You didn’t know that you were supposed to be my last hurrah. Neither did she, the girl that was supposed to be my new beginning. My future.
I kept it quiet. Just like I did during that last night, that last hurrah, with you. Like the most cherished of all my sensations it was: a dark, perverse secret. All through our night, until the sun rose – and I was always running beyond you. But you didn’t know that. You thought I was stationary. But I was running: Beyond that night. Beyond the hungover, dirty morning. Toward another. Toward her.
For come the day after and I was leaving my solitary days to fall in love.
This was supposed to be my last dirty hurrah. Something I needed, to stop that surge of venom.
Now, I am huddled over this desk, over this bottle months later. A week’s worth of cigarette butts in the ashtray and I still feel like I am coming down off this din, this protracted bender. Even to this day, I have no certainty of why, or even how long, she was in my heart. The weariness has subsided, the courage is regaining force, but the nausea is still everywhere.
In these smokey times, I like to drift away. Think about better times. Better nights. Like our night. That last night. That swan song…
Our evening began with the still gray twilight. It seemed that, the closer night came, the hotter the flirting became.
You were sitting across from me when, under the table you kicked up your legs onto my knees. Your legs were wide and your calves were sawing into my thighs. While I was speaking, I was visualizing the delights: your short black dress, spread open. People passing by. Seeing. Watching. Feeling. Unabashed sexuality. Heaving lust.
I stopped speaking. You grinned.
The server left the bill. You ground your ankles deeper into my legs. We both grinned at her and left.
When we got in the car, you kicked off your shoes and put your manicured toes on the dash. At first you let me see what you were wearing underneath, below. Then you rubbed yourself through your velvet panties. You looked at me, intoxicated. The lust glistened on your lips. Then you licked them and I reached down for your slow bucking mound.
Love is the most prized virtue in the world.
I see it all around me. In so many exclamations. Points of profundity.
Everybody talks about it. But few actually do it.
And when I meet somebody that runs from love: I want to jog alongside them. For these few, the word refuses to whistle from their lips, as though it is venom. A curse. Or worse: a lie.
For there is a correlation that is suffocating us like a noose: love equals happiness.
I don’t remember our first kiss. Afterall, we never said anything about love.
I do remember the summer patio, buzzing with noise and glasses and people making sounds below the melody of the music.
Again, you lifted your feet up and onto my thighs. This time, with your sharp heels knifing and grinding into me at the swivel of your hips. As nighttime was settling-in, you reached down and slid your finger under your panties, peeling it halfway over.
You were watching me, watch you. Licking your lips.
Liquor brave on that lively patio, swirling with secrets and darkened dirtiness, I leaned toward the apex of your splayed legs. I fell to my knees and slithered my tongue in circles around your clit. Then as my exclamation point, I slid up and down your entire slit, darting once in and out of you.
I sat erect, back up and in my seat. Slyly I wiped my chin and looked around.
On this patio full of life and the mention of love and buzzing blinders: We were not spotted.
Agape. Eros. Philia. Xenia. Storge. Pragma. Mania. Ludus.
These are some of the types of love. Styles of love. And these are not all.
In a grayscale world, love is fluid. Love is a current. White-caps. A torrent.
And when a dam is broken and a fluid flood ensues: Some drown. Some die. Some wave their arms frantically, for help. Others, run.
We were leaving for the next destination, a birthday party – and I had no idea why I was taking you. My friends would never see you again. I said that I wouldn’t even introduce you. I wanted you to be invisible so they wouldn’t ever question me.
Then, as we got into the car, again, you opened your legs and flipped your dress up. It was now dark.
You reached over and pulled me into you. People were passing by. Sidewalk smiles and feet shuffling. Stopping. Then walking on again.
I was heated and breathing from my ears. You crawled into the back seat and pulled me onto you. I flipped around and you ground your cunt on my raw, throbbing cock.
You whispered, again, that – last night, you watched yourself cum in the mirror as you thought of my cock, fucking you. And you loved it. But you do not love me.
Adroitly, you had me unzipped and my cock was up and hard and you were stroking it. I did not help in any of this. I was pinned in position. Holding you. Holding me. Holding secrets in this darkened car on the side of the road.
