My Ode to the Tatted-Up, Philosopher Pussy Magnet

He felt like home. His lips, the sweetest fruit I’ve ever tasted. He had a large frame, soft, cozy enough to burrow inside of to warm the edges of my frigid soul. He didn’t judge, didn’t impose. He just existed in all of his glory, a delicate statue waiting to be admired by the unlucky soul who happened to take notice.

The lovemaking was nothing special, not at first. But there was tenderness to his touch; a gentle soothing that had a way of calming my nerves. I watched him take joy in the little moments, admired the awe in his eyes when he gazed upon my bare skin, and I wondered if a man had ever looked at me with those eyes before. He was surprised, of course. What would a young woman like me want with old, damaged goods?

At first, I wanted to explore the depths of his oceans and admire the deep blues of his sky. The sky was not particularly clear, and folds of clouds and dark greys gave it texture. I craved that texture, to feel the ripples in the palm of my hand. I wanted to see the world as he saw it, to peek through the kaleidoscope glasses and catch a glimpse into the hallucinogen-induced epiphanies of his youth. I wanted to experience the pain of his loss, the hollow ache in his soul and the self-fulfilling prophecies that kept him lonely, but alone. I wanted to understand him.

The ink on his skin told a tale of its own. I would run my delicate fingers over these delicate paintings, piecing together the puzzle of the man I clung to. The flaws they covered were, to me, as beautiful as the rest of him. A story began to unfold, a life of tragedy and pain, the ebbing and flowing of time taking its toll on an overwhelmed creature lost in the rapid currents of our imperfect world. I have never felt misplaced and adrift in the universe the way he did, and yet I found myself lost in the mural of his skin. I was drawn to the memories he chose to share, and took special care with those he tried to hide.

And his mind! It was a glorious trap, clearly the product of the highest degree of philosophy. His innate curiosity and dedication to learning were sure to be admired, and I wondered, then, if my wisdom had something to offer him in return. I wondered if I could lead him to taste the sweetness in life that he had long since forgotten. I wondered.

He had an outwardly masculine demeanor, and I was feminine to the touch. But the soft, gooey centers weren’t like that. He was sensitive, too sensitive, and I wanted to win his love, craved triumph and victory. I wanted to buy him flowers and cross oceans to win his affection. Prove to his jaded heart that love does matter, that my own strength and tenderness was enough to conquer all and protect him from the harsh world. But most of all, I wanted to warm his soul the way he did mine. To stave off the inevitable loneliness and sorrow we both felt tugging at our psyche, if only for a little while… if only.

But, alas, I was a fool. Perhaps it’s karma, Aphrodite’s justice for the hearts I’ve broken and the opportunities I chose to ignore. Whatever it was, it left a bitter taste on the back of my tongue, a subtle reminder of the knots that come from loving a tatted-up philosopher.

Published by Atlas Beaumont

Writer, philosopher, sociologist. Day job in education. Lover of cats, coffee, cinema, and all things good.

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