The Hourglass Woman

Content Warning: Strong Language, Allusions to Sex

Women have called me many names, much of them said with no fondness. The long list runs through my mind, different voices echoing in a raucous, enraged chorus. Asshole. Bum. Manwhore. Scum. Cheater. Jerk. Along with the frenzied, angered chanting, come flashes of women’s faces. They’re all beautiful faces marred with hideous emotion. Some, eyebrows scrunched and teeth barred like wild animals, wave frantically or jab fingers into my chest. Appealing faces contorted with fury. On some of them, I see tears that wet their cheeks, the black of mascara running the same way I do. It’s not that any of these women are particularly foul, in fact most of them are quite attractive. Many of the faces I picture in my memory are attached to lucious bodies, curves a man can sink his hands, or teeth, into. Most of the women, and this I relish in the memory of , made sensual eyes at me before ungodly moans left their plump mouths. It’s this thought, these visions of beauty and pleasure, that fuel my pattern and form an armor around me at their words. After all, they are only words.

A few women however, a minute number of them, have gone beyond words. All women are crazy, this I firmly believe. They can pretend for a while, appear calm and appeasing, but I know what lurks beneath. Inside them all is a being of territorial jealousy, of envy and irrational thoughts. A monster lurks beneath their skins, embedded in their subconscious, waiting for the right emotion to disrupt their rational facade and escape. The crazed actions of a woman have been aimed towards me plenty, but I never worry. The amateur scheming of a woman doesn’t phase me. They are simple creatures and they live in a cycle. When I tell them it’s over, they experience shock. I watch the color drain from their faces, all leached except for their supple lips and rose-stained, embarrassed cheeks. It almost makes me falter for a moment, each time, the dread saturating their faces making them more attractive for a moment. Next, they default to anger or sadness. 

With anger, comes the crazy. They plot against you, they lose control of the outward appearance they’ve kept polished for you. Phone call logs become backed up with a litany of purposefully missed calls. Posts get made about you. Ridiculous pranks are pulled. Soon enough, though, they all forget and enter the final leg of the cycle in which they move on. Some poor schmuck comes around who can deal with their crazy for long enough to find themselves hitched for the rest of their lives or until they find a good divorce attorney. On the other hand, with sadness comes tears and sob stories that fall on deaf ears. They’ll plead, they’ll beg, they’ll ask for another chance. Sometimes they even ask what they’ve done wrong, but, in all honesty, it’s rarely personal. It’s more so the idea of women in general. They are here for pleasure and a good time. I feel bad for the men who have tricked themselves into believing more. 

It’s these thoughts that keep me company as I lean on the counter at my favorite bar, two drinks between me and the crying woman I left outside. The interaction was no different than any I’ve had before. A brunette with a nice rack, doe eyes that made me excited to look at from above, and lips that made it hard to listen to what she was saying. Our situation lasted about three weeks, an impressive length of time for a woman to find herself attached to me for. We met at a happy hour. She was working behind the bar and knew the attention she was asking for, so I’m not sure why she was so shocked at how it ended. Her black shirt was a deep v-neck that revealed a lace bra, push-up most definitely, D cup certainly. When I’d gone up to the bar to order, she’d leaned far enough that I could see every inch of her breasts that pressed into a line of cleavage for display. The night ended with those breasts bared in my bedroom, illuminated by the lights coming through the windows of my high rise. 

I will admit, it was three weeks of immense pleasure. Her body bent in all the ways my hands molded it to. She made all the right sounds and gave all the permissions there are to offer up, but in the end she was getting attached. Signs of it began to show. Her fingers swirling lazily in my chest hair, her gaze softening as it watched me when she thought I wouldn’t notice, her chin resting atop her hands as she stared at me, trying to lure me into loving her. That’s always when I know it’s time to cut it off at the knees. 

So now, I sit with only a bottle to hold and eyes scanning the bar for the next woman to share a bed with for the time being. I tilt the bottle back, condensation dripping onto my hands and take deep pulls until it’s emptied. A nice head buzz should set in soon. The door to the bar has consistently opened to new customers, filling to a nice crowd for so early on a Friday night. I’d decided to come straight from the office, rolling up my button down in the way I know women lust after, idiotic enough to think men don’t do it on purpose. Between the flash of my expensive watch and the corded muscle of my forearms, I know I’ll catch the attention of many women tonight, but it's all about which one catches mine. I’m scoping the scene, making conversation with the regulars around me and order my next beer when I see her.