Desperately, you began bouncing on me. Riding me. Gyrating on me. And then I was inside you. Fucking you. Opening you as wide as I could.
I reached around and filled up every hot opening. With my fingers, my cock, my tongue, my neck.
I wanted to flip you over, onto your back. But I saw lights behind me. I pivoted around.
Behind us, a cop with his lights on.
Above me, you with your hot cunt grinding on my fears, were looking into the cop’s car. For who knows how long…
I don’t run. I don’t jog.
I thought it was more appropriate to swim. Now I go out to the empty pool on haunted afternoons and below the weeping willows, tear from one end to the other. Like something is chasing me.
Like the ghostly silhouette of a girl. My secret girl. My disappointment girl.
Because it is true: I didn’t achieve the love that I was leaving you for. I went stupidly for it, and I didn’t even see the flood – from the side. For I had my eyes fixed on the light, as she told me to do. Then, again, I was blindsided by somebody I trusted.
After the voyeur cop, we drove away for the party. We found a parking spot by the sex store. The adult arcade. The last one in town.
I said, let’s go. You said you wanted to know. So… go.
There was a girl in one of the arcades, lying on her back, reading under the red light. We shut the door and slipped her the money. In this dirty din, the lights came-on and I pinned you up against the window.
Suddenly your mouth became dirty. You said, fuck your self. Rub that hot cunt.
I looked over your shoulder as I pounded at your ass in this sticky cave of sin.
I do not blame. Her. You. Them.
Life is death. Love is a torrent. Dams are abuse. Violence tears us apart. Then, floods kill.
Something that is the most prized virtue in the world, is also something that has teeth.
Love is an angel disguised as a demon. The devil himself.
And ardor’s heat is nothing more than vapors from hell.
We were surrounded by lesbians, dykes, bisexual and uncertain girls alike. Friends and new foes sat by us on the club’s couch. And while, in all the Forum letters of my youth, this was the basis for a paralyzing tale – this was not the case.
Lesbians tend toward supreme dislike with me; and near-hate, when a girl is sitting atop of me, grinding her still-wet cunt-in-panties on my still-hard cock-in-pants. The deejay spun his records and few apart from the lesbians seemed to notice.
I pulled-out a nipple and sucked. Hard. Bit. Gently.
I looked up and our hostess, my friend, was standing above us. She said, cool it. My mother is here.
You sat next to me and made conversation with the girls. My hand crawled beneath your ass and I slipped fingers into your hot hole. Invisibly, I fucked you while you traded business cards.
It was a blur, but we drove to the other end of town, where your car was; to the bar we began our night at. You said you needed the bathroom and went inside. I stayed out.
You reappeared with shots, which you shot. When we got to your car, you pulled-out two cold beers from your purse.
We sat in your car, listened to music and I tried to forget tomorrow and the girl that I was going to love. Just for a couple more minutes more, I swam in the sea of sex and forgetfulness; my drug.
But we didn’t sit quietly for the proposed short time. No, a couple more minutes turned into an hour in your backseat, sucking on your juices and thrusting my cock into your drunken mouth at perverse angles.
I drove back to your house, because you couldn’t. We appeared at the front door, with beers in-hand. Your babysitter answered. She interrogated. Gave me the evil eye. Was disappointed. Then, left.
We went into your bedroom. You pulled out some smoke, opened some wine. Took off your clothes and slid my cock inside you.
I didn’t kiss you. I was as far from love as I could be.
I fucked you hard in that soft bed. I pounded down and onto you. I smacked your tit. You smacked me in the face. I rolled off you and two minutes later and,
Your five-year old daughter walked into the room and crawled into bed with us. Startled, you leapt out. I was naked, and hid it like a secret. I asked her about her ice cream. Then, she fell asleep and I slithered out of the bed. Dirty and ashamed. Cold and hungry.
The sun was rising when we finally tired of fucking; and pinning your legs up behind your head in your living room. We fell asleep on your sticky couch with no blankets. I was shivering, cold.
I slipped out of your house at dawn without a word. You could have cared less.
And this is just the way I wanted it.
I want perversity in all my exits.