Barbara Mason — You Never Loved Me (At All)
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Two Valiums then deep sleep comes, interrupting the intensity of unending devastation. Racing thoughts slow to a crawl then the heart rate falls. The face of beauty who gave birth to me is immortalized in a dark walnut wooden picture frame aligned adjacent to a wooden rosary perfectly against a lamp lit wall. Diazepam 20 mg fully absorbed into the bloodstream may be enough for the half-life of an angelic dream. Sleep is a welcomed substitute for tears that endlessly stream. I stare lovingly at my mother, swearing on everything that I hear her whisper, Victor, the terror won’t last forever. Avoidance of despondency forces me to fight viciously against whatever and whoever. Heavy blackout curtains block the light so I can sleep longer. On my nightstand there is an antique lamp, a prescription vial, natural lavender and one third of a cup of water next to a glass vase filled with burgundy Amaryllis flowers. I reflect on the state of my life in a candlelit bathroom beneath hot soapy water. After about an hour somnolence totally takes over.
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War
I seek not strife, but if it is war let it be war forever. I am of the likeness of my mother, erasing the face of the cowardice of my father. I have sought reconciliation, but now war is in my heart, so I seek reconciliation no longer. I am the son of heaven’s daughter. Instead of sorrow, I would rather laughter. Instead of unhappiness, I would rather have joy now and in the hereafter. The sentiments of my soul run deep through many mighty rivers. To the mighty and beautiful Redwood trees I will read my story aloud then listen closely for the whispers of their ponder. I’ve strived to be a man well remembered. I wade in deep dark waters facing the sinister anxiety that seeks to destroy me; for long I have warred with unrelenting horror. It is when blood runs and tears fall that I have given all that I can render.
—Intermission—
Passion
Beautiful whisperings, crying, and the exchange of expensive rings mean nothing if sentiments of love are not genuine. After love making, so much beauty is found in intimate conversation. There is so much depth and true feeling in the heart of an ardent woman. In the embrace of true love there is room to begin again. When long held secrets are divulged and tears run you will know that a genuine and unbreakable love has come. Endless joy is a spiritual immersion. I take a look at myself, the younger version, and I take heed to the wisdom of love’s lessons. There is nothing more romantic than sincere words spoken of the heart’s emotion followed by kisses of passion. Carnal desire is pleasure, but when paired with true love it becomes blue flames of everlasting fire. Marriage is not signatures on paper, it is the coming together and bonding of one another in passionate love forever.
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Black Widow beautiful, untamable, terrifyingly calculating on wealthy men blinded by ecstasy — unaware, frighteningly vulnerable. Her tongue is a tool of magic that can easily turn the tables. The depth of primal lust for her: the unbridled desire is insatiable. Her sexual flower is extremely beautiful, wonderfully fragrant, and wet like white gardenias in morning dew. Her exquisite fucking is irresistible; her breasts are sensually supple. Sweat beads on her feminine flesh when she rides hard in the saddle. The scent of her essence is the most expensive Parisienne perfume. Her venom is most potent when she softly says, I love you. Barely after one sensual session men desperately want her to whisper, I do. So many hastily run to their own impending doom. Her heart is dark, but her ravishing smile can light up a room. Perfectly manicured feet are concealed in size 7 pointed toe heels. She is well traveled; her favorite haunt is Hotel TwentySeven in the Netherlands. Again and again she breaks even the strongest men. Instantly they are entangled in her silk web of smooth words and erotic overtures. You could make love to her wonderfully with sincere intimacy while reciting beautiful poetry of everlasting fidelity, but she would never be yours. The verses of her song are entrapment, and death is her chorus. She once loved but was betrayed of love. She once tearfully gave her all, but her heart was shattered in the chilled winds of a late and bitter fall. If you look closely one can see eyes of beauty devoid of love and empathy. Her psyche is an intricately unemotional and psychotic mystery. The art of her seduction is a master class in eroticism unattainable by the majority. She casts her spell of calming lullabies. When her husband is asleep she kisses him and whispers her final goodbyes — unleashing the terror within her. There he lies in an elaborately crafted bed adorned in a light blue satin pajama set appearing to be in deep sleep, but he is not alive. There is an updated life insurance policy on his nightstand, newly signed. He’s a seventy year old gentleman with a documented heart condition given a substance the medical examiner will never find. She stares at him in silence through lifeless eyes and smiles; then she dials three numbers with hysterical cries, weeping, screaming venomous lies.
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Unadulterated passion; erogenous stimulation; long sessions of fucking; blindfolded with two wide black satin ribbons; nipple rubbing; clitoris pulsating in anticipation of absolutely proficient licking and sucking. Promiscuous whisperings; anal beads paired with two fingers for slow vaginal insertion; soft kisses between thighs as fingers find perfectly sensuous rhythm; constant moaning intermittently muffled by deep kissing. Lengthy fully erect thickness mounted for the pleasure of slow purposeful riding to feel everything; blindfolded eyes can’t see, causing the other senses to be heightened. Absolute wetness naturally lubricates friction. Oh, god, everytime orgasmic storm is incoming — intermission to switch to other erotic position; adept thrusting with unrelenting hair pulling; large width facilitates exceedingly pleasurable stretching. Screaming and perspiration a sign of magnificent fucking; wave after wave, a skilled erotic undertaking. 69 position for mutual sucking, licking, and teasing; legs wrapped around strong back in missionary for intense intimacy and final explosion.