A woman with fire for hair and ivory skin is illuminated by the neon lights of the bar scene as she passes through the threshold. Her eyes are dark and sultry. Her lips are heavy and heart-shaped, painted a dark cherry color. Full breasts spill from the the top of her corseted dress, her waist sinfully small in comparison to her hips. Long legs peek from the slit of her black skirt, which is tight enough to perfectly present the voluptuous curve of her backside. Her body is an hourglass, matching the trinket hanging from the long chain around her neck. Her gaze moves across the crowd and I wet my lips, anticipating the taste of her. As she stalks closer to the bar, to where I’m sitting, I feel the pieces of my plan fall into place. She may be making her way toward me, but I’m in control. I’m always in control. 

The hourglass woman sidles up next to my seat at the bar and leans across, but she’s struggling to catch the attention of the bartenders. I clear my throat and give her an easy, rehearsed smile. Her body is already turned toward me, so I know what she wants. Women are easy to read like that. I lift a hand and motion for the bartender to come over. I prop an elbow on the bar and open up to the hourglass woman. I’m sure to make eye contact, as badly as her milky breasts call for my attention, women love eye contact as much as they’re intimidated by it.

“Let me help you out,” I say, it comes out suave. I make sure of it.

 She smiles, graciously. I nod toward the bartender, who’s just arrived in front of me.

“Another beer and,” I pause to wait for the hourglass woman to chime in.

She makes eyes at me, then says, “Irish whiskey. On the rocks.”

“Top shelf,” I add without losing her eyes and the bartender whisks away to fulfill my order.

The hourglass woman sits next to me. I take that both as her thank you and permission to continue my pursuit. Now that she’s close, I catch more details. Her nails are long, black talons. Her skin is creamy perfection. Crystals adorn her ears. The hourglass ornament attached to the chain on her neck is filled with obsidian sand that shifts with her movement in the bottom of its entrapment. She’s exotic, for sure. Far different than my typical conquests, but it’s easy to ignore at the thought of my hands skating her body, gripping at her soft edges.

I give her another smile, “Have a name?”

She laughs, a tinkling sound, “Of course I do, but that’s something you’ll have to earn.”

A woman who plays games. Not my favorite, but I play along. I know I can play better. I give her an appraising look, sure to arch my eyebrow in a way that appears playful.

“Fair enough,” I take a sip of my beer and I notice her eyes looking over me before I continue. “What’s a beautiful woman doing alone on a Friday night?”

The bartender has slid our drinks across the bar and I watch the hourglass woman take a dainty skip of amber liquid from the stout glass in her hand. I watch her throat as she swallows and imagine my lips on it.

“I think I just found my reason,” she says, her eyes dropping down my body, the motion accompanied with another short sip.

I smirk. This is far too easy. Women are too easy, too desperate these days to be swept off their feet and shown attention. The issue with most men is they’re too quick off the mark. They mention intimacy too soon, scare women off. The trick is to act enraptured by the beauty they want to be appreciated, to seem as if you’re intently listening to them and appear to have pure intentions… for the most part. Women are easy, after all. They want men to think they’re innocent, but that’s the role they play.

“What? A handsome man in a button down?” 

“Not even that. Just, you.”

It’s this that lets me know I’ve got her. It only takes minimal talking, a short passage of time, and the rest of my beer to get the hourglass woman out of her seat, through the door and back to my apartment. It’s a luxury building. I’m sure she’s impressed. When I hit the button to the penthouse, I know she’s impressed. I watch her lips pucker into a suppressed smile. Her arms loose and draw toward me. When her palms rest on my chest, I take the opportunity to push a strand of fiery hair behind her ear. Women love that shit.

Her lips make their way to mine and that’s when I take control. I languish in the control I have, how she leans into the kisses I keep purposefully soft, gauging how badly she wants this. I’m turned on by the fact that she’s needy for this and push her out into the hallway when the elevator dings, cueing the doors open. Soon, we’re in my apartment. And it’s no longer slow and timid.

Clothing is slung off. Hands roam bodies. Hair is pulled. Moans escape. Pleasure is had. By the end, we’re gasping in my dimly lit master bedroom. The windows frame a view of the city that costs more in rent each month than some people’s yearly salary. This thought makes me smile, a joy secondary to the fact that tonight’s conquest was easy and now lies naked in my bed. The moon outlines her curves and I find myself drifting off to the view, a strange, soft singing coming from the hourglass woman’s lips carrying my mind away.

