Hamlet's Cock

If, as they say, courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to overcome it, logically it follows that fidelity is not the absence of temptation..?

T'was thusly Rehtse excused herself in any case from the imperious commandments of her moral fortitude in recent years, favoring instead the magnetic interference of her heart's somewhat fluttery alignments - just long enough to become predictably and passionately enamored with every other male of her acquaintance (and a few of the females at that.)...

Rehtse had, against her parent's wishes, married at a young age, being possessed both by an old fashioned disposition and an unusually strong instinct to bond (with bizarre and unfaltering desperation) to the first man who ever took her interest. She was consequently the happy mother of four rambunctious young earthlings, and was therefore incapable of regretting any of her previously naive sentiments to do with love and intercourse. The man who had had the questionable misfortune of being the preliminary object of her desire, and subsequently her husband, was a taciturn and disagreeable fellow by all accounts. It could be accurately ascertained by any passingly affronted observer that this dark-haired, sharp-eyed cavalier had a primordially bad temper and no pretense whatsoever in the direction of hiding it. This chief characteristic his wife had admired about him perhaps above anything else.

Being an unconventional conventionist (or "weirdo" in the modern vernacular) Rhetse had always been prone to these bouts of intense admiration for certain people or places or animals or objects, as may be readily gathered. Her anomalous fancy was completely and willfully enslaved by anyone who happened to seize it. She called herself a mind-fondler and a cuddle-slut. It was, after all, a kind of addiction for her; getting to know people. Getting to understand the inner workings of their minds. And anyway, in this age of the sticky interwebs, when it has never been so easy to connect hearts and minds across time and relative dimensions in space, if she were to ever fall too deeply in love with one of her cherished curiosities, she at least had the conveniently inconvenient chastity-belt of vast distance to fall back upon in the event it was required... Indeed, it was virtually impossible to go too far here in virtual reality; simply through the free exchange of ideas... Was it not?

It would come as no shock to anyone but her then, that in her 30th year she had found herself unintentionally passing an inordinate amount of time wiling away her previously unused wiles on the sort of indiscriminate flirtations which would betray any woman with internet access in the perpetually lustful throes of a forcible midlife crisis. (Oh how guiltily she detested herself for this fickle character defect! ..Almost as much as the psychogenic expiation of humiliation which never failed to accompany it.)

The only fact she could still point to as any evidence whatsoever of her predominantly devout nature, was that no-one had heretofore captured her interest so powerfully nor held her attention so indelibly as one particular gentleman. He was a man who was (quite tragically) not her husband. A man of commensurately bold imagination, tenacious delicacy, and multifaceted genius... A man who obligingly acquiesced to the well-deserved nickname of ‘Hamlet’…

It was in the inevitable intellectual embrace of this unerringly magnificent entity; this kindredly old-souled, youthfully-cloud-minded, enthrallingly logical romantic, which she then found herself; red-flushed and sopping wet in the post-orgasmic bliss of an unfathomably satisfactory conversation, doubting the very fabric of free will itself…

I’ll leave the majority of words which passed between them to the adeptness of your worthy imagination dear reader. It is a fact that the particular phrases of elementary romanticism and vulgar flirtation which arose between these two forthright, mutually selfish thought-lovers and intellectual masturbators, would only be disserviced by reproduction. It was an inexorable affinity which occurred upon their cognitive meeting; each intuitively attracted to the other through a rare recognition of mirrored thoughts; a common instinct for the wilful confinement of impassioned honesty within the whimsical inadequacy of words.

“With you,” she told Hamlet one day, “ I believe I could dance flirtation to the very edges of fidelity.”

…

Remarkable how vivid it was; the Otherworldly realm in the deepest recesses of her imagining where Rehtse had known Hamlet; where they'd instantaneously fucked each-other haggard. How adeptly his oneiric writing overtook her moods. Rehtse’s innocent propensity to fantasize had made more of this than the intellectualizer in her could ever experience alone and she knew it. Every particle on her body was stimulated into submission by the entrancing realness of that imaginative propinquity with him.

How tense,

How slick,

How sensitive she became, needing him within...

How intimately she admired the unearthly actuality of his photograph: exploring his body hungrily with eyes which might as well have been lips and tongue, so closely she felt his every imaginary twitch... (his sweat tasted of film noir, starry skies and stray electric jolts...) She felt her fantasy lips wrap wetly around his smooth tan foreskin, aching wantonly... For him to slide that cock inside her from behind… it went far beyond a heavenly desire. How corporeally she felt the pain of his slow, intentional penetration. The depths he'd reached, impossibly. How they tumbled over each other - night after night - despicably naked both inside and out, in every position imaginable - Her gasps he'd eaten; smother-kissed. Not a good kisser, he'd worried to her at first. It was a wondrous understatement. How happily she'd die from that uniquely awkward lack of oxygen.

As his imaginary semen leaked from her numbly tingling cunt - The sharpness and aliveness of the Otherworldly air struck her silent.

