My pleasure is gone.

"Pleasure is a gypsy- one night she is there, then the next day she is gone, and my anxiety and my worst nightmare is waking up knowing that she is gone forever."-Roy the Dudder

My relationship with pleasure is an unusual one. I hold her hand, and I love her all together, but she is lethal, very sharp to the touch, never able to cuddle for too long, and on occasion, she draws blood, but that doesn't bother me none, its just a scratch; very superficial. And its all worth it in the end, for the prize and the end of her exitance is pleasure.

She smells likes roses and is satisfying. She is life, a gift from God. She is food; a type of food that is for more than nurturing the body; this food gratifies my soul beyond all that I can imagine - I can only testify that without her, life is not worth living. I cant live without her, so I believe. In her presence, there is no anxiety, and no pain, just love.

 And yet, there are those who hate the one I love; my mistress, who is my pleasure. How can I hate someone who is pleasing to the eye, satisfying to my ears, and who glows in my arms, and who flatters me with praises and compliments? Can you hate Ice cream? Who in their right mind bans objects that are the cause of euphoric and blissful experiences? Why did God make roses? Red Wine? Music? Why did he make peacocks? Sunsets? Dazzling Oceans? and Florescent women? And she always smells like Roses. If she loves me when I call, how can I ever push her away? When your hungry do you deny yourself food? When your cold, do you just stand there and do nothing? When you see a beast approaching you to maul you to death, do you try to open up with a conversation? But I understand what they are saying- she is temporal and unbalanced and unpredictable, but isn't that what makes love worth living for? I mean who wants to live with a predictable, and boring redundant square? If she smells like Roses? Why wouldn't I pluck her and enjoy her, but they are right you know; her beauty never lasts, and the pedals and her colors fade and fall, and I am left alone. But when I find her again, I am happy. She is pleasure.

I wish I could embrace her longer and forever, but like I said she is wild. Ever hear of those city folk who took home wild animals from their exotic jungle adventures e.g. Pumas and Pythons to make them cute house pets? Yeah me too, and in matter of weeks, they end up on the front page of the newspaper, HELPLESS RESIDENTS ARE MAULED TO DEATH AND EATEN BY PET PYTHON! Well, that's kind of true with pleasure, you cant tame her, and she is not fit to live with you nor can she share her love with you- though she wants too. Since no man is worthy of her, she only allows me to experience a glimpse of her glory. Maybe she does this so that we may truly find her. I wonder where she goes after she has loved a little? This I know, when she leaves, she always leaves her mark on me. A reminder? A clue? All I know is that I have these scars on my hands from our long twisted relationship that we have endured all these years; I look forward to that day when she will stay with me, I wonder if I can ever be worthy enough to behold the fulness of her glory? ...

 You may see us together and come to the wrong conclusion.

My temporal touch and and glimpse with pleasure is business. People see me with her from time to time and make their judgments about her, but I cant tell you whether they are true or not, cause they never tell me the truth, only what they want me to hear; they never reveal their hearts to anyone for that matter, for they only believe those things that will make them happy- they hate pain.

As they watch us walk by in the cluttered, boisterous, and colorful mall, all eyes are on us, especially her. They focus on the things that bother them the most; they are not happy for us, and they gaze at her thorns, her tiny partially translucent prickly thorns that make their way out of the pores of her skin and cringe. And though they only can be seen in various places on her body without detection, some are obvious, but they don't bother me, however, for these middle aged, middle class women who are decorated with their college aged children who are all fashionably dressed and slaves to their iphones, and who drive expensive cars, are monster consumers, and heavy spenders, they are flabbergasted- why are they so concerned about my choices? And why do they cringe at Pleasure? What virtue can they lavish on me that I may be a better man? Look at them; all they care about is themselves. And as they stare, they shake their heads, smile, laugh, and with hands over their mouth, they whisper at each other unseen and unheard things about my lover and I, my pleasure. Why do they cover their mouths when they talk behind my back? Why do they hide their real opinions from me? Is it because they want something they cant have? Or do they know something that I don't? In some ways, I am jealous of them, for despite their greedy persona, they have families and money, all of which I don't have and desire. But what they don't have, to which I can brag about is this: pleasure is mine and I am hers.

Then I look to my prize, my love, and I look at her beauty, my mistress of feelings and touch, and I gaze at the thorns on her face and neck, her trade mark, and for a moment, I wonder why I cant keep her, then I make the connection: the thorns, its the thorns! My rose has thorns. Then I think: t Its in her nature to be both beautiful and untouchable- I reckon. I wonder if that was what those people were talking about as they whispered behind my back?

