|
And all of a sudden, we are neither in
this time, nor in this town. We're somewhere in the middle of a dream,
looking at each other, sipping Capuccino and talking of our lives. We're
frozen in time. Words coming and going without a finish line. Words coming
and going, dancing with the music of our eyes, following the rhythm of
a more intimate connection. Here we are: the first man and the first woman,
repeated ad infinitum. The first blood and the first heart beat. Always
the same and yet always new.
Her face is changing with the slow movement of the moon. Her words are
wrapping me with the laces of rainbow. Her eyelashes are hypnotic. Her
mouth is more than tempting and this is not a coffee place, this is a
forest and she's casting her spell. I look but I want to see. I see but
I want to dream. I dream but I want to have. Her words are falling and
they sweep me.
I've played the game of seduction many times, but every new look, every
promise of flesh anew, every new whisper of the garden of wantonness washes
out my old sins. It's me, fresh, again. It's my skin without memories,
without owners, without repeats. I'm a virgin one more time. Did I say
that it's funny?
Well, it is. I haven't seen her. I know nothing of the space her body
occupies in time, the space that her contour steals from the air. The
space that her eyes cut from the light. And yet she's making me dizzy
with needs that I never knew I had. I'm Adam, I'm Tao, I'm Gilgamesh and
Ra. Sex is being born with me. Sex will die with me. Sex is her name.
She is the night that holds me and nurtures me. She is the night that
will bury me. Sex is her name.
Suddenly, we are not in the coffee place anymore. We're in her room. And
there's music being played from some old record. Her body strokes mine
as we try a few languid, lazy dancing steps. As in a Humphrey Bogart's
movie, I hold her, feeling the softness of the naked flesh of her back.
I hold her and feel the warmth stream of her breath in my cheek. She's
in my arms, devoid of a will other than the will of feeling. I softly
lick her earlobes, to taste the sweet flavor of her fresh skin. I feel
the voice of lewdness growing in the back of my neck and traveling throughout
my body. I sense the pinch of desire nesting in my groin. Possession is
the name of this painting. Lustful strokes from an old Dutch master's
brush. How can I want her so madly, so deeply? I need to melt in her.
To be in her. Doesn't she see that I'm hurting? And my only relief can
only come from her wet flesh, from the deep of her sex, from her scented
juices and oozing tissues.
But I don't want to surrender to this single urge. I don't want to retreat
after a burst of heat. I want to revere her body and soul forever. I want
to explore her every cleft and nook with my lips and my tongue, and my
fingers and my bones. I want to knead her muscles with my avid hands,
pursuing the harmony of relentless passion. One hour, and another, and
another, until time goes away with its sad-filled rhymes. No. I don't
want to abandon myself to orgasm. I want to keep the feelings flowing,
unstopped. I want to lay the fabric of pleasure at her feet, as a magic
carpet that will take us to ancient Bashra, in the domains of Haroun-al
-Raschid or Scherezade or Al-Manzur. Traveling in thin air. Swirling,
twisting , flowing, softly falling and never reaching the sands of extinction.
Overwhelmed by our senses, simmering in carnal consumption, half way between
the dream and the reality of our bodies. That's how I want to take her,
that's where I want her to lead me. To the constellation of her breasts,
to the black holes of her chin, to the heart of her warmer, inner fantasies.
I want to be an astronaut over her limbs, a diver in her pores, a climber
on her hips. I want to melt and become jelly fish in the deep of her vagina.
I want to trace the stars spread on her hair. I want to suck her sex juices
and kiss her soul out of her mouth. I want to be hers, in her, for her.
I want her to take me. To swim in my veins. To join me. To come to make
a splash in my blood and in my semen, in the fluids and essences of my
being, in the fluids and essences of my thoughts.
And then I dream of death striking, taking us exhausted, satisfied, wholesome,
full of pulp and languid tissue, to the island of void.
Now, there's no room. There's no coffee place. There's no love left. Just
a gray, rainy day. Just a bunch of feelings and longings. She has no face,
no legs, no hands and her spirit comes back to being a ghost. Sand blown
away by a gust of wind. I haven't seen her, ever. I don't recognize her
voice. I don't even match her self and my desire.
There's just rain, cold wind, and dark clouds. No space. No place. No
room. Kind of makes you think that life is nothing but a nightmare, only
bearable if you stop dreaming.
|
