Tags
abstractions, crowds, fiction, passion, sensuality, sex, short story
Men sing songs for women. Women they would want to meet, women who have left them for another woman, women who have yet to learn the meaning of love, women who love other men… They write their songs for these heartless women and climb on to the stage to sing to a room half-filled with fatales like these.
Men sing songs for women. Women who have their arms wrapped around one man and for another, a promise of a crazed plowing when the night decides it’s a good time to ripen. They slide against other bodies with t-shirts plastered to their skin; the slick sheen of raw lust and perfumes that have confused their notes as the stubborn glue. Their names all sound sweet and faintly similar but when they roll off the singer’s tongue, they take on a meaning that’s more sex than sweet.
Men sing songs for women. Women who know and are yet indifferent to the men they madden in the room. The men on the stage and the men in the crowd – all soaked in fumes of liquor and several different degrees of hunger. They want to touch and take and then forget, but the women won’t have it. The women are the ones who do the touching, taking and forgetting. The men are left writhing with the bitter taste of wanting.
Men sing songs for women. Women who make them bare their hearts and their souls to the microphone. They aren’t writers, artists or entertainers when they climb on to the stage. They are men – lonely and uncomplicated and easily broken. As they sing, their fingers move and their hips gyrate and their heads shake off manes of hair drenched in sweat. They imagine themselves in bed with these women. Their labouring fingers, hips and heads straining to reach a cruel crown.
Men sing songs for women. Women who watch all this and know they are on the stage with the singer and with every man in the room at the same time. The stage becomes a gondola, a darkened alley, a balcony, a garden, an elevator, a bathroom stall, a back bench, a tuk-tuk, a plane, a bed.
Men sing songs for women. But it is the women who make men really sing.
Men sing songs for women.
And the women dance for men.
Yin & Yang.
Hey, hey… Let’s just stick to singing here. You can write about the dancing part :P
first time i have read something like this, so raw and from the male view point. loved it.
Oh, I didn’t mean for it to come across from a man’s PoV, but now that you mention it, it could pass for it. Hmm… Interesting.
>>all soaked in fumes of liquor and several different degrees of hunger. They want to touch and take and then forget, but the women won’t have it. The women are the ones who do the touching, taking and forgetting. The men are left writhing with the bitter taste of wanting.<<
Beautiful writing.
This man prefers to write and bury.
Thank you (and most times, so do I).