I read your words. I know you toil and scribble with an intent to heat up, and arouse your readers. Yes, I am, one of those readers. I look each morning for more of your words. In fact, I find myself looking throughout the day.
Your words arouse. They arouse my mind. The fact they arouse my body is almost a given some though in very different ways.
There is no doubt your words tell marvelous stories which are meant to penetrate, meant to weave their way into each mind to trigger a response which is pleasant, alluring, and most definitely charged sexually. But is that your only intention? Do you play the part of a sex starved writer using his audience as his muse, visualizing her sitting there, with her fingers strumming away between her legs as she reads your words, gobbling them up like candy?
I’m cynical. I don’t believe everything I read. Instead, I take the words and let them filter through my subconscious. The first time I read your words, they excite me. My fires burn hot. My heart pumps wildly. I’m like a feral animal who has just gotten a whiff of a potential mate, one powerful enough, strong enough, to catch me, to know what to do with me.
As time passes, as the words penetrate, we are like circling beasts, getting a whiff of each others scent. Do I smell fear? Do I sense uncertainty? Does my strength intimidate you? Or do you wait patiently, choosing your words as diligently, as the feral animal chooses each movement?
I am cautious. Sometimes your words come too close, too, too close to a past I would rather forget but can never, ever forget. Like the feral creature, I sidestep, when I sense being toyed with.
I know my true nature. I know my beast. I know her feral nature. I know she will not be satisfied until she meets one like her. She is not afraid to paw at the ground, give snarl in answer to his snarl, pace and growl testing and tasting his intentions. This is who I am, no man has come close or even guessed at what lies hidden. Their beasts too weak, too fearful, too easy to intimidate.
I read your words. I see truth weaved into the fantasy. I feel them penetrate. I’m not a toy. I’m not a pet. I’m not a kitten. I won’t be broken. I do not seek to be broken. I am strong. I am feral. I read the same in you but I’m cynical. I’ll wait. I’ll circle the pack. I’ll sniff and watch. I’ll wait.
You weave words well, but will they melt this cynical mind or will they only prove yet again there is no match for the she-devil lurking within?