In the Bawdyhouse

He had imagined a scene of dark seduction, of certain anonymity;
imagined a shadowed cloak of mystery and slight romance
where he might have to check his obvious arousal.
But reality did not conform to this young man’s fantasy
of the circumstance and surrender of his innocence.

The house was neither dark nor shabby; but bright
so cruelly bright he felt wretchedly exposed and fearful
that his meagre stature may not please the stringent Madame.
Yet, as in his dreams, heavy perfumes cloyed his mouth
and soft voices played subtly on his desires.

Then one by one the women passed before him offering,
with coquettish smiles, their soft and sonsie curves;
titillation in their bodices and the lace around their thighs.
Later he had no recall of how he’d made his final choice
from this display of flaunted women in their studied poses.

But his memory was sharp with images in gilt edged mirrors
which captured every fallen smile and empty gesture.
And he was haunted by the echoes of feint sighs and whispers
in empty corridors which lead him to a spartan room
where sweated, spent, he had fallen into a stranger’s arms.

She was pretty and slight, her face not that of painted whore,
and she moved with unexpected lissomness and grace.
He was entranced, and ached to charm and please her.
But he faltered as he caught her shallow, worn out smile;
a tiredness borne of this repeated scene with so many nameless men.

Afraid to move or break the spell, he watched her act of preparation.
Her dark eyes fixed on him as with routine and artful touch
she’d peeled the sheerest stockings from her perfect legs.
A thin silk robe, which had barely hid her youthful form, opened
at her breasts and naked sex; sweet prelude to a brief performance.

When at last she’d signalled him with full rose petalled lips;
he showed no doubt or hesitation tho' now had hope that
their encounter would delight her as no other traded coupling had.
But there was no fire, no exquisite submission to his urgent touch;
that poignant graze of flesh on flesh, of skin on soft smooth skin.

His temerity and need of simple pleasure gave way to fevered passion.
But this unfamiliar intimacy did not surrender the pure communion
he sought so eagerly in every heated moment, every hurried breath.
He yearned to be accepted not for his purse or vulgar, common manhood
but for his virtues; and for the fierce connection of their two souls.

Then it was that time seemed to slow and a sudden sadness
took quiet hold; a fleeting familiar melancholy which enveloped him
so often like ice cold rain, and quenched the fire inside him.
And as he gazed upon the young girl’s face lit softly by the lamplight
he felt he’d bruised her beauty with his shameless lust.