____

Early morning sun alights my bedroom and pulls on my groggy eyes. I yawn and stretch, pulling my muscles taught before relaxing back into the bed. I’ve never slept so deeply in my life. My sore body is probably to account for that, the events of last night clearly strenuous. It’s at the glimpses of memory, of the pleasure, that I splay a hand out to find a cold opposite side of the bed. Through squinted eyes, I see the hourglass woman has left the bed empty. Sitting up, I look around, hop out of bed to make sure she’s truly gone. I love when a woman sees herself out. The only issue I take is that I’ll have to make another conquest instead of being a short-term repeat offender. 

Finding no trace of her, I make my way back to the master suite and pause. On my nightstand sits the woman’s obsidian sand hourglass. The sand is flowing to the bottom, about a third of the sand sitting in the bottom portion already. More ridiculous than the forgotten trinket, is the note she seems to have left. It’s written in pen directly on my white side table. This bitch. I walk over and wet my thumb, smearing it across the writing. It seems like it’ll come off, but this bitch must be crazy. Now blurred, her message reads: “from: women.” Whatever the actual fuck that means.

I groan and rub my hands through my hair. I pause. I run my hands through my hair again. It feels different… thinner. Quickly, I walk to the bathroom and flip the light on. I stare into the mirror and cold dread washes over my body. I don’t recognize the man staring back at me, at least not fully. My hair is thinner, it’s graying. I have wrinkles that I pay to ensure won’t appear for another twenty years. In rubbing my hands over my face and hair in a panic, I notice my arms. They look aged as well, the muscles I gloriously showed off last night are now smaller, weaker. I’ve somehow aged decades over night. A thirty-year old man, now fifty. I tent my hands over my head and take deep, shaking breaths. This can’t be right. I must be dreaming. It’s as if my life has sped up. As if time is moving faster. As if, the sand in my hourglass of life has rapidly poured toward the end. 

If possible, I feel more color drain from my face. My limbs weak as I walk quickly back to the bedroom and over to the side table. I look at the hourglass, black sand quickly spilling from the top half to the bottom. This must be a sick dream. A nightmare, that’s all. However, I find my hands going toward the hourglass. I carefully pick it up and it’s all too solid in my hands, too real. I turn it upside down, to try to reverse the flow and my heart plummets.

The sand is flowing upward, in the same direction it was going before I turned it. I flip it several times, pulling the hourglass close to my face to ensure I’m not making it up. The sand steadily goes in the same direction it originally fell when sitting on my nightstand, no matter which way you turn it. The time always set to run out. I weakly sit down on the bed and watch the sand of the hourglass float upward, defying gravity in its pursuit to run out time.

Minutes seem to tick past and my hands begin to change around the hourglass. They wrinkle and thin, veins begin to protrude a sickly blue. My skin pales to a disgusting yellowed-white, brown age spots slowly darkening across my skin. In horror, I take the hourglass and walk back to the bathroom and know what awaits me. My face has aged years. The skin beneath my eyes droops in heavy bags. Once plump lips are now dry and thin. Nose and ears appear bigger, eyes smaller as they squint to account for the decline in vision. The hollow of my throat gets slowly deeper. My hair grays and then turns a stark white before it disappears all together. In a matter of an hour since waking up, I’ve become an elderly man.

I watch the dark sand steadily pour, becoming dangerously close to empty on the top half. With the years I’ve watched slip past me in the mirror, I can guess what comes with the last drop of sand passing from the top to the bottom of the hourglass. There isn’t time to fix this. No person I can run to and charm into reversing this curse, no easy fix I can buy to weasel my way out of this. The hourglass woman. That witch. She’s done this to me and her note tells me why. She knew the game I was playing because it was her game. I was never in control, she was the puppetmaster and I was attached to the strings. If I hadn’t been so blinded by my own arrogance, I may have seen that she was dealing the same hand I played with nightly. 

With these thoughts running through my head, I watch the sand drop all too quickly. I know the end is near. That this is my karma. My breaths become rasps. My legs give out and I can no longer stand. From a seat on the floor, I can no longer see myself, but I have a perfect view of the hourglass perched on the edge of the counter. The last few death-colored particles make their way to the bottom as I make my way toward death.