"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta"
Her name ran carelessly off the tongue, each syllable more deafly pronounced than the last with a simple roll. It took hours just to remove the taste of each vowel form my lips and yet the more I tried the harder it became to forget everything about her.
She was Loli in the mid mornings to late afternoon, she was the Coney Island Queen during school when she wore her plaid shorts in the after brush of the fresh foliage that surrounded her, overall she was [Name] on printed paper, but to me she would forever be Lolita.
It's hard to imagine that something like this could just happen without a precursor, a predecessor at that you may wonder and yes she had one, if it wasn't for her there may have never been a Lolita, a love affair so enthralling that it chills me to the bones still thinking about it. It began with my love for a simple girl-child, I was the same age as Lolita back then.
Prosecutor, judge, jury, and executioner all decisive in their judgment, the evidence was stained on my lips, my hands, my very soul and I give to you my testimony at that.
I was born in the Great Britain, my father a condescending man from Whales, a plethora of racial genes included from Ireland, Scotland, and Ireland. An endearing soul he was, with the hotel he owned, passed down from generation to generation. It was there at the age of thirty he married my mother, a very un-reclusive English woman with a voluptuous personality and soft lips, yet sadly she died in a horrific freak accident when I was three, I have no words regarding her personality or attitude seeing as I have no recollection of any moments shared with her. Throughout my youth I took leisure in calm disclosure of our home and the resources available with books and the time I spent with my father around the [1]Hotel Mirana, it served as an escape, a passage way into an unforgotten world. I attended a private day school not too far from my home to where I received high marks and participated in many of the athletic competitions present, my classmates took high regard of me as well as my teachers. Very rarely did I find time for trivial sexual events yet only found by chance solace when my father sent me to France to visit a long term friend of his, this man had a daughter and her bame was Francine Bonnefoy
Similar to her father Francine descended from a rural French setting, though she formally lived in various places until she was formally taken in by her recent father, yet features presented on Francine are presently less familiar to me in the years I spent with Lolita. Memory is a humble tool used to reanimate the likeness of long since forgotten and still only two types exist with us today, the vague essence of an idea that we bring together through fillers and just do's as I see Francine, "honey-colored hair", "amethyst eyes", and "pale skin". As a posed the clear ghost of an image that plagues the mind with inquiry such as the face of my beloved Lolita.
To further elaborate I would have to describe the pretext of my encounters with Francine; her father had bought a villa next to the Hotel Mirana and Madeline and I had become thoroughly acquainted, minuscule talks of adventure and mystical things of [2]Dwarven ruins and unknown islands, her feet left to soak in the a small pond we had claimed our own in the name of mystery and vigilance. Our first encounters where plagued by trivial differences and small arguments until we had found through long spells of silence and slim glances that we were one in the same, with a longing for freedom that reached beyond us to inquire more about the other, she wanted to be a nurse and I dreamed of becoming a spy. With the growing amount of time we were spending with each other we had come to realize that we had fallen irrevocably, shamelessly, and amazingly in love with each other. Frail kisses that compelled the heart to swell with emotion, undeniable need for one another yet solitude was never easily found for us. Her soft hand would creep towards my own through the sand, her knees pointed way word until they silently touched my own. The only moment we almost had to possess the other as we pleased had been in a small cove we had hid away in before two gentlemen had taken to yelling words of encouragement before, and from there she died a few months later from typhus.
Though before we had spent one late summer night, she had managed to slip the grasp of her father to meet me late in the soft after brush that shadowed us from the world, her cool thighs touched equally smooth stone. My lips pressed scarcely to the edge of hers, my nimble fingers entangled under frock until my fingers wandered to their destined situation. Her soft lips twitched to each move as the stars formed silhouettes above us, that delicate mouth of hers taking in growing breaths of air in defiance to the pain and unpronounced pleasure she endured during our encounter, taking her time to connect her lips with mine with each twinge of feeling. And solely with that I offered her everything, my mouth, my throat, my innards, and heart to be given up to her as sacrifice of equal value. The low rising and falling of her chest, the estranged scent she had, which had been taken from one of the many women her father 'escorted' to dinner and shows at late nights. Though with the brief rustling of leaves and foliage we immediately separated; that day forever engraved into my being, she was burned into me and from there she would be incarnate of another.
But let me alternate differences into a primary theme, the objective thought in a hidden society trapped between the confines of nine and fourteen, who enthrall travelers of a greater age in a new design. In a habit that proves nonhuman, unrealistic, and surreal to those who perceive it without looking into detail on it, a nymphic nature unknown to the world and it is from that they resolve to be "nymphets".
The elusive, enigmatic, heart-rending allure that connects them into a common realm, yet separates them from our grasp, us nympholepts who know of their existence, their vivacious nature at that. Yet with these age restrictions it does not pertain to any girl-child of that age, yet it takes an artist to discern between the "cute" or moreover "sweet" form of any other girl and the impish nature of a nymphet.
Let us begin with less civility and more understanding into the depths of a new estranged being, Arthur tired and tried again, yes he really did to escape the allure and tease of the matter and in all he respected age and growth among all things. Yet it was that budding stage of soft lips and dim eyes that procured him into becoming so enthralled with these nyphatic creatures.
It was of no surprise during my early years in adulthood that romance proved trivial, with each women I had contended myself to be with seemed terrestrial and nonresponsive. I was cornered into a unimaginable reclusion that only manifested itself for me to see as my heart ached for what it could never seem to have, my mind ripping apart my resolution at the very stitching that held it together.
