Flash Story – “The Rise of Eroticism” – Erotica

There is much to adore of a form so raw with flesh. She shows bravery by walking to a place where she may admire her form.

As I peer through this window to see her, I may watch the breasts move upwards, as she steers such a form. I may see her cheeks with redness attached, and a chin where sweat has loomed to it. Alike to a cliff where a waterfall would drain away its contents into a gorge, this is it. She does not falter. No; and she cannot falter.

I am in love with mere beauty?

Although, I see my own reflection as a deposit of soil against this filthy frame, and a window becomes a mirror. At once, what I notice is beheld before me as a face of hideousness!

A man of an atrocious appearance. So much befuddled with the wetness from grime, from endless hours in vain toil. What would I achieve in that virtuous undertaking of a task, any task, to suit a moment’s reprieve? A moment in tired rest? Underneath sheets that are made from satin or linen, from a hotel with such fabric not belonging to me?

But, I am here to now see a woman in admiration to an astonishing figure, am I not? I am not here to berate myself. I am only here to see that which strikes out upon my face as a woman of no scolding to what she notices.

Two breasts like two pears, evenly displaced from the other, and perky enough to create that tip, alike to the pear’s shape. Of famous eyes that glimmer among the room’s arid temperature, and arms that do the same. Of those same eyes that are buried in the deepest shade of brown. And those same arms, that sway widely after she’s expressed admiration before this mirror in her room.

Oh, how I wish I could be that mirror!

How I wish I could understand that mirror, as well, and how it came to be in that corner, of where it stands.

Beautiful as she may be, she is only a figure, and I as well, see my face, once again; as it stares back at me, I can feel such a sting. A loathing, a pressing, and a great hatred that steams from somewhere fowl.

I know it.

In admiration of a figure, I admire the slave. The form. The worker. I would admire them, and still think highly of their efforts.

Who had sculpted her, I now ask?

Who had made the curves, that relate so much to the Earth, and its same curvature? Who has made the eyes with so much color alike the deepest shade of the bark upon an oak, or the deadened Autumn leaves?

Had I mentioned her hair, where female vices spring truest?

To make it alike to baldness would be to spread contempt upon both the beauty and travesty of a heart.

Had I mentioned the greatest detail, being the button to her abdomen, alike to the disused outlet in the wall of the Victorian home; or especially alike to either of this woman’s ears, that hearken to the neighboring parties, ones that are creating tunes upon gramophones?

For I say this is important, because in viewing it, I see of this woman, the vastest of sympathy. To breed. To offer. To allow.

And I am merely an object, disowned.

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