I used to know this woman who had the most beautiful tattoos on the topsides of both of her hands.
She was forty-three years old and as far as I know, had never yet been with a man.
It's not that she wasn't attractive (she was beautiful), but it was the way that she interacted.
She was aggresively passive to the point where she would have intimidated any mit that ever tried to catch it.
On the right hand she had a tattoo of a nude girl, she explained it as what God resembled.
But on the left she had a mirrored image of the same female, and this one she explained looked like the devil.
I remember her once watching her touch her own breasts, how the tattoos smiled as they stared down her stomach.
As if anticipating, would they be allowed to caress, the sweet flower that they both seemed to hunger.
Now maybe I was high, but it felt so right, heaven and hell both take to this woman's womb.
It didn't make sense how she could commence touching herself with me wide awake in the same room.
But if I've learned anything in my years (in my years) I learned I no longer believe in surprises.
But what happened next damn near stole my tears, the tattoos came alive right in front of my eyes.
They both slowly stood up and climbed off her hands and showed me why she took never took some time with a man.
They climbed deep inside of this woman's garden, she closed her eyes (and she gently bit her bottom lip). I stepped, I left, and I don't regret leaving, and I'll never forget all the things I saw that evening.
A glimpse of religion, a piece of coming closer to understanding more about one intrigues me most.
I didn't get turned on, I just got turned.
I wasn't as aroused as I was concerned.
For each one of 'em I've hurt and everytime I've been burned, I've got a lot to teach, but even more to learn.
So now I keep my eyes open, hopin to take in all I can (about woman takin in all she can)...