They never spoke. Not for the first twelve months, which actually covered one year and one month as one of them had to take December off as the third Saturday fell on an other world, as they called it in those circles, where obligations still did persist. He was less forgiving being the dom in the situation and when she wanted something she had to give up something spectacular at least in intent, in return.
There were high stakes at risk as time was unwoven when she was there and there were no words spoken and it was not like it was supposed to be and yet it was the most satisfying experience of her life, every time, as if all memory of prior pleasure were erased upon contact with some sublime being she only identified as pure light, and then it was over, in a trenchcoat, bare legs and pumps or in summer just a dress with a light sweater and gone in a puff of smoke, she’d be spirited away by the voice of some foreign language that slowly became audible and understandable, perfectly, it was as if the other side of her brain had been awakened, and it went on like this for years until she was no longer able to take the silence.
He disappeared. His Italian friend with the giant cock stayed on and they saw each other too much, twice a month and then sometimes more and it was good but then feelings would show up in a shadow or a mirror and one of them would know it was not right and the other would not know what had come over them and the inevitable drinking of wine like Michelangelo would take place, 2 days in Rome smelling the dust on old paintings, the masters, the studios, the way out, a tunnel beneath Neptune’s Lair.
If it was as she suspected, her eternal destiny to live out the goddess of desire’s fate, that would mean she would forever be Scherezade concubine to the saints and this feline plasir would come along once in a lifetime but like vampires or tragic figures, their souls were transmuted and her physical pleasure was a hologram of sorts after so many times in so many different bodies, different worlds, trying to feel human, trying to get humans to feel.
It’s nothing, nothing at all, she curls up the newspaper, continues in the rain, naked and dancing, while no one stares and no one walks away.
I ate more hair dye and conditioner grease than I would have liked and sometimes it feels as though it is all but a dream. As if it were but a dream. I forget the line I once had memorized, affixed to my back pocket. Will I ever feel so safe and secure again? Was I even then? It’s hard to remember such a shattered reality, except in excerpts around which there is no discernible context, other than pain, the kind we never speak of as it makes everyone uncomfortable.
Everyone, barring one, of course, that person you never meet who understands your every flaw and forgives you because it’s all that matters, in the end or ultimately are not one in the same. I compare myself to everyone and nothing at the same time. I am left with this cracked shell of broken piece of an inked in soul, blotted out by lack of light, distracted by distrust, a necessary outcome after all that has passed.
And still occurs. It is the fear that ultimately destroys, in the end, as it was in the beginning. The circular rhythm and flow are disconcerting when all you want is a straight line. Never knowing how much time you have left is something that we never get over. The world around you collapses and re-emerges, like a cocoon, like an imprisoned shelf where all that’s lost gets gathered again.
And if i knew, would I change a thing?