Food for Thought

We sat at the table, dressed with tasty treats, ready to eat.

“I want to eat you,” I said, seriously, beginning to tell her how I would start.

She smiled, of course, but I cried inside. Or was it a scream, of joy, of course? I could already taste her, but it could almost never be enough. I wanted all my senses to be involved. She did too, in her way. We were different, of course, in many ways. Age is also an important part in any relationship.

She offered her right breast. It was a good start. She was right-handed, of course. Would she have offered her left breast had she been left-handed? It was as beautiful as the right one but slightly larger, probably on account of her heart, but that would be determined a bit later, if I could manage to get under her skin.

I did for a while, but that came even later, following a good number of meals. I cooked them all; tasty and healthy, except for the pastries purchased for our breakfasts. They tended to be fast for one reason or another; the same reason most of the times. Time surely exists, even for those who believe that it does not. They should know better.

The famine, although only I, or mostly I, knew of mine, was lengthy, in years; over a decade of time; mine and of all those connected or linked, in one way or another. Time always finds a way. Time is a traitor to anyone counting the years. Seconds demonstrate their insignificance, unless one of the runners looks and acts like a man but is still declared a woman.

Her pussy, sleek and heavenly tasty, would steal the show upon making its appearance. Her string panties did not stand a chance against both love and lust, but especially the latter. Love could stomach a covered pussy, but only to a point and on a rather slim spectrum. All my senses needed to feel her wet lips in my inner symphony of indeterminate instruments.

The outer cacophony had a refrain. I may have been love-drunk and lust-lost when I spoke to her pussy, kissing it, lips to lips, utterly in love with it, and her, of course. I would sell my soul for her smile, but Satan, Mephistopheles, Lucifer, Hades, Beelzebub, and whatever other name the Devil preferred, did not reply to my calls and screams for her.

I did not call out to God or any other god, except for dearest, Athena; a goddess already in my brain, around my mind, wherever She makes Her stand against the setting of obscurity. After all, the so-called soul was only purported to be cherished by the Devil. Like me, Goddess Athena only cared about the flesh, where Her sword and wisdom could make a dent.

I was under the table by now, then, using my lucky fingers and eager tongue to welcome and salute her pussy and everything else in proximity. She spread her thighs apart as much as she could or wanted to, showing me that her lust was clear, unlike her love that acted like a rollercoaster on account of the facts of life.

To die or not to die was never a good question or a good time. I always wanted to die when I was with her, especially kissing her pussy and tasting her liquid lust; salty and sweet at the same time, although the latter was surely subjective. My wish to love her forever was poetic at best. I thought that she loved poetry, but it was like her lust.

To be or not to be was surely Shakespearean, unless one argued that it was a cosmic reality. But that was the point, silly; I mean, Shakespeare's. The Bard's sword was mostly symbolic, unlike Athena's, which penetrated both the brain and the chest, at least mine. We are ticking away to oblivion, unless life is a type of black hole or a typical one.

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Dedicated to everything, which is also nothing.