In a faraway land troubled by reality, there lived a young fifty year old dreamer who was waiting for no one to rescue her.
Not because she was strong, but rather because she knew that no one would.
She spent her days daydreaming to the sound of her vulgar mother’s urine as it swayed from her aging CAVE on to the floor with competency and great conscientiousness.
Our heroine washed the dishes every night, pouring extra soap inside the electric blue bowl.
Some hot water.
More splashy, determined urine landing freely on the floor.
And as she mechanically massaged the dirty plates and glasses with her naked ungloved hands, she dreamt of Ian who did not want her.
Ian, who felt she harassed and bothered him with the unsuppressed desires she poured on to him.
He simply did not reciprocate her need to share a small chair with him.
Her legs in the air.
Some suspenders.
Very high heels.
And his aging weight pumping on her uncontrollably.
Albeit, slightly rhythmically.
At times, he pumped on her slowly.
Painfully so.
And he most certainly did not understand her longing to share the remains of their lives together.
But he was meant for her.
And there was no one to rescue her.
So she continued to massage the dirty plates and glasses.
And she dreamt of Ian who had repeatedly told her, as brutally as he could, that he was not interested in her.
He begged her to stop harassing him with her desires.
Unrequited desires.
But her mother’s urine splashed artistically, several times a day, on to the floor.
And she knew that no one would be coming to rescue her.
And on that small chair, he lifted her legs higher in the air.
One of them hanging loosely on his shoulder. Probably the right one, as it was a more comfortable support for her leg. The other protruding sharply towards the empty space.
That was probably the left leg.
Further and further towards the empty space.
Suspenders firmly engulfing her thighs.
Imprisoning them inside the well of desire.
And she washed the dishes, our poor, deteriorating heroine.
Massaged the dirt gently away from the plates and glasses.
Her mother’s uncontrollably free urine splashing deliriously on different parts of the floor.
And he did not want her.
He tried everything to make her understand that she bothered him.
She was desperate.
And her longing too obvious.
Undiluted by the magic tricks reserved for beginnings.
She kept on trying anyway.
He was embarrassed on her behalf.
But she had to find a way to escape the dirty plates and glasses.
That made her pretend she did not understand.
But she did.
Only too well.
His disdain for her grew with each failed attempts on her part to make him want her.
The dishes were getting dirtier by the day.
And her despair and need to have him lift her legs with his aging hands, further and further up in the air, was getting more and more intense.
That made her pretend she did not understand.
His disdain for her grew one dirty dish after the other.
One splash of urine swaying, after the other.
In this fairytale, the heroine was so desperate and pathetically infatuated, that she belonged anywhere but in the realms of the modern, wickedly fake stories called: modern fairy tales. Falsely decorated with feisty, rebellious ladies who had it all figured out. Were dignified, poised, elegant, and in control of their urine.
Or destiny.
Depending on how you looked at it.
This modern heroine desperately wanted Ian to share a very narrow chair with her.
And along the way, share the rest of their pathetic, filthy lives, fueled by addictions, illusions, and uncontrollable moments where legs were lifted in the air. Firmly decorated with suspenders and unusually very uncomfortable high heels.
The Urine of her debonair mother, acting as dignified background beats.
And in between one scene and another, some unhealthy, unusually perverted massaging of dirty plates and glasses.
Hot water.
And he made it clear that he found her pathetic.
In this modern fairytale, our shattered heroine did not have time for health coaching and mental wellness rituals.
She wanted to feel Ian frolicking inside of her on that narrow chair.
Pumping on her body so hard, it caused one of her high heeled shoe to fly across the room in a deep untamed manner so unfitting for this erotic scene taken from a modern fairytale.
And her mother spread her wobbling legs as wide apart as she could fathom, in order to allow the urine to sway smoothly before it hit the floor.
Landing confidently in all directions.
This modern fairytale revolved around a desperate fifty year old heroine who knew that Ian would not be saving her.
Neither did he wish to share a very narrow chair with her.
As for her mother’s urine…Why, it splashed gloriously on the floor.
The End – Maybe only for now!
EN 
AR