The Secret Sin

The Secret Sin

So you are always looking for a type A woman?  And you know that the A5 class, commonly called “dolls” or “death defiers,” is the hottest kind of seeker’s quarry?  Well I’ve got news for you.  You’re right.  Every man alive wants to ogle an A5.  She’s so sinister and machiavellian in your worst imagining and can keep you alive in moments of guilt and shame, that you give in and tempt her to date you upon the way. There is no way to go at them.  Thousands of men ogle  and flirt with them every day.  So they wear a disguise.  They dress like a good girl should to make her father proud. And it works.  You’re addicted, and you end up thinking and feeling that getting her to undress would be the only way to expel the terror of being so hopelessly in lust that you are just about ready to cross the ocean.

But you can’t, and so in your shame you indulge in her beautiful curve and her beaming smile and just about have to give her what you think she must want, which is your constant attention to what she is about to do, to catch her, to tame her, to lust without abandoning yourself to sin, to try to really reach that peak point again in moments to come.  She’ll about face and tell you to back off, perverted acid user that you must seem to her to be.  She’s got you right where you thought you were least vulnerable.  She’s type A material, and you are a basic puss.

The real escape is to revel in her form in your mind afterwards.  And you see in many ways that she can please the sense of outright indignation at being her father-figure, that she will give you that special kind of nightmare that only a man has for a woman that goodly and upright in her most devious way of posturing like a beauty queen.  She has been unmasked.  She is very vicious to imagine that she will be real to you.  She knows your heart, every time you smile at her, you are one of those who sexually assault her type with those eyes that are given to lustful advance upon her territory in the dark of the night, alone with your wife along for the ride.  She’s got the kind of salt of the earth that every girl has, but she exalts of you nothing, and lets you sin.

It’s the kind of sin that moments ago seemed justified. It really is the kind of attitude you want to hate in yourself, and everyone turns into a potential threat.  Your menacing gaze is dirt in her face, and she sees the truth when you let her into your mind.  You are a lustful perverted queer to the most amazingly truthful oppressor your heart has ever mindfully been aware of.  She knows that you are corrupted by vile pretenses, and so has she been allowed out of hell to see you die in your own fire as a really pissed off churchman.  Nothing is so easy to forget as that moment when you begin to deny that you ever saw her.  Not until you see another type A5.  Then you are all over again the same type of dirty bastard that ever was a fan of the type of girl she wants you to be, as a sex maniac and a nymphette all in one.

Nothing oppressed her to save you in rhythm and rhyme, in song and in dance, on television she is the film composer’s worst oppressively feminine type of gal to get along with, in pretend.  Nothing but film comes down to that single real freedom, the onanist’s delight, with so many figurative delusions packed into such a small tiny frame.  The thing is over, and she was right to send you dismal occlusion, the way that you should oppress each girl that doesn’t figure as one of her class of type A chick.  The thing you want should come to you unnaturally, in a dream.  The way that nobody ever can excepting Jesus Christ.  And he comes to you instead, in the guise of an A10, to calm your fever and telling you that she will be taken here and there in the arms of ten other men a day.  Nobody owns her mind, see.  And only God is allowed to be with her entirely.  You cannot possess her in every way, she will seem to possess you instead, and with the fury of a rude awakening from the night of slumber in which you see that you have become a man of total reproach in front of the mirror, and can’t keep the shame locked in remorse for an A6, who looks just like an A5, but dresses in the robes of the father-figure in a girlish way, of the army type of charmer who reveals the truth about herself in the arms of a distant man who has many things in common with her, and can’t really see himself as the kind of person she seems to like men to be.  Nothing could be further from the truth than the lie that she beholds when men like her try to breach the security of arranged type 1 class A moments in love, or what seems like a romantic jolt of luscious energetic sexual magnetism, a real shock in a time of want and need.  She cannot console you, because you have been given the real deal in art and culture from the school of the arts in Colorado.  No one knows her there, however.  She only lives now in your imagination as one of the complete and victorious types of monarch that could ever live residing inside that territory she carves in your mainframe of a brain.