Why do I date this women and how is that I believe that she will stay? Why do I lie to myself, when I know I can't have her? Why can't I be happy all the time? Maybe my fate is greed and selfishness. But does anyone really know? I guess I'll find out, but what I know is that I am in love, and I know she will be gone.

And as we walk by Victoria's Secret, she yanks me by the hand and pulls me in so that she can buy her favorite perfumes and lotions. I look straight ahead and I am kind of embarrassed, but she looks at me with her big painted eyes and winks with her thick eyelashes, and smiles, and pulls ahead of me dragging me around the store. When she finds what she wants she flirts with me and spritzes her perfume on me and thrashes my hair with her hands and laughs. And shortly after her big purchases, which somehow always gets charged to my card, we walk out with smiles and bags of merchandise, and she turns and kisses me on the cheek with her big red lips. And as l look away as she kisses me repeatedly with pecks on my cheeks and my neck, I turn red, and begin to push her away a little. From the corner of my eye, I see the same people, whispering amongst themselves, and I'm kinda of ashamed, but then she pulls me, and we set off to the beach, and I forget my shame.

I get irritated sometimes with shallow people. Were these not the same people I seen at the mall? And there they are, I cant believe it, doing the same thing. On the grass, sitting at the table, eating BBQ and drinking beer, and listening to loud music booming from their SUV's discussing our relationship amongst themselves as we walk by them huddled in their colorful cosmetics, their flashy summer beachwear, long dresses, skirts, big hats, big glasses, and bikinis and new fashion they have been prompted and pressured to buy from their friends on social media. They are a fleshly group as they stick to one another for support, who have no real worldview accept the one that gets them the most friends on social media and status among their greedy friends. And they heckle at me: "Look, its a boy wonder and poison Ivy, just watch, she will soon be gone and he will awake alone in his bed, crying for mommy." All they see is the thorns not the beauty. All I see is her beauty. And she leads me down the sandy trail to the beach on this romantic breezy, oceanic smelling, and sunset filled evening.

They believe in perfection. And I often wonder whether they are worried for me or they just plain hate the fact that she has appeared in public? They have a nickname for her, they call her Poison Ivy. But I don't care what they say, all I see is roses- not a thorn bush, not a thorny situation, not the false narrative that has been spun out of control about her, I see the truth of who she is and what she is. Her imperfection is my pleasure.

As we walk on the beach upon the foam and cool and moist sand without shoes by the painted orange, yellow, red and purple streaks in the sky that we all share together, the hate fades and all is left is pleasure.

And as our walk becomes livelier, she begin to skip with amusement as if she was listening to a song, and she expands the gap between us. And upon hearing the waves, and the fading complaints from my heckler's, the water gently clip my ankles, and I am happy. I looked down for a moment to look at my feet to feel the security and comfort from this beautiful moment that God has blessed me with, so I think, and I am smiling. But when I looked up, in a not so far distance from me, I see pleasure staring at me, and I forget about the thorns and all the negative opinions about her and she turns around all giddy and smiles at me. In my thoughts, I think of how care free she is, and I wave at her while I put my hand over my eyes; I squint to make out her figure amongst the sparkly diamonds that bounce across the water. The sun is setting. And as her loose dress and long hair whip around and is tossed back in fourth by the ocean breeze and by her boisterous, rambunctious, and lively soul, she yells and her voice echoes from a distance: "your amazing and I love you." And then she stops and points at me and makes a heart with her hands. But then, as soon as I am able to respond, a wave crashes over me and consumes me, and as I am thrashed around, and see the water bubbling in front of me, holding my breath, all I can think of is how she makes me feel. And when I wash up on the shore, drenched, cold, tasting the salt water in my mouth, I shiver in love and anticipation. Then energetically, I pick myself up and look into the direction where Pleasure was supposed to be standing, and I see nothing. And my worst nightmare is that this will be the last time I'll ever see her again. So, I gather my nerve and rush to the spot where she was standing next to the huge rockish mountain sticking out of the sea, and I look around. "Maybe I could catch her running away so that I can her hug her and say goodbye," I thought. Then, I look down, and in the wet sand is a message with a heart at the end. "She must of did this with finger," I spoke out loud; it reads: "till next time, tiger." And I sit down on the sand in soggy clothes, and I watch the sun go down, and I say, "till next time."