melamemea:

“People always told me ‘guys after 10 pm only wants sex’, they are animals looking for new pray in the moonlight. Scavenging the plains for the easiest lamb to catch within their tainted claws, greedy hands and needy teeth. Guys, after 10 pm, turn into animals. Their intentions masked beneath enchanting words, empty promises and enthralling touches; it is fact. Yet, I failed to see that ( this wicked nature ) when one of my mates texted me at 2 am telling me he was having a panic attack. What a petty excuse. He felt lost, hurt. Scared. Irrelevant; men do not feel scared. The idea of man is as such; strong, wild, beastly, untamed. Men are mountains. They are untouchable, unable to allow themselves to crumble. They are magnificently cold; only some get to conquer them. Bodies like temples, sealed away and caging the beast that lies beneath; all men are cages, their flesh the bars keeping away the danger made out for women. His hurt, in some eyes, was a trap to lure in the intimacy of my body, something so common that he, too, was labeled another predator, savage; of course he wanted sex, it was after 10 pm after all. No man is human after 10 pm. It is fact. Panic attack meant sex. Not to me. Not to him. But to them.Nightly hours have a way of turning assumptions, ideas and ideologies
into handcrafted realities; Of course he wanted sex. Everyone made it so. But no. You see, panic attacks are a poor way of foreplay; the angst, the sweat and the nervousness are all different zones meant to be touched by something else than a vivid tongue, scorching hands and reckless bites; if his sex was his tears, then I would have caved. But sex is not tears, and anxiety is not lust; ‘I have had too much to drink’. Just a panic attack. No sex, even though brains is the new sexy. Even though our tongues moved, separately. Across borders. Just talk. No touch. 10 pm is when the beasts come out, and by 2 am they have transformed into this unrecognizable shape, the crooked man in his crooked house with his crooked intentions; spoiled, hungry. You’d be a fool to approach him, knowing what lies ahead; but watch me fetch my torch and head into that crooked house of his, for his house is a shell, cracking. 2 am is about as dangerous as 2 pm; his smile has just turned upside down. Much like the sun and the moon, the dark chases the light, craving the same amount of attention the sun gets; look at me, I exist too. His frown and tears are the moon, his smile the sun, exposed to those who dare to step out of the light. ‘Everything hurts / I don’t understand’ The safety of intimacy, here’s to you, the ‘guys who text you in the middle of the night’ and you the ‘guys only want one thing’ ; a safe space for you. A confession, from me; in the brink of your ‘I have had too much drink’s and your ‘I can’t sleep’s, I failed to see the sexual craving everyone warned me about; I came to catch a beast, but what I found was a lost boy, wandering in the woods. Where had his claws gone? Where were the fangs the tales of a hundred women warned me of? You misunderstood creature covered in the overwhelming foot steeps of those who tread before you; I hear you. I see you. The stars in your eyes have not yet fallen on blind eyes; out among the wolves there are boys, those who wonder and wander, those who whisper and pray. You have had too much to drink.
2 am ticks in.
But I won’t shut my door on you;
all wolves are welcome here.”

— an ode tho the guys after ten pm // b.b (via benjaminbentley)