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To Love and Lust in ‘45 (erotic short story, that I wrote) ACT I
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To Love and Lust in ‘45 (erotic short story, that I wrote) ACT I What are with these dangerous displays of lunacy from me? Crazy for lust, driven by something I once had. My little ‘toy’ has returned home. What stood in front of me, was once a great man. He once had a gentleman’s grace, a scholar’s wit, and a soldier’s strength. The years of endless lose and battles has turned the young boy that went to war, into an old man. His grief has sprung from unrequited love. I haven’t slept with him since before the war. The spark of our love, die in the water in ‘41, flowing with those he lost on those far off beaches. The cloud that hovers over him, played with his heart, thus using him when feeling moist. Foolish dampened; what left of what was once innocence feeling of friendship, partnership, and replace it for battleships. Took a sailor’s lust, and ripped a marine’s heart. I’d broken down somebody, with more impact than any bombs or mortal attack. The few, the proud, would die so easily from a heartless woman. No weapon from those hearts of the Rising Sun can do much damage, as I had done. While he was off fighting for freedom in some far off island; somewhere, I fought of opening the sailor’s pants. Lunacy acts!! When did lust begin, to be friends of war’s great tragedy? The toy I once enjoyed; grew up, smarter, and wiser. The fun was over. Telling him about it, ruin what left of my world. I killed a marine without a knife or gun, today. All I needed was my lecherousness. It’s was 1945, it was my job to turn back the hands of time. As far as I’m concerned, the ends justify the means. This war took so much for me; I WILL NOT let it take my husband. Ruins will be damn, take me back, my loyal Marine! The flag waves here, on these mountains too. His salvation from four years of pantomime actions from me: you liberation me of my darkness. Please show me capacity for sympathy. This stage haunted me like ghosts. I speak upon the audience, expressing my guilt, wishing for pity, wishing for forgiveness. Whose, who watch, thinks it’s an act, a play, an actor faking emotion. Looking into the crowd, I see my parents, my friends; my peers, the ghosts of the men that got lust, than love. Those whom are dead or not yet dead stare with cold daring eyes. Asking to cease to feel resentment, knowing no roses will be placed on the stage, no cheers or applause will come. The only roses they’ll deliver, when my name isn’t on the marquee, but on my tombstone. I wake up from my nightmare, lying in my dressing room couch, stood up and down another drink from a glass wine bottle. Walk onto the mirror, seeing the face of beauty, eyeing the mouth and lips. How many men have I kiss? How many lies spill out from this mouth? For once in this life, it closed. Gathering myself, puff the face with make-up. What ironic, putting something on your face, to hide the lies, so you can make up to your husband. The reasons for the word ‘make up’ suited it well. Grin, young girl, the show must go on, please those who came to see you. The stage hand comes, ‘two minutes until show time, Miss”. Two minutes, a good enough of time for one last smoke, I light the cigarette. Blow out the toxic as a lack ditch effort to stop the poison that became me. Ashtray<b> butts </font></b>snuff the cigarette out. Was I just blowing smoke, or telling the truth? The show will tell. Showtime! |
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