Lust

Written for a spoken word performance, opening for musician, poet, and artist CR Avery. 

Her lust had its big bang somewhere between 1992 and 1994. She didn’t know its name at the time. Only its hunger.

The longings that ricocheted across her still crystalizing body were overwhelming. Before recess, she stared down Steve – delinquent skater. After lunch, it was Cory – keen on popped collars. And then there was Adam. Ben. Chris. Duncan. Eric. Frank. Geoff. And on and on. All the way to the letter Z. For Zubin. He was exotic. He had eyes as deep as a well. She yearned to rappel into them and taste his water.

There were no boundaries to her teenage obsessions, her Tiger Beat hormones.

As the years progressed, and her experience climaxed, she became as acquainted as she could with lust’s mystique.

Did you know that lust does not travel by map or time zone?

It once appeared on an airplane, thousands of miles above the ground, when the long lashes of the stranger seated next to her caught the light of the setting sun, fanning laser beams into the aircraft. A mesmerizing kaleidoscope of orange and pink and red. The stranger’s knee nudged hers under the blankets. Chemistry touched down on the strip between their eyes. One shared look stamped their passports with approval before their exploring hands made the coarse blankets move like sand dunes in the Sahara.

Lust does not care for age.

It percolated on a picnic table at her sister’s wedding, when a new something-in-law lifted her taffeta skirts over her head, giving the man in the moon a hard on. He was young. She was not. His limbs and extremities did things a 21-year-old shouldn’t be privy to. He was top of his carnal class. Presented with as many gold stars as there were in that night sky. It was almost dawn when she, fifteen years older than his tongue, snuck back into her family’s cottage. Tiptoeing so her lust wouldn’t be exposed as a harlot.

Lust is sneaky.

She has dragged her nail across a bare thigh on a crowded dance floor without any notice. Slowly. Lightly. Just to touch flesh.

By the by, her lust does not discriminate between the sexes.

While she mainly tussles with men, she appreciates a woman. Ladies are a different flavour. Cotton candy. Cherry cola. Chocolate kisses. A delicacy she saves for special occasions. A gift for her lust. Not a sacrifice. There is nothing sacrificial about the pleasure she derives from lip to lip contact. One pair horizontal, the other vertical.

She learned lust has no morals.

On a foggy winter’s night, she found herself beside a married man in a dark, mahogany hotel bar. He was old enough to have raised her… or a hand to her bare bottom. She played demure, recognizing the treacherous path ahead. But temptation, temptation is a warrior. Its armour is oiled with pheromones. Slick with ecstasy. Soaked with scotch. My god, there was too much scotch. A kiss on her hand resulted in a finger between lips. Her finger. His lips. The groans were primal. Passed down from the echoing caves of our ancestors.

It’s the closest she comes to tasting love – when she’s with a married man. His wife’s monogamously musky scent saturates his skin. She inhales the perfume. It climbs up her olfactory fire escape and into the flames. Second-hand love is as deadly as second-hand smoke if breathed too deeply for too long.

She could never tame lust or teach it to behave.

Lust is a lightning bolt striking a jagged tear in her libido, oozing red innards across reason.

Unreliable. Spontaneous. Wild. Liable to lash out when caged.

Despite its barbaric nature, she won’t break up with lust. Lust is an addiction. She can’t keep her distance, not for long. Lust will strangle in retaliation.

There was one instance after 47 days of dormancy when a seat belt firmly held her neck in place against the car’s seat-back cushion. Outside his house, a whiskered mouth pressed urgently against hers. Strands of brunette caught between their teeth. Breath was trapped in her chest. She wanted him. She had for weeks. The fabric beneath her dampened with the prospect of skin on skin. But lust abruptly ended the show. The man pulled away and said good-bye with a kiss on her thigh. She never heard from him again. Lust teased her that night, gave her a ravenous taste before yanking the carrot away, into the grey clouds. Silver lining unseen.

Lust is an asshole.

She’s always loved assholes though.

No, not love, she liked assholes.

Love isn’t her brand of desire. She doesn’t care for it.

She will spit it out when it accidentally touches her taste buds.

Love is the one juice she will not swallow.

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