Reasons for Being
I'm not staring. I'm observing.
Airports are a good place to watch people. It's like the DMV. Everyone has to use it. You see all kinds, from all backrounds and cultures in one place.
People intrigue me. Every individual is just that: an individual. Certainly, most are trying to fit into some kind of group, mold, clique or cult. Finding their place. Their reason for being. But little nuances in the words they use, the moments of their bodies, etc. convey a language that expresses more than simple words can.
People know when I'm watching them, they usually feel it if they aren't wrapped up living their lives. So many people, so many different lives, with so many different people living their different lives. They all have different reasons for living them. So many people. So many reasons to live...
Or none at all.
Other than the fact that self-preservation is our most basic instinct, now matter how shitty our situation is.
There. That mother of three. She knew I was watching as she attended to the little girl in the stroller who had dropped her binky while simultaneously shouting at the toddler who was running among the aisles of people while waiting for the same flight as I. She interrupted my thoughts of my own childhood and how I'm too selfish to have children as her eyes looked up at me, neither friendly nor malicious.
I didn't break my gaze. I never do. When people look back at me, my body language responds to what their look is saying. IF it's a friendly look, I'll smile. If it's critical, I challenge them with an eyebrow and a fierce look.
The mother goes back to tending her children-- her reason for living. One of many... Or none at all.
And my gaze wanders...
I look at several people as they pass me by. Many of the women, I scan their figure, appreciating their curves and and various body structures and comparing it to my own. It's something I've done since I hit puberty and increases the more I let my eatind disorder reign in my head. Anorexia... it used to be my reason for living. One of many. Or none at all...
Many of the women, I look at their faces and wonder what faces they make as they're getting fucked. I've been doing that alot recently. Is that wierd? I mean, here I am, talking about observing depth in people, little details that give me insights into their personality... but the first thought in my mind before I observe and ponder about their lives, their reason (s) for living are the faces they make during sex.
I don't do that with men. The sex face thing I mean. Probably because I'm more often than not face-down or have my eyes closed when I, myself, am engaged in the act. Partially because both enhance the feeling for me, and partially because women's sex faces, while sometimes funny to look at, are also very sexy, while male sex faces, well, they make me laugh. I've literally laughed while getting fucked. I couldn't help it... his face scrunched up so much, he looked like a pug.
But I do watch men too, and observe. And speculate. The young corporate guy, with his laptop bag, hair frosted and spiked stylishly, but on his cellphone: all business. He's probably been with the company a year or so, he's too young to have any length of time put in, but felt a little too "at home" in the airport...
OOP! He felt it. He looks up from his spreadsheet, meets my eyes. His soften, but hold a flirty glint. I keep my gaze soft, but not inviting. He smiles.
I've done this often enough to know what transpires. If I kept up, he might come over, offer to buy me a drink at the bar. We'd talk about our plans once we hit our future destination, what we did at our current one. There'd be innuendo and sensual but fleeting touches. Nothing overboard, all pretty innocent. Maybe we'd exchange numbers, or eve a small kiss, depending on how many drinks he'd bought us. Nothing would come of it though. We'd forget about each other once we resumed our lives, our schedule in the real world. We both were using the other to pass the time. For a little attention (the gods know I can't get enough). Maybe as a reason to live... to a small degree.
But as I return his smile across the aisle, I did look away. My had travelled to my bag to answer a few text messages I'd recieved during our exchange. One from a very dear friend, one from my guardian angel, and one from someon simply amazing. My reasons to live. I don't really need a fleeting one to pass the time. They are one of many.
Or none at all...
Airports are a good place to watch people. It's like the DMV. Everyone has to use it. You see all kinds, from all backrounds and cultures in one place.
People intrigue me. Every individual is just that: an individual. Certainly, most are trying to fit into some kind of group, mold, clique or cult. Finding their place. Their reason for being. But little nuances in the words they use, the moments of their bodies, etc. convey a language that expresses more than simple words can.
People know when I'm watching them, they usually feel it if they aren't wrapped up living their lives. So many people, so many different lives, with so many different people living their different lives. They all have different reasons for living them. So many people. So many reasons to live...
Or none at all.
Other than the fact that self-preservation is our most basic instinct, now matter how shitty our situation is.
There. That mother of three. She knew I was watching as she attended to the little girl in the stroller who had dropped her binky while simultaneously shouting at the toddler who was running among the aisles of people while waiting for the same flight as I. She interrupted my thoughts of my own childhood and how I'm too selfish to have children as her eyes looked up at me, neither friendly nor malicious.
I didn't break my gaze. I never do. When people look back at me, my body language responds to what their look is saying. IF it's a friendly look, I'll smile. If it's critical, I challenge them with an eyebrow and a fierce look.
The mother goes back to tending her children-- her reason for living. One of many... Or none at all.
And my gaze wanders...
I look at several people as they pass me by. Many of the women, I scan their figure, appreciating their curves and and various body structures and comparing it to my own. It's something I've done since I hit puberty and increases the more I let my eatind disorder reign in my head. Anorexia... it used to be my reason for living. One of many. Or none at all...
Many of the women, I look at their faces and wonder what faces they make as they're getting fucked. I've been doing that alot recently. Is that wierd? I mean, here I am, talking about observing depth in people, little details that give me insights into their personality... but the first thought in my mind before I observe and ponder about their lives, their reason (s) for living are the faces they make during sex.
I don't do that with men. The sex face thing I mean. Probably because I'm more often than not face-down or have my eyes closed when I, myself, am engaged in the act. Partially because both enhance the feeling for me, and partially because women's sex faces, while sometimes funny to look at, are also very sexy, while male sex faces, well, they make me laugh. I've literally laughed while getting fucked. I couldn't help it... his face scrunched up so much, he looked like a pug.
But I do watch men too, and observe. And speculate. The young corporate guy, with his laptop bag, hair frosted and spiked stylishly, but on his cellphone: all business. He's probably been with the company a year or so, he's too young to have any length of time put in, but felt a little too "at home" in the airport...
OOP! He felt it. He looks up from his spreadsheet, meets my eyes. His soften, but hold a flirty glint. I keep my gaze soft, but not inviting. He smiles.
I've done this often enough to know what transpires. If I kept up, he might come over, offer to buy me a drink at the bar. We'd talk about our plans once we hit our future destination, what we did at our current one. There'd be innuendo and sensual but fleeting touches. Nothing overboard, all pretty innocent. Maybe we'd exchange numbers, or eve a small kiss, depending on how many drinks he'd bought us. Nothing would come of it though. We'd forget about each other once we resumed our lives, our schedule in the real world. We both were using the other to pass the time. For a little attention (the gods know I can't get enough). Maybe as a reason to live... to a small degree.
But as I return his smile across the aisle, I did look away. My had travelled to my bag to answer a few text messages I'd recieved during our exchange. One from a very dear friend, one from my guardian angel, and one from someon simply amazing. My reasons to live. I don't really need a fleeting one to pass the time. They are one of many.
Or none at all...