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Christy Turlington turned around and stunned in a black evening gown. Naomi Campbell walked briskly on white marble and brought the house down. Helen Williams was elegant and demure, adorning white dress gloves, diamond earrings, and white fur. Marilyn came in smiling and graced the crowd with a breathtaking spin. Chrystèle whispered something in my ear, but it was a packed gathering and I couldn’t hear. Capucine set the high ceiling on fire with her red hair. In Dior, Ivy Nicholson shot me a glare as she stood statuesque beneath a beautiful crystal chandelier. Yasmeen Ghauri was absolutely beautiful, wearing stiletto mules with a deep V-Neck cocktail dress, navy blue. Donyale Luna and I danced together wonderfully; I marveled at her beauty when after, she told me of her adventures in Italy and recited passionate poetry. There was a surprise appearance by Jayne Kennedy who happened to hear about the gala in the midst of shooting her latest movie. Vonetta McGee joined the party with majestically curled hair, immaculate makeup, and almond eyes that moved me. Diane Keaton arrived with Pat Cleveland who was wearing Chanel everything for the evening. I had been drinking, but I swore that I saw Marilyn kissing Rock Hudson. Beside me a stunning woman was singing, whose name happened to be Nancy Wilson. Donyale lit a cigarette and deeply inhaled. Linda Evangelista sported vintage haute couture; Cindy Crawford conquered in ready-to-wear Louis Vuitton when she walked through the door. I politely complimented Tyra on her attire — she smiled and said, thank you in a calming whisper.
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We weep, yet we are not weak.
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Speak to me one last time before eternal silence comes and I am left undone. Before finality makes its haste, let us kiss passionately in our final embrace, my tears of love falling endlessly on your angelic face. Forgive me if I have ever hurt you. My tears are tears of love and the sentiments of deep sorrow. Let us now confess our love for each other fervently and forget about tomorrow. We hold on to each other perpetually never letting go. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but I swear on my own blood that the angels with sentimental tears write about us. I swear on my mother’s blood that I love you with all my heart. Neither life nor death could pull us apart. You wipe my tears away as the world falls away. Don’t go; please stay. What fate is this that I fall on my knees beside your bedside and weep trying to appeal to the empathy of destiny to give us at least one more day? Hold on, baby; breathe. Take my breath, and come into the picturesque gardens of my secret depths. Let your hair down and dance with me in vineyards of glory. Take all of me. Take me with you on your peaceful journey. In my loving embrace the last tears fall from your eyes. To find you, I will search my heart’s secret chambers and look toward the skies. You sleep, my love. You sleep. You are immensely beautiful. I love you.
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Midnight silk draped over beauty conceals deep want. Fingers don’t touch heightened desire directly, instead silk is pressed against erogenous flesh. The soft fabric is an erotic conduit. The experienced tongue proficiently teases through it. Silk rubs against what is already wet and what is receptively erect. Silk outlines passionate lips with every deep breath. The sensation causes the receiver of pleasure to beg for more. Sensuality is delivered methodically and intentionally slower for a buildup of yet to be released intensity. Waves of pleasure take over. Midnight silk moves beautifully like many oceans coming alive after high tide. The beauty of the moment is not simple to describe. Midnight silk hides jet black hair, soft skin, and closed green eyes. Pulsating wetness screams for something well endowed and exceptionally hard inside. Writhing coupled with moans of passion cannot lie. Length and wonderfully significant width facilitate an extremely passionate midnight ride. Silk slowly slips down her back like winter ice gradually falling away from snow capped mountains in spring. Midnight foreplay leads to midnight fucking. The intensity of desire is sustained even after several orgasms. Midnight silk is drenched along with pink lace and satin.
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The underneath whispers to me incessantly with sweet promises of eternal peace. It says, The flesh is fragile and temporary; all you have to do is close your eyes and release. It comes to me in my vulnerability saying softly, Victor, I know that you are tired and that you unceasingly weep; I am the underneath — in me you will find the comfort of deep sleep. The body is still, still, storms rage beneath linen sheets. Darkness hides sorrowful eyes that weep. There is no more warmth after the heart ceases to beat. Many faces smile, but a deep and draining torment lies underneath. At the lowering, hypocrites throw roses and weep after writing bullshit carbon copy eulogies for the deceased. From foul breath and diseased teeth they utter generic garbage like, He’s now in a place of peace. On the dime of the deceased they consume alcoholic drinks, and gluttonous pigs do eat. The underneath embraces its permanent residents over six feet deep. The whispers of it still echo, urging the living despondent to finally let go.
Intimate Compositions 