A lingeringly ethereal scent of him always remained beyond the vagary.

When alone she still felt the enveloping warmths of his-chest-on-her-cheek and his-arm-on-her-back, every time she closed her eyes or touched herself. And as her heart announced it's tremulous post-orgasmic mechanizing, first audaciously, then diminishingly, comfortably, ever-presently to her sensationalized nervous system, she was back with him, her body syncing with some unknown arbiter of space and time, soaking in his slumbering rhythm, fascinated by his dwindling erection; it's pulses hypnotic; life's exertion ebbing into blissful flaccidity... She cherished each moment of its transformation... That cock... How marvelously and tirelessly creation's adulation must've worked upon the peculiar artistry of that particular phallic delight…

~

Rehtse awoke from her fantasy. It was nighttime. Her husband slumbered next to her. He’d just rolled over and put his knee up on her belly. She loved it when he did that. She shed some guilty tears of repentance and kissed his arm and stroked his leg hair lovingly. How could she do this to him? She was terminally married. She’d decided that since she was 17. …Why then, more than a decade later, was her fantasy fling with Hamlet so much more captivating than real life? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She felt an anxious need. She had to write to him. Had to check if he’d responded to her last message. It was barely even voluntary, this correspondence. It was a bodily function. She had to. She tapped her husband’s leg in the years-ago established code for needing to get up to use the bathroom. The tactile code was so well established in fact that he didn’t even wake up as she ferreted her way out of his embrace. Thus she slunk away successfully, loathing herself all the more for this auspicious sneakiness; Oh what a floozy she was! What a contemptible, traitorous wretch!

…

Hamlet had indeed sent her a message. It was a response to a question she'd asked; if he'd ever want to be her lover in real life if circumstances were different. He answered nonchalantly that he preferred boisterous and theatrical women. Rehtse felt a frustration welling in her which stemmed from her foulest and most instinctively feminine regions; a gutteral green yearning sunk her innards into a pool of slimy despondency for a moment, before a cunning scheme welled within, dispelling the vexation, and she smiled to herself cheekily, taking his confession of what he was attracted to as a challenge to fulfill it. She wrote him a letter and posted it publicly, all the better to prove her theatricality…

A Love Letter To A Friend.

Treat me not with the merciless indignity of friendship.

Not when I have wanted you so viscerally. Not when you occupy my every waking thought, and then, not content with that daylight mastery, you omnipotently deign to also haunt my dreams... such carnal dreams...

Of course I should not be complaining. It is a clemency that you enter me at all, even if you might not choose to. I want you inside my mind. In depraved, destructive ways. I want to be defiled by you, owned by you, kept by you. I want to languish in the power of your magnificence, to be nourished and then to die from your presence, as a flower wilts in too much life-giving sunlight.

But it cannot be so and I know it.

This intellectual fantasy, this... sensationalist fetish... does not align with my reality. And I am even now grimacing at myself for writing such ludicrous drivel.

It’s true, to be sure, you have never met a person so able to argue herself out of a compliment.

“She seems nice,” you might think on a first glance, “or at least calm and undramatic, she might be fun to hang around with.”

Not a moment later you will stagger back in horror, entirely convinced by my pompously eloquent self-flagellation that in fact I am just as demonically grotesque as the most barbarous gnarly beldam in existence! That I am but a vile putrid imbecile! Let me alone to wallow in my egotistical misery!

***

...I take it all back.

I retract my words from you as a cat retracts its claws from a beloved scratching post, getting them caught and meowing pitifully for release from my self-inflicted predicament.

Treat me, please, with the merciful dignity of friendship.

Could it really be possible that a being as flamboyantly monstrous as myself could be gifted such a forgiveness?

Surely it cannot be hoped.

Nevertheless, I promise that I shall henceforth endeavor to be more worthy of such compassion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After reading this public declaration Hamlet laughed at Rehtse endearingly, admitting that she was indeed plenty boisterous. The real reason then, that he was not interested in her romantically, was partly because she was married already, and partly because he had never wanted to settle down himself. He always became bored with women eventually. As much as he liked to be admired and enjoyed female attention, he also was content in his solitude, valuing his personal freedom above a traditional family-oriented life.

Rehtse grinned to herself, adoring communicating in this openly candid manner. She loved him all the more freely because he didn’t love her back, and therefore posed no threat to her marriage or child-rearing. His flagrant honesty was unrivaled by anyone she had ever encountered… At least, anyone since she’d first started talking online with her husband, when she was around 15 or 16.

…

I’ll spare this largely romanticized story the embarrassment of details as far as the method to madness is concerned. To tell hawks from handsaws, we might as well own the likelihood that Rehtse had, as she was prone to do, blown this palavering (what to him was plausibly not more than a trifling dalliance) up into the most sordid romance that had ever transpired in the history of mankind. A veritable Ophelia over him she was, and should remain so in her innermost imaginings, forevermore.

