Observation – Women Problems

I have a problem with women.

It is that I have a plan for each of them, each of those who are eaten by my eyes; I have a script for the lucky ones who whet my inexplicably voracious appetite. I want to be in them, I want to dominate them completely and all the while I want them to yearn for it, a yearning hovering on regret and guilt for their complicity. The regret is the worry, it is the fear of what she has gotten herself into; it is a nervousness to spark the synapses, to permeate and quiver her very flesh. I want to erupt her fears from the inside out, filling her to bursting, and bursting her to fulfil her unseen darkest cravings. Her guilt is for the depth of vulgarity she had hitherto buried deep inside, now exposed and flushed and panting. I yearn to see the violence of it all drawn roughly across her face, grimaces, clenched jaw, clenched eyes and tears and yelps, gasps and groans – efforts to take gigantic injections into her body and expulsions bringing surges of relief, mingling the electric pulses of the indistinguishable folding waves of pleasures and pains, convulsions and contortions, lusts like driven rain.

I have women problems.

Maybe it is just that I have problems?

Or perhaps it is true that we can never agree upon what each of us truly wants or desires because we are definitely too afraid to ask for them, it is just not ‘proper.’ It is just so: we all have problems.