Jimmy Hendrix and The Beatles

You ask for it again. Keep on telling me how easy it is for me to do it.

Just send me the mail when you finish it, you say.

I try to think of another you might like, in the car, on the bed, on the sink, the school or my house, anything to get you jealous, whatever gets you off. Flashes of men from the past go into my head, faint details of tastes and feels, but not as clearly as that one. That time when I woke up with The Beatles and Led Zepplin under my head, the bed reeking of beer. That time when I woke up, initially lost, until I caught site of him, and the hit on my head.

You tell me you like listening to me talk about them, what I did, how I did it, the ex’s whose faces you somehow created. It makes you jealous, makes you want me more, thinking of what they did to me, in detail. You make me to tell you every aspect of it, every touch that landed on my skin… the sounds I made. I wonder if you would still want to hear about that single time, that single cheat. Would you want to know how it started, while you push your weight on me? Or would you rather read about it, in chapters, as we sometimes do through mail, to add to the thrill?

I found your fetish sick, I still do, but I give you what you want anyway. Even send you fake stories I took off the net. Just change a few nouns and pronouns here and there, and I’m done, to reap the benefits when we meet again. Lie and lie again, just to hear what words of jealousy you would breathe into my ear.

Which truth would you rather hear Ren? That I lied about how I did it in front of the computer, or that I cheated on you? Which would you find hotter?

You say you would die if you actually see someone touch me. Promise me the pleads would never go beyond stories you recreate in your head, but what about that? I close my eyes and see it all again. Rearrange the scenes to make it better.

I press control, a finger lightly planted on “n”, but I stop, and search the explorer instead. No, not that one, not ever. Story worthy. It has to be story worthy.

Slow Hands

I was trained as a child, to sleep with my hands open. Mother always said women’s hands should always be delicate and smooth, with minimal lines and breaks as possible. Our family had a lot of oddities, and I guess it was this factor that created the bond. There were often fixations on things others would consider as vanity, or not even consider at all. It was that which I remembered when he went down the dark steps and sat down beside me. He handed me my coffee for the night. A routine used to enjoy, but not for tonight. Tonight had a tint looming on his face, especially when his attention moved to my hands.

I had the same flashes of pictures and sounds in my head, my hands on his face, fingers in his mouth, weight against my pressure, kisses hushing the sounds, silencing guilt, or composing one. Guilt after all, is a feeling we are compelled to suffer, requiring us to feel through varying textures in varying sins. Slow hands putting more weight on me, with a slower high, but not enough pressure to make me forget.

We sat apart. It had always been like this, always setting a certain distance between the two of us, even when drunk, and alone. We had always been aware of a paint-like thickness crawling in us. There had always been a daunting picture painted around these evenings, crafted and painted by too many eyes, and we had always been careful. That night was the only exception, and it would be very difficult to forget. The norm we had always followed were far too opposite from behind that door, and the slightest whisper in the ear was enough to set raise the pulse, and look elsewhere or crash closer. It had been unforgivably the latter.

His stare continued, mind outside the presence of the evening, and he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, touched his head near my hands, as if he sought to impress whatever virtue he saw in his mind. There was never a loss of virtue around, what with the constant reminders and unnecessary attention, and the only expected outcomes were raveled lies and buried intentions.

At the start of these nights, there was never any uneasiness, even with a clear awareness what the vice was leading to. The absence of the deed was enough to burn out the conscience for future probabilities, and the expectation of the insincerity of the deception, not colored by prejudices, was purely of an intellectual shade, and want.

“How often does she check on you? You might miss another call.” I looked down, checking the time.

“She already called my few minutes ago, before I went out. No worries.”

That was all that was said for the entire night; he just went on, drinking his coffee, twisting the ring around his finger, and just staring. This time, the thoughts inside was a total blank to me. The wife, the eyes, the office, that night or maybe remorse, any of those could be swimming in his head, and I had no intentions of asking. After all, that night was clearer than we would have wished. There was no alcohol, no convenient excuse. It was not one of those drunken nights where one did things not honestly intended. It was a night in a wine glass, the first shot taken in faster and absorbed more lucidly than others. He knew that I saw, every single thing that he thought of that night. That the thought was going through his head since, that every push had been sought for, that the hands he was looking at right now, were hands he have been wanting to lock down against white, clenched but helpless.

He looked at me when I stood to go back to the office. I couldn’t read him. He just remained there, motionless, sitting outside as I looked through the glass door. As was thought, that one night was all it would be.