Sometimes I wish I was treated like a flower. I’m too used to cigarettes and whiskey and hairy sweat. I’ve become numb to stories of vaginal conquests and scored asses. My brotherhood laughters seem increasingly facile and empty, all in pursuit of maintaining my membership to the tribe.
I’m disgusted by the stench of testosterone lined tiles of shower rooms and shared towels. Trimmed hair and clipped nails, chipped tooths and unfurled tails. Piss taking the piss out of me. Perfumes of subtlety eludes, while weed weeds out the miseries of Monday morning blues. Crotch scratching, scotch swigging, penis swinging, pelvic thrusting bodies in my face, as I indulge in locker-room tribunals increasingly puzzled.
Hard grunts, firm thrusts, rapid fucks, brash orgasms. Spaces in places where intimacy absconds. Nightly deeds with chemically altered weed to make sense of the senseless pangs of the “other” head. Ride me, an animal. Leave me. Back to an uncomfortable loneliness, and the loudest silence, exchanging glances with the crude and crass walls.
Sometimes I wish I could be treated like a flower, gentle and delicate. I wish I had petals to be felt, slow and smooth. I wish I had rosy hues and flawless skin to flaunt. I want to be felt beautiful, not demanded rugged, fuzzy, not solid.
I want to be undressed softly, have my petals unfurled gently one by one, have my thorns cared for and not ignored, wind in my hair. I want to feel gorgeous, not gorged. I want to be opened from stalk to sepal, the pungent bouquet of my skin bare for the night to breath. Tasted slow, touched slower. I want to be caressed and consumed the way dusk swallows the day’s sky.
I’m stuck still basking in the chlorinated pools of masculinity. It no longer burns, I feel nothing. Solitary steps taken towards understanding the bud within provide some solace.
Sometimes I wish I could be treated like a flower. I want to be picked and touched and be told I’m beautiful. I want to put on my best shades and bloom for the world to see, open my stems and feel beautiful. Tell me I’m beautiful.
But I’m a man. I need my groin and grunt and grip. I can’t be a flower.
I love football and Vodka Cranberries, I love lingerie and John Doe’s chiseled jawline that looks like it could cut my heart open. I want to spread my glow fragrantly, not my legs flagrantly. I want to love like a flower, not a shadow.
I want to be looked at like a flower. I want to be looked at as a man.
I want to be looked at like a man. I want to be looked at as a flower.
Stub and nip it in the bud.