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From: dez187lm@hotmail.com (H.D. Meister)
Subject: {ASSM} Story: Don't Speak to Me of Desire - dont speak to me of desire.txt [1/1]
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Greetings from the edge dear reader. Again... if you are not at least
18 or live in a community where adult material is not wanted, DO NOT
READ THIS! Post freely and archive if you desire. Critique as you
see fit. All I ask is that you do not make a profit from my work and
give the author all due credit.
--
Know you this: I am all I am. Nothing more... never less. Live or
die, i do not care. So long as another sees and knows and learns,
then I am at peace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don't Speak to Me of Desire By: H.D. Meister (dez187lm@hotmail.com)
Don't speak to me about desire. I know more of that word than most
know about their own heartbeats. I have desired many things, some of
which I have actually managed to grasp. I know desire. I know it
well.
I desire her with a part of me so ancient that it is nothing more than
the spawn of patience. I look at her and wonder what it would be like
to know her touch on my skin. Soft? Harsh? Dominating? Submissive?
This part of me, an elder of mankind be eons, does not wonder... it
waits. it waits for the answers to come. If they never come, then it
simply shrugs and continues to do as it has always done. So don't
speak to me of desire.
How many of you know what it is like to look upon someone and know
that you will never have that someone at your side? I do not mean
that the odds are stacked against you. I mean know, as you know your
own heart is beating because you are alive, that you will never know
the touch of that person. Not even so much as a playful slap on the
rear or a handshake? How many? I possess such knowledge. I know
that I will never rise with the morning sun and be greeted by that
face. Don't speak to me of desire.
Yet there are those who see desire as a physical thing only. All that
they know of desire is what little tidbits their lust inflamed loins
will allow their mind. A stiff dick... maybe a pair of hard
nipples... a wet twat. This is desire? They know nothing. They have
not wanted the precious moments spent walking through a park with a
smile on their faces. All they want, not desire, is a fuck. Good...
bad... it does not matter to them. All they want is a fuck. They
know nothing.
What about that one moment when you look into their eyes and know that
the Universe can do as it will... you will be together? Nothing. Is
this to say that desire does not encompass physical love? No, for
they do not seek love. When I speak of desire, that means everything.
When I hold my chosen in my arms and we kiss, it is not some formality
which must be done before a dick fucks a twat. We kiss because we
desire each other. When we make love, it is the total sharing of
souls, not just grunt work done because a cunt was wet or a cock was
hard. Our sweat will flow not from lust. it won't be the snarls of
animals heard, but the whispered gentle tones of love. My chosen is
not some piece of meat picked out from the packaged and sanitized
portions available at the market. Don't speak to me of desire.
I have not seen the one I desire in some time, yet I know where they
are. I know their smile. I know their laugh. What do they know?
What do you know? Speak to me of desire when you know of such things.
Speak to me when you kiss your chosen gently on the cheek and await
the world. Speak to me of desire when you have fought the hordes of
morality, black man, as you hold on to the not-so-black woman. Speak
to me of desire when you, redneck, look into the eyes of a black woman
and smile warmly, feeling nothing but the vaunted Southern gentleman
within your soul. Speak to me of desire, most honored Asian
gentleman, when you face ages of tradition and honor with your Eastern
love held close. Speak to me then.
Speak to me of desire, venomous femi-nazi, when you stand beside your
chosen, male or female, with the gentle pride of a baker who has made
countless loafs of bread and hold not one in the highest regard.
Speak to me of desire, man hater, when you gaze, if but for a moment,
into a man's eyes and wonder if he may be the one to shatter the
beliefs you hold so dear. Speak to me then. Do not say the words you
have burned into memory. Do not say that you know desire. You know
nothing of it's bite on your flesh. Speak to me of desire when you
have walked next to someone who will listen to your words, and judge
them by their own standards, morals, and beliefs. Speak to me then.
Desire turns to hope.. Hope to a dead flower in the Winter. Speak to
me then. While I know who I desire... while I know I desire them...
while I accept the possibility that my desire may well be that
flower... I know. What do you know. Tell me. Tell me how you wanted
to bed this one or that one. Tell me. Open your mouth. Let me hear
your words. Speak them clearly. I know of desire. Do you?
Desire does not care who you chose to sleep with. It does not care
which position you like or hate. Male on male means nothing. Woman
with woman means nothing. It is eternal ; it is patient. Why should
it care if a man wants another as a bed partner? Why should the
concerns of a horny lesbian bother it? I know of desire. I have been
wrapped within its embrace all too long. I have tried to draw a
breath as it squeezed my throat. I know of desire. What of you?
What do you know?
How many times can you fuck a twat or ride a dick before you crave
another? How long before your "desire" changes? How many assholes
have been fucked in the name of desire? How many slits have been
slurped in the name of desire? And with each of these... how much
was known of desire? Don't speak to me of desire.
So go. Walk the streets. Visit the bars. Find them. Fuck them.
Forget them. See them. Screw them. Scram. Use them for the cum
dumps you wish them to be. Ride them for the joy ride you crave. And
know this: you know nothing. Don't speak to me of desire.
(dez187lm@hotmail.com)
--
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