herself into your memory.

“You will miss me when I am gone,” she whispers into your ears. She whispers ever so softly, and so you draw near. She whispers softly because she wants you to draw near.

“I am not like every other girl,” she says again. You lean over to hear what she just said. Her lips accidentally touch your ears and you tingle. She knows you will tingle all over. That is why she whispers. So you will tingle at her voice and you will remember.

Come 5 a.m. and you will miss her. She knows you will. You can hate her for it but you know it is true. You will miss her.

Do you know this girl? I am sure you do. You see her at the bar every so often. She sits in the company of many men. She has all the glasses of drinks. The girls have long deserted her. She smells of pure sex and whole lot more. And she knows it.

“You will cry when I am gone.”

And you know she is right.

She hops into her car and she drives herself home. She sees her reflection in the mirror, she sweeps her hair back. Behind those piercing eyes and tumbling hair is a soul. She is mournful at 5 a.m. She wipes the mirror with her hands and her reflection is gone for a second. Between the trickling drops of water along the mirror lies a mortal bleeding. She feels deep sadness. She laughs a little and then a tear rolls down her cheek. She looks into herself and all she sees is a sinner.

Hate me today.
Hate me tomorrow.
Hate me so you will see what is good for you.
~ Hate Me, Blue October

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