I am almost 40 and I have a broken heart. I seem like a perfectly intact woman, but I am fractured.
The men I touch are odd creatures, both foreign and domestic. Some, like me, are hunters. Others feast on the carrion like hungry humpbacked hyenas.
I let them go without a breath; the breeze lifts them from my open palm and carries them to the next woman open for pollination.
The ones who have good after-dinner manners are buried beneath layers of disregard and hardened dating battles. We are all so good at the chase and so stupidly broken once we’ve had our fill. An awkwardness slips in between us now that we’ve gotten as close as two people can.
Some flit about my head like drunken butterflies only to be replaced next time with new fluttering souls.
It is all so fleeting, so soul-sucking, so sad.
And yet, it is life, it is the hope of striking gold which makes me haul the pickaxe over my shoulder again and again.
Someone out there will have the magic I seek, the golden nectar which will make me bloom.
My sticky, waiting pistil is here for the taking. He’ll find me eventually, my fragrance curled into his nostrils like wisps of smoke.
I want to be blinded by the physical and awakened by the emotional. I want knowledge and ignorance, light and dark. I want an awakening that blends into wisdom so natural I don’t know where it starts and I end.
And once again I have discovered that cocks are wonderful walking sticks for this journey.