Tinted Specs You don’t see what I see. You don’t see the challenge in her eyes,

Tinted Specs

You don’t see what I see. You don’t see the challenge in her eyes, because you don’t see her eyes. You see the ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ hang of her lip, the hip cocked to one side. You see the slight lolling of her head, the frank exhaustion she’s projecting like it’s the fucking bat signal. That she’s tired of you, tired of your shit. That you should slip to your knees and plant a kiss on each of her toes. 

I see a leash too loose. I see a cry for help. I see the challenge, and the desperate, almost petulant desire for it to be met, beaten, and claimed. I see a girl that’s got her way for far too long, and who just wants a firm hand to finally set things right. 

But then, I would. Because that’s what I want to see, and the way I interpret the world. She’s a petulant brat who needs a Dominant hand to look after her, because I would relish that task. I’m projecting just as much as I’m assuming she is. My desires, my wants, and it’s in managing those, understanding that they’re going to be there, and not to let them get away from me, that I’ll ever manage to avoid disappointment. 

In truth, I imagine she’s somewhere in between, with a little bit of other thrown in on the side. That flavour that makes her not my fantasy, or yours. Nor my assumption. That makes her human, separate from imagination or ideal. Flawed, beautiful, prone to mistake. Human. A little short of whatever I can conjure up, and considerably more.