Glooooomy Sunday
.this is a bit early, but sunday is oh so far away and i was ever so gloomy earlier today. i present to you a rather piss poor (in video quality) version of mz. emilie autumn belting out Gloomy Sunday without the second ending because the people were disturbed...
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We met as scheduled at the cafe. You were coming off your shift as a barista, where you slaved away grinding java so you could pay off your tuition. I had you as my graduate assistant as I was a new 'Lecturer' at the University... in Philosophy. My specialization was Jean Paul Sartre and 'dehumanization in modern society'.
"I'm so bored, sometimes" you whined. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just staring into space...patiently waiting...."
"Waiting for what exactly?"
You turned your face toward the coffee cup I had just emptied. "Do you have a cigarette?" You implored.
"No," I said. "Smoking is no good for you."
You pouted like a little schoolgirl.
"How much do you need this semester?"
"I need $1000 to pay my books" you said.
"I 'll tell you what. I'll put you for a full TA ship. You can grade papers for me. You don't give them the actual grade, just correct their English, et cet."
"You would do that for me?" you said.
"And a lot more," I hinted, lightly touching your hand.
I asked you what you wanted to do with your life.
"I want to be your servant."
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The days grew to weeks as the two of us continued to flirt. I had so much work to do, and I was frustrated and unhappy. I didn't tell you, but that night, I went home, and I called a woman I used to know. We both masturbated to orgasm together.. but all the while I could not stop thinking of you. Your dark hair like ivy climbing down your long frame. I wondered how many men (and women ) you had been with. Laid with. Allowed to enter you. I thought of an obscene number of penises penetrating you, grinding into you.. I wished it were me doing that to you. I thought of countless women whom you took as lovers, their tongues deeply probing you, till the roof of your pussy felt like it was all aflame. I thought of you letting your hand touch yourself as a young girl, for the first time, exporing yourself, your forbidden little cave with the magic pearl at the entrance. Were you dreaming then of a sailor come to meet his lonely nymph down in the watery entrance of your lair? I thought of Odysseus and Circe, from Homer's Odyssey, laying together for ten years. I had to put down the amateurish writing of my freshmen and women 101 class as I daydreamed of you, my ... Lena.
After class, you would accompany me, pale thin arms clasping dozens of notebooks, papers, manila folders. I would lite up a Gaulois, and smooth my brown corduroy pants. How I wished they were black, as your soul is black, my Lena. But black would probably not be seen as good office politics, where we had to keep the depressed undergraduates from being perturbed by 'disturbing colors' or in this case, the absence of all color, all light. Black the most attractive of all tones was not forbidden expressly, yet implicitly and indirectly. Brown, a subdued natural color, reminding one of the earth, was more acceptable. After I had become a 'fixture' of sorts at the University, I would show them. I'd wear nothing but black, with maybe a hint of red in the neckerchief I would pose artfully in my black smoking jacket's external pocket.
I watched you from the corner of my eye as I read from the yellowing notes of my dissertation, which I had broken down into a series of lectures. I had to remove all excitement from the tone of my writing, all affect from the sound of my voice. Education must be dull, is the accepted unwritten creed of all lecturers, teachers and professors. We must not excite the students with excessive hand waving, books on the table slamming, vague gestures aimed at the wind. We must not distract the young learners. And you were most distracting to me, my Lena. I would only glimpse you, sitting in the corner seat in the front aisle, eyes piercing me with their burning interest. O my Lena.
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