The adulterer's confession - Writers Forum

sardpete · 05-23-2007, 12:26 PM

The Adulterer’s Confession

I must admit I needed the passion of the chase, the wild free birds that mocked me, those that never could be mine. And perhaps that is why I wanted them. Because they could not be mine.
That is the reason too that I have stolen others wives. It’s good to shear another’s sweet fat sheep and meet the shepherd in the bar and laugh behind your eyes. Do others know that feeling? Now I will never know. There is special pleasure in knowing that you steal. The laws they lock you in but here there are no laws. You hear your lover’s words and delicately you soothe, and coax the words from them. And as with every sentence they betray, and expose the emptiness they hide inside, deep inside you laugh, and thank the gods you are not them.
Seduction is a delicate art, and yet with married women there are ways. How does one learn to be a thief? First a look in someone’s eyes, an impatience, a flash of boredom when their husbands speak. You mark them down and think: This one can be taken from the flock. But is she fat enough? Will her juices make mine flow? And is she wild enough? Or will her fears be greater and send her scurrying back towards the herd? And will she want me or is her lust a kind I cannot light? You cannot know and can but try, and if you’re wrong move on, for there are others and she will fall into another’s trap. All you have done is loosened the rope that binds her and shown her pastures new, waking but not quieting desires another will fulfil.
And that is funny too. You have not won but he has lost. He is still sleeping sound but you know one day the wolf will come and break his quiet and show that you were right to stay away from ties, to hide within, to be alone, untouched, untouchable, unhurt. Unhurt.
And so the stalk begins. It is not always so, for nomads and thieves like me must take their chances. Sometimes it is, in the soldier’s phrase, the target of opportunity. The dying party where you arrive late and, seeing the fractures between him and her, refuse the second drink. He boisterous and drunk, absurd, she seeing it, and as your eyes meet, hers flash with anger and embarrassment, because she knows that you are laughing, and not just at him, but at her as well, tied to this buffoon. And now your mind is racing , calculating, working out the chances of cutting her from the herd, of finding some dark corner, where passion can explode, the opening of mouths, the fondling and touching, eyes closed against the sight, for this is private passion, the other does not intrude, as both of you well know, each slaking their own thirst upon the other’s body.
Your thoughts stop there, and idly you watch the re-robing. For when the morning comes she will be his again, for she too can calculate the logistics of her life but just for this one moment she is yours, for you have seen the emptiness within.
That’s how it was with Moira. Him she would have left, but not the house and car. He, from hate of his father and knowing that he had bastard brothers in other lands, had sterilised himself, not wanting that there should be another who had to live like him. Moira told me of the words his father used to excuse himself which had burned like a corrosive acid inside his head. “I like to spread my genes around.” What loneliness that man had left to his by-blows growing without a father. So he would not be one, and so she would not also know what it was to have a child, or not with him she loved. What did that mean to her? She was still young and comfortable but the future stretched so far ahead, and was an endless plain, with nothing that could change, and so she found relief in coupling with strangers.
The stalk is different. There is a balancing, a weighing up, as you lie on some empty hillside, among the butterflies and flowers, the drowsy buzzing bees collecting their nectar as you will collect yours, looking down upon the flock. She can be taken. That you know. But do you want her? Is she worth the complications she will bring? And if you invest your energy and time, will she fall to you or to another’s wiles? So you begin to circle her, distracting, touching her flanks by chance, confusing her, not pushing, nothing said, only showing that you know that she is there. Let her come to you. By casual words you show that when she talks you hear.
That was my private snare. Words only words. We talk into a void, and when the words rebound and we imagine that someone can hear us when we speak, we fall in love. So simple but absurd. For I am trained to hear, and echo the response, and never let them know there is another voice. My own, that only I can hear.
Here.
Now.

fjf1329 · 05-24-2007, 09:19 AM

I find the style unusual but I like what you have written. It is different.

Loulou · 05-25-2007, 11:54 AM

It's certainly unusual and very evocatively written. I like how you describe the woman so animal-like - refer to getting her away from the flock. It's not really a story though. Nothing really happens. Could you work more of a story into it? The language is good I'm sure you could. At the minute it's just a ramble, though an interesting ramble.....

Azmakna · 05-25-2007, 03:23 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by sardpete

The Adulterer’s Confession

I must admit I needed the passion of the chase, the wild free birds that mocked at me, those that never could be mine. And perhaps that is why I wanted them. Because they couldn’t be mine.

lose this. change this to 'could not' it fits your style better.

