Kofi Fosu Forson
Erotico…That’s the name he had for me. He said I looked like a character in a Fellini film. I’ve never seen a Fellini.
There’s a tattoo on my left breast, another one on my back.
Look at me. Do I look like a virgin? I’ll have you thinking I was a model from an underground New York magazine.
I could easily pass for a special agent in a film set in New York…500 years from now. Boys with imagination fantasized about me. The neighborhood girls wanted to be me. I was rock and roll. Boys in the band begged for me. They loved me like it was law!
Men are funny. I sat next to this one guy. He leaned over and said, “I’ve been watching you for a while. I was wondering what you sounded like.” “I’m just a typical girl from Brooklyn.” He called himself a “word pimp.” He seduced every word before he spoke. He wasn’t New York punk. I respected him. I didn’t desire him.
He took me to a French café. He was charming. All of a sudden, he ran out. I sat there thinking…This man is treating me like a goddess. He paid attention to me. He looked me in the eye. He came back with a flower. I showed him the tattoo. My fingers pulled my shirt over and to the side to expose the tattoo. I honored him. I didn’t desire him.
He was an artist. He asked me to pose for him. I promised myself not to take my clothes off. We got together in a room. I watched as he held a pad and pencil in his hand. He took his time, told me to move my head a certain way, keep my shoulders still. We weren’t making love but I felt love. I felt him liking me, respecting me. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do. He owned my beauty. For the moment, it belonged to him.
I was officially a muse. Paintings of me! Drawings of me! Poems about me! It wasn’t infatuation. If he wanted me, I would have known.
What does a woman do in a case like this? It is difficult when somebody wants you. Not on his bed but on his canvas. That’s what I was to him…A strange and beautiful woman dancing with butterflies.
Copyright Horatio Monologues