The Experience That Is........Bettie

As promised, Bettie is back for week 2. So without all of the useless rambling called an "intro" here is week 2's post from The Head-Honeybee:

I have had 4 memorable lovers. Over 4 continents.
My nature makes it quite possible to be flighty, quick to flight and not easy to catch. My sexuality, or rather, the discovery of my sexuality, has been a discovery for me as well as anyone I’ve befriended along the way. My first was an older man, most of them have been. I was young, and he was nearing forty. Frenchmen are a different breed of men I think, they live walk and breathe differently. He was innately sensual, as aware of my sexuality as I was. He knew more about me than I did about him. I’ve had this body for years, so as far as he was concerned, I was a woman. How Lolita. He knew my father well, was one of his best buddies. He was a jazzman like my father too. While he was out, as usual, on one of his tours, Daniel had been designated as my guardian. He stayed in our flat for weeks, while my father had his fun, his women, and his drugs. Daniel and I seduced each other. “Stay up late with me, just a little longer” he said often. And I did. One night I kissed him, and the next morning my skin couldn’t hold my bones together, I was alive. New. My father and I moved back to Brasil the next summer, The longest summer I’ve ever had to sit through. Daniel stayed back. It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Women cannot wait for love forever though; we’re insatiable, uncontrollable. My next was a painter in Sao Paulo; Brasilian men have standards no woman could ever live up to. He was an exception. He painted, walls, signs, canvas and portraits on the docks at Ipanema to pay the bills. I have a soft spot for anything with a paintbrush and a cause. It’s a shame actually. Laughable at best. Esteban played Cab Calloway records while he painted me in the favela. He was a fan of my accent and the way my hips moved when I walked. “I hepped em in London, I hepped em’ in Harlem” He hepped me in La Cidade De Deus, and made forget the crime and desperation outside. He was my connection to a world I’d known nothing of before. Painters, writers, models, muses, a gaggle of sinners, and a handful of saints frequented the studio he called home. His world was full of long nights in places I’ve forgotten how to pronounce, wet matches for eyeliner, the smell of smoke, and bad habits that I have since given up. My life in NYC was bleak compared to the summer I spent rubbing shoulders with his peers. I’ll go back someday, there’s nothing tying me to this country yet. Ibiza is a city of hedonism, the site of my seventeenth year; my wildest experiences have their roots in Spain. There was a discrepancy at a pharmacy about me stealing. (I was stealing, but I wasn’t happy about being caught.) Santi, Mon bohemienne, He saved me from spending money I didn’t have on a bail I couldn’t pay. He spoke four different languages, but made love in French. His flat was airy, due to the absent windows, he had no ties to his material possessions, and so no one stole from him. There was a bed, a radio, a record player, books, curtains, and his clothing. How I put up with him is a mystery. We were opposites, I am a creature of natural excess, and he was a steadfast minimalist. His mind was amazing, knowledgeable in any subject I could think of, and a love of aesthetics. His hands were soft, the hands of a man who hadn’t lived yet, although his face gave away the truth. Those eyes were hazel on a good day and they changed with his moods. We danced at the discothèques with a fever that gave away our sexual appetites, our hips and feet were untrustworthy when the music started, and even after it stopped, our minds kept the beats until the liquor wore off. We drank each other under tables, in private of course, he was a portrait of good manners. I left him in Ibiza with a heavy heart. But, Men like him move on, just as I did. Back in the city, my experience was beginning to show in my face. I loved it. I was a regular at the Suite Sessions, and Panty Parties, which is where I met Genevieve, VV was an up and coming lesbian, the kind you see in magazines and want, but cannot have. She had ebony hair, and full full lips. The kind you get lost in. The kind you sleep in. Pillows. Her eyes were round, and alive with promise. Her place in Staten Island was homey, another word for small, and her drug was activism. She frequented bluestockings and Williamsburg was her home. She made love to me next to her drum sets, in her kitchen, sitting in her window sills, strapped up, bent over, lying sideways, and in empty bar restrooms. Her presence in any room made my hips tingle in the place where she always held me when we were done. Her words had a strength that cannot be described. We ran together in the park near the ferry station, and she held me in the winter while we waited for trains. February came fast though, too fast for us to handle. She’d moved for me, with me, but this city didn’t suit her. She packed up on the 19th, and was gone by the 21st. She left me with a Valentines Day card, and a dead relationship. Her fragrance and touch could bring me to my knees, even today. -------- bettie debauchery