That is the reason too that I have stolen others wives. It’s good to (share) another’s sweet fat sheep and meet the shepherd in the bar and laugh behind your eyes. Do others know that feeling? Now I will never know. There is special pleasure in knowing that you steal. The laws they lock you in but here there are no laws. You hear your lover’s words and delicately you soothe, and coax the words from them. And as with every sentence they betray, and expose the emptiness they hide inside(.) Deep inside you laugh, and thank the gods you are not them.

i'm loving this! fragment.

Seduction is a delicate art, and yet with married women there are ways. How does one learn to be a thief? First a look in someone’s eyes, an impatience, a flash of boredom when their husbands speak. You mark them down and think: This one can be taken from the flock. But is she fat enough? Will her juices make mine flow? And is she wild enough? Or will her fears be greater and send her scurrying back towards the herd? And will she want me or is her lust a kind I cannot light? You cannot know and can but try, and if you’re wrong move on, for there are others and she will fall into another’s trap. All you have done is loosened the rope that binds her and shown her pastures new, waking but not quieting desires another will fulfil.

so true! experience eh? to.

And that is funny too. You have not won but he has lost. He is still sleeping sound but you know one day the wolf will come and break his quiet and show that you were right to stay away from ties, to hide within, to be alone, untouched, untouchable, unhurt. Unhurt.

i like your grandure

And so the stalk begins. It is not always so, for nomads and thieves like me must take their chances. Sometimes it is, in the soldier’s phrase, the target of opportunity. The dying party where you arrive late and, seeing the fractures between him and her, refuse the second drink. He boisterous and drunk, absurd, she seeing it, and as your eyes meet, hers flash with anger and embarrassment, because she knows that you are laughing, and not just at him, but at her as well, tied to this buffoon. And now your mind is racing , calculating, working out the chances of cutting her from the herd, of finding some dark corner, where passion can explode, the opening of mouths, the fondling and touching, eyes closed against the sight, for this is private passion, the other does not intrude, as both of you well know, each slaking their own thirst upon the other’s body.

stalking. have you been talking to my friends? you have! lol.

Your thoughts stop there, and idly you watch the re-robing. For when the morning comes she will be his again, for she too can calculate the logistics of her life but just for this one moment she is yours, for you have seen the emptiness within.

That’s how it was with Moira. Him she would have left, but not the house and car. He, from hate of his father and knowing that he had bastard brothers in other lands, had sterilised himself, not wanting that there should be another who had to live like him. Moira told me of the words his father used to excuse himself which had burned inside his brain. “I like to spread my genes around.” What loneliness that man had left to his by-blows growing without a father. So he would not be one, and so she would not also know what it was to have a child, or not with him she loved. What did that mean to her? She was still young and comfortable but the future stretched so far ahead, and was an endless plain, with nothing that could change, and so she found relief in coupling with strangers.

first time anything leapt out as wrong. try 'head'

The stalk is different. There is a balancing, a weighing up, as you lie on some empty hillside, among the butterflies and flowers, the drowsy buzzing bees collecting their nectar as you will collect yours, looking down upon the flock. She can be taken. That you know. But do you want her? Is she worth the complications she will bring? And if you invest your energy and time, will she fall to you or to another’s wiles? So you begin to circle her, distracting, touching her flanks by chance, confusing her, not pushing, nothing said, only showing that you know that she is there. Let her come to you. By casual words you show that when she talks you hear.

stalking. keep that metaphor alive fella GREAT! what can i say... excellent

That was my private snare. Words only words. We talk into a void, and when the words rebound and we imagine that someone can hear us when we speak, we fall in love. So simple but absurd. For I am trained to hear, and echo the response, and never let them know there is another voice. My own, that only I can hear.
Here.
Now.

THAT is fantastic fella

your observations make a whore of you lol. i don't think some of it would stand the test of word's grammar checker, but who the hell cares! that was a pleasure to go through. i will listen when you critique

sardpete · 05-25-2007, 11:20 PM

thanks all. you are right Lou Lou. It is actually a slightly edited part of an unfinished novel (sent it off to three agents but when they weren't interested lost hope and gave up). However by slightly twisting it I was hoping it would come across as a death bed confession and thus coherent as a story in itself. Azmakna, what can I say? I am almost blushing at your enthusiasm lol. I have accepted some of your corrections (for example you are clearly right with mocked I was probably caught between laughed and mocked when I wrote it), but stalk can be a noun as well as a verb and I think the gerund is often weaker somehow. as for "to the herd" rather than "towards the herd" I had a distinct image of a single sheep which had not yet found the safety of the flock, if you see what I mean, and so towards seemed right. Thank you for such careful reading and comments. One final point. It is fiction! lol