How affection can be so complex
Out of nowhere, you appeared, you are just here, in front of me. With the charmer attitude of initial ignorance, I turn my head from you, just so much so that I can still follow you with peripheral vision. Now I really want to evaluate my body language recognition skills. At least to prove I don’t read these psychoanalytic books for nothing. But the position is too unfavourable, you are too blurry. Suddenly I feel a strong euphoria and the need to emphasize. I won’t stop chattering, and I hear that it does not go bad for you either.
In the middle of a spontaneous turn with my head, my eyes stayed on you for a millisecond, precisely because you did the same. Such timing doesn’t exist in reality. First emotional contact, first touch it was. And now I remember from the book, it is indeed something like that described in it, with a “little chance of control“. While thinking I feel people are watching me strangely. “You idiot, you stopped talking in half of the sentence”, and I also hear the silence behind me. We got unmasked! Like two immature adolescents. I’m skilfully returning to the scene. I do not have to be very intelligent to notice myself to sympathize with you.
You are coming to me and asking me one of the simplest questions, and I behave as if it says in the script that it is a 5-second break, and then the answer. In that long time, I forgot the question, and now it’s too late to ask you to repeat it. How bizarre. In my defence, you possess powerful radioactive aids – a strong, opiate scent from your silky and long hair. The radiation from your wet eyes, and even this chuckling, while you speak, creates disturbances, so unique and vibrant. What a narcissism, it’s like I know you before.
“Why everything that is spontaneous, as a rule, is nice and interesting. And why sometimes you can’t change the imperfect thing for the better?” I really would not try to think about such things, if it wasn’t for you. I would give you a brief and logical explanation, but you want your thoughts to remain intricate, dirty, and full of intimation and uncertainty.
On the other hand, it came to my mind that it wasn’t by chance that you are asking me these questions, now that we are here, alone, in this nothing but a strange room. Fresh, as the newly-picked roses are in the vase, on the walls are hung modern, abstract paintings and symbols among which is “Yin Yang”, the only thing I like here. Every one of these expensive pieces of solid wood furniture, wouldn’t surprise me to originate from the 19th century. I don’t really know what to call this design. And just as I recalled, you stopped the answer with an unalterable look into my eyes.
What a feeling, such softness, moderation, and coordination of your 34 muscles. And even those unarticulated movements with your hands, which I feel with my eyes closed, give you the right to be my competitor in the intensity of pleasure. As I am calming your hands, grasping you for your sophisticated and warm upper arms, I feel that whenever you exhale, you relax your shoulders synchronized by slowing down the kiss, and vice versa when it comes to inhaling. I’m inquisitive about whether you’re pulsating this way all the way to your ankles.
Oh, we have a novelty, you begin enviously to suck my lip. I replicate this wonderful ritual of trust, in my mind, you become a careless creature, like a lamb or zebra. On my part, in no case do I imagine myself a predator who would hurt you. I’ve lost track of time for a long time, although I think it’s impossible for me to get bored with this gentle blend. I’m dropping my hands up to your narrowest part of the torso, precisely because of my curiosity, at least I can feel more of your amazing vibrations.
Soon, you interrupt the kiss, to tell me: “What’s so interesting in my hips?” “I really do not know where you’ve been taught about the anatomy of the body, but what I’m holding is the waist.” What a dull and disgusting reaction after so many wonderful moments. You are putting my hands delicately away, standing up nonchalantly, playing a song on the phone, and inviting me to dance.
We’re in the dark. The glasses emptied of the drunk wine were on the table. The classical piece from the 80’s “Lady in red” is playing, a very romantic and slow song. Is it an accident that you wear a red dress? The kiss has improved to a French one, and I already feel that you are becoming fierce, because you don’t follow the rhythm of the song, but you’re doing everything in a hurry. You start scratching my neck and biting my lips so painfully, that I started bleeding. We’re far from coincidence because soon everything I think about is red. You, your lips, your song, blood in my mouth, fire, roses in this room, wine, and even, I remember, “Yang” is presented in this disgusting colour. Your worthful emancipation is gone, secretly you want to handle superior, I know every next step of yours.
Your abnormality goes to the next level, let’s call it extreme psychomotor impulsivity. I’ve never considered myself a hypochondriac, but I think that’s what I’m feeling now. Things are going too fast, with great deviation from the valid norms, without rhythm and surprise factors. I thought I would never say this, but you’re getting boring. The only thing that makes you interesting is discovering the secret of your disgrace. I went so wide that at one point I thought that my blood was poisonous. So, I leave you more time space, trying not to reveal my discomfort and disappointment. Still, you’re just a little younger than me, it shouldn’t be me to give you love advice. This irony is killing me, that I can’t read only your sincerity. You gave up. And crying! You are not looking for my shoulder? Now everything is unclear.
“It’s best if we forget this.” It is a typical sentence in these moments that speaks as a picture, of course, if we exclude the way it is spoken. But what do you mean when you say “this”? That’s where the secret is, if only you wanted to say it. My hetaera, concubine, how to call you, I thought. I can’t even accidentally from grace pull out that chauvinistic move. You don’t deserve it.
This physical love, sentimentally unlimited, at the same time insufficiently deep, to say it’s not honest is wrong just because it passed so quickly. It’s just enthusiasm, an unsuccessful attempt to calm our scale, due to our great effort. Things should not be dramatized. “Will we see each other again?” “We will.” “Lie!” “Don’t tell me I’m lying.” “Define it differently.” “Untruth, at least we have some hope then.” The last spiritual contact is interrupted by the innocent sound of the door closing.