But this triumphant reveling in Hamlet’s attention was somewhat belayed, not only by its adulterous nature, but also by another niggling worry in the back of her brain; Her physical hideousness… Just because he had so far accepted her intellectual nakedness didn’t mean that he could be attracted to her corporeally as well. Afterall, who could be? Her husband barely contained his disgust whenever she was fully naked in front of him. …Hamlet had told her that he liked a bit of meat on a girl, but perhaps he was under the impression that she was some kind of smoothly curvy odalisque beneath her clothes, and had not the flabtastically deflatewrecked midsection and stretch-marked thigh wobbulations which constituted the actuality of a chronically binge-eating mother-of-four?

… Suffice it to say that in their first exchange of nude pictures, Rehtse covered her ugliest bits, revealing only her private parts, which she wasn’t nearly so ashamed of as her not-so-private ones. Then, convincing herself that this seductive sham of amateur photography was nothing more or less than the worst and most detestable falsehood any being had ever contrived to pull over another, she tearfully revealed her nakedness to him in its horrific entirety; with nothing whatsoever hidden from the cruel judgements of the camera-lens.

After flinging these unsolicited photographs at him along with a dramatically confessional adieu, containing expectations of (and preemptive forgiveness for) his inevitable loathing of her, Rehtse thoroughly expected to never hear from her Hamlet again, and, though she accusingly muttered to herself that doing without him was a just punishment for her adulterous thoughts, she could hardly bear the pain of giving him up. Imagine, never hearing from him again; that noble soul… to think the rest is silence… after everything…

What everything? She chided herself even for this falsehood on top of her multitude of others… This was naught but an unrequited infatuation on her part; half blatant fantasy, at least a quarter mutually selfish conversation-masturbation, five percent mental pheromones or boredom staving… That left ten percent? maybe? to the very real possibility of charity on his part. Yes. Human pity. …. Either pity or sincere kindred friendship… Could it be? No. Surely, what small friendly kind of love he had ever felt for her had now turned into revulsion? She deserved his hatred. She had tricked him into revealing his own orgasmically gorgeous nakedness and could offer nothing in return but ugliness and histrionics!…

Her heart clanged ardently against her throat as her shaking fingers clicked on the next message from her Hamlet. “Relax,” he told her in it, “Of course I do not hate you. I have no reason to hate you. I only feel sorry for your self-flagellating pain. You exaggerate your hideousness, and are not as monstrous as you profess to be. Anyway I was not expecting a diva. You just need to lose a little weight and gain a little confidence.”

Confidence! … It was a shocking revelation to her; through nothing more than a little play-acting bravado she could already change her posture into something less repulsive than the sniveling flab-monster she had revealed herself to be in her previously cowering reflection… How much of sexual attraction was actually reliant more on courageous psychological phenomena than it was on outward beauty…? Her husband had always told her that there was no point in losing weight, for she would be ugly either way. Well, now that there was a glimmer of hope for her corporeal form, perhaps she could show him differently! …All thanks to Hamlet. Ah, sweet prince…

You can readily guess, my dear perusing mortal, why, with all the rapture of a witless dolt flying high on the wings of love-sickness, some four or five months later, Rehtse had lost approximately 50 pounds of excess flab, attained an air of amorous wisdom, become a sexoholic (albeit a physically monogamous one) and gained a mite of pride in herself, towards which she had never before hoped to aspire, and during the aftermath of which her physical self-loathing would scarcely ever fully recover… (though of course her mental self-detestation and guilt-laden remonstrance for what she had subconsciously come to refer to as ‘The Grand Betrayal’ had not let up, and indubitably continue to this day, regardless of whatever day you’re reading this.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ two years later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Re: There Is Nothing Either Good Or Bad, But Thinking Makes It So.

I had a really vivid dream last night. A mushy sentimental one. You'll likely dislike it, I should probably keep it to myself, but it's not entirely without humor so I thought I'd tell you anyway because I enjoyed it immensely. I woke up with my heart racing in a pleasant manner...

It was you and me, sitting on a park bench someplace which could have been anywhere on Earth. Evening, after nightfall. There were trees around and a small lake with a rusted car protruding from it and the stars were reflecting on the lake in a pretty way. We were both old and wrinkled. It was the first time we'd ever met in person; probably half a century from now, judging by our dotage. I was an ancient hag of course, wrinkly as a bull-dog with stark white wispy hair. but you were also surprisingly elderly; balding and frail and far too thin, which I affectionately reprimanded you for (for of course by then I'm even more of a clucky mother-hen ) we smiled at each other... I shed some tears and held your hand and kissed it, feeling a wave of emotion about finally getting to touch you. I never thought I'd get to. You mumbled something like "It still works." and I looked up in your eyes, confused about what you meant; what still works? Then it dawned on me what you meant and I looked down and you'd surreptitiously unzipped your pants and displayed a very impressive erection. I gasped delightedly... your cock hadn't aged a day.

…

“It is very funny, indeed, you did well you told it to me. I laughed after I read your message. Maybe we’ll meet someday. Nobody knows.”