the samok artist

.....as a millennial, she posts 'the in depth kind of coverage' she feels she believes everybody deserves they need, the three to four -- maybe seven, if one's lucky -- paragraphs of incisive analyses that those in the know should know and as a consequence, she feels that any individual can then expand on that topical, in a more enlightened mode and then she or he's able to, from what one has garnered, make a more informed decision, about what's right and what's wrong, from a moral standpoint, and who the winners are, and how the losers have to bear the brunt of what's been dished out to them, as a burgeoning social group, and how they then can, now armed to the teeth -- with information overload, employ strategic countermeasures to thwart the inevitable. what she had felt was....as a dabbler or -- for a lack of a better way of expressining that concept -- a dilettante, she could expatiate on any number of topics, if she had wanted to, and sometimes she does, in fact, and at random to boot, whenever she has a hankering, as long as nothing sounds to tautological in scope. and she doesn't want to overstep her bounds. make no mistake about it, she had wanted somebody to kiss her down there, but -- and this is a big 'but' -- she had wanted somebody, in addition, to really mean it; and she hadn't wanted to hear any gibberish about how beautiful she is, because she already knows, she knows he's enthralled by what her mind has to offer, and that also, he's quite aware of the fact that she is, in her own demeanor, a bona fide 'tester' of sorts and somebody who likes to, whenever circumstances permit, push the envelope. any number of men could approach her, at any given moment, in any given situation, and on neutral ground, but she's also well aware of the fact that nothing's a given. somebody's going to have to work for it, if he wants her, the way that he implies that he does and even though nothing about him is frivolous in intent, whether she's referring to him and anybody else for that matter, one should heed that these are not just brownie points either. he's going to have to show her exactly how far one's willing to 'extend himself' in order to 'supplement any given other person's needs'. she wants to hear the word commitment more than any other word. even if that particular word is not necessarily voiced aloud. she doesn't want to see him flirt with anybody else. ever. period. end of discussion. whether that might have been by accident or whatever 

when they saunter together in the woodlands or in another pristine forest, along a path unusually strident in autumn foliage, maples and oaks or whatever, hand in hand, yes, side by side, as nature imbues them at its utmost, in its own splendor, she feels as if this may be one of the most peaceful things, in terms of bliss, she has ever known, or experienced, and at times such as these, it's quite difficult to explicate, in words, how the silences can overwhelm the both of them, her and him, and he has to now and then, here and there, within the underbrush, mostly verdant ferns and carpeted moss, pause to kiss her on the mouth. but not assertively. and embrace her with the integrity she has come to appreciate and is understood. and she hugs him as well. not a second of hesitation though insistence is never an option; nevertheless, there's just enough solidarity in their intent, those embraces, for her to feel the impact of how she can then, in their wake, allow the both of them to, at complete leisure, melt into one another; right there, on a chilled september saturday afternoon such as this, as the sun timorous about the season in general peeks through the mostly overcast azure, as a stray raven in the distance lugubrious in its antics, on a bough somewhere caws, she loves to offer him the softer aspects of her tongue, as a lagniappe within the kiss, as he relishes her in his own mouth, ever thoughtful of where they're at and at the same time, he's gentle but never less passionate, and how could she not detect undeniable exuberance fully felt by either one of them, as she brushes up to him to get even closer than she had been and she feels her own areolae underneath her lambswool cardigan tighten and stiffen in such a pleasurable manner she would prefer rather not to ignore any of the tingling sensations associated with this dilatory undertaking at hand.

some girl on twitter had posted a random tweet: i don't want to give you false hope. <one sort of likes that sentence. for what it is. it makes sense. it's exactly how this other girl might say it. samok. a visayan word. topsy-turvy. there should be samok. in the bedroom. primarily. that is, if any one's able to handle it. not physically. the other aspects. the intangibles. you might say she's sort of a samok artist. in that what she creates somehow transcends doubt. she sees some thing....she creates it.....then she feels it....and as ephemeral as that is, in the midst of the moment, she can with relative easy, vacillate, even further than she had, previously. what does she want? she wants the opposite of indecisiveness, in the midst of the moment. she wants to have a say in who gives what to whom. she had always felt....she deserves certain things. since she's a millennial. and she's on the threshold of fecundity. there's a part of her that's saturnine whenever she sits down for lunch and masticates an odwalla bar. she should have curly endive salad instead. sometimes she thinks about other salads as well. embedded morsels of squid and tiger prawns. others need like belgium endive. because that's even more delicate. like her. underneath the leaves.

she'd never wanted to say no. she'd always wanted to say yes. to say yes aloud. in a stentorian voice some one she cares about likes to hear. from this day forward, she has decided never to pretend to moan, when she doesn't need to. every moan will be a real moan. or there won't be any moan at all. she had realized that every casuistic moan sputtered out at random is nothing more than an inappropriate stratagem, to build up false hope. and she had not wanted to be any part of that. not even as a millennial. if he elects to place his mouth down there, on the tender leaves and or on anything else, as delicate as any thing else is, which she almost certainly acknowledges that he will, there won't be any thing else which will emanate from the further recesses of her womb other than what she has concurred to be an unequivocal authenticity she doesn't want to feel she has to live without. she'd like to sway along and abrade into whatever deserves persnickety attention. and never have to second guess. she loves when he does that. whatever he does. she's been lucky. more lucky than some. some girl don't even know. what it should be like. to live.