Lolita

She’s an archetypal Lolita. Brown chestnut hair. On a train, seated right in front of me. Interrupting my phone call. Giving me compliments, asking questions. 

“I like your jacket! What do you do for a living? Nice tattoo. How old are you?”

Tempted, heart-wrenchingly so. To touch her. To talk with her. To allow myself to get carried away… 

Sure, I have vigor and latent passion in me. Being a grown man, I remain only half responsive to her. Me, and a girl way too young, a child almost.

A sensitive situation. Too many curious people to listen in on our conversation.

“I’m fourteen!” She announces in a loud voice. It feels so wrong. 

For the longest time, the world has lacked adventure. As adults, we become jaded and numb. What happened? Was it the responsibility that took our fervor away?

Gone are the years when life was just pure potential for us to exploit. She is a mirage. 

I am the man of the desert. Dry winds and starvation hardened me. Ambition and occasional lust are my only driving forces. Falling in love appears to me as a fatal failure of judgment.

Almost all women my age, stale bitches. Hell, even the twenty-year-olds, lackluster ghosts of real femininity. Ruined by society. Ruined by culture.

Two dreadful paths laid before me. Either I give in to my lewd desires and make something out of the situation. Or I do what I’m supposed to. 

I do what I’m supposed to. Eating the forbidden fruit often has devastating consequences. 

She makes me infinitely sad. I want to save her. Even more than that I want to fuck her.

“Go home Lilith, you cannot come with me.”