Days tucked away in the moments spent in my own heaven and hell as I resolved to sit each day in the same park that each day housed the very creature for which my heart yearned for. Brunettes with bobbed cuts that loosely dangled at their ears, pink lips that caressed ice coated delicacies, Red heads with curls tussled in the wind, our knees fairly touching in part yet faintly separated through time. I was in a garden of these creatures, and with every glance and thought that occurred I wondered, what was to happen after I tainted each one with their image being submerged into my thoughts deep within, would they still remain bound to this form of mystic or transcend to thin legs and porcelain structures at be, to grow older and more form fitting into adulthood.
One I had been in particular to remember I had met in an active site, a mildly tall, high heeled girl, she had moved rapidly past me; we had looked back to one another briefly as she had stopped before I waylaid her, barely meeting the height of my chest with her long hair and dimpled cheeks. Her long lashes and neatly fitting clothing all but added to the nymphatic look she held as I delightedly asked her her price, my attempts of haggling having proven useless as she witnessed the growing longing I held in my gaze of her and made a movement to leave until I moreover agreed. Our time spent together was electric to my liking, set a fire to my loins but dissipated over the months as the soft features I had grown to know gave way to the underlining toil and strain of time, she could have only been fifteen. It was with only a short time I was determined to marry to save myself from further occurrences and it wasn't until I actually did marry that I understood the full unappeal of it all. Though with the overwhelming charisma and vitality I held it would never take long for me to ensnare a future bride from a pick of any women I therefore chose.
My marriage was brief and lasted for the duration of a millisecond in my eyes, the child like image of my wife had faded as time elapsed under my grasp and with the prospect of moving us to California from our current situation in New York I was inclined to find her reluctance to move the cause of an affair. I was upset to say the least but reimbursed for my aggression to discover she had passed away in child birth after being apart of new American introduced diet experiment in Minnesota once she had left we for her Russian colonel.
My work had shifted me to a more comfortable setting and with the delays of divorce proceedings, pneumonia, and another World War approaching my time getting to California proved pivotal to say the least. Work was menial and with the annual allowance given to me from the money entrusted to me after my uncle's death only furthered my reclusion.
It wasn't in part until I had taken work in my deceased uncle's perfume business that I had surfaced a new reach into an unfathomable depression, a few expeditions into the artic Canadian snow had only furthered my nostalgia for Central Park and the nymphets that's carelessly roamed there, nymphets do not thrive in the artic, was all that I had gathered from my experience seeing the thick haired, pug like faces of the eskimo girls that lived there and therefore my time spent was not well spent.
Though with the my days going by in past thoughts and grim desires, my interest wasn't peaked until a cousin of mine had suggested a trip to an mildly impoverished abode in Los Angeles and Hollywood. At first the dismal thoughts of stepping foot in such an area was enough to make me dismiss the thought altogether, yet with the mentioning of a the man's family did my interests indulge once more; with an infant of six months and a girl of thirteen stationed there my only solution therefore was to contact the family with a false predicament of needing a place to stay set me forth on a journey to southern California.
My arrival was met with the vast over cast of delicate light and mounting greenery that over shadowed the city. My bag unusually light and palms naturally become sweated, it was over an hour and no sign of this man insight until I had received word that his home had been burned down in a fire and I was to be taking refuge with a neighbor, Mrs. Jones as so. My want of coming out here having been drastically torn away I wished to return further upstate but couldn't do so as the chauffer ushered me in his car until he drove me to the site of the Jones residence. I tipped the man hoping to have him leave so that I may call a cab to take me back to my hotel and out of this hell hole but it was already too late as a maid showed me inside the new style house.
Wooden floor boards, and portraits of old age art hung from the walls like chandeliers and crystal, the house was freshly polished and leaked American prestige. The walls etched in dark brown and mahogany, age only adding its ancient beauty. I find it better to head straight for it and describe her quickly, a woman of her late twenties, sun bleached blonde honey hair, a simple beauty that held a strange attractiveness to it, with crystal blues were her eyes. She greeted me with a bright smile before leading me throughout the house, down corridor after corridor, the house was a parting gift from her father, it was surprising to consider a women of her wealth would be taking in boarders at such a prestigious home. Once we passed 'my room' she indicated her own and another. "That's my room and that's Lo's" ('Lo' I assumed to be the maid who let me in.) Reluctantly I continued through the kitchen with her to the dining room parlor to where I noticed a long black sock on the floor, Mrs. Jones with a disgusted look picked up the sock and tossed into a nearby closet. We inspected the chestnut table until the soft sounds of [3]"Swingin' the backyard, pull up in your fast car" came to touch my ears and my heart was washed over to swell at the sight on the pool mat, half-naked, and kneeling to turn on her knees,
"There was my Riviera love peering at me over dark glasses"
The very same blessing of a child- delicate and gentle , frail shoulders and smooth skin, the very same [hair color] hair that enticed me as it draped over the polka-dotted kerchief that deluded the eyes from her supple chest underneath. Her lovely abdomen that showed and made me want to trace over and over again with my fingers, the swaying hips and plump lips I wanted so desperately to connect with my own. The soft hands that glazed so lightly over the grass she embedded herself with, and the distant eyes that moved to not even spare me a second glance.
I hadn't even noticed my feet move with Mrs. Jones as I just appeared upstairs with her as she smiled.
"That was my Lo," she said, "and these are my lilies."
[1] It's the hotel in the book.
[2] Skyrim reference.
[3] Lyrics from Lana Del Rey's "Video Games"
The throne of nothing