I see myself, about ten years old, buried in my parent’s living room armchair, with a big book in my hands. It’s Sunday morning and the rest of my family is waking up and starting their day. I, on the other hand, don’t move. My body is an empty unresponsive shell: I’m travelling… Continua a leggere
He took off, leaving me to bathe in my excitement. Slowly, my rational self rose from her slumber and I started to think. Wait. He didn’t leave, he fled. A quick, “I want to get out” type of escape. He chickened out abandoning a few things behind. I know what spooked him, it’s the same thing that spooks them all.
I’m an over-enthusiastically happy lover. I laugh, loudly. I talk, probably too much. I kiss and bite, both with the same passion. I’m excited and over the top. I’m probably overwhelming considered this encounters don’t usually survive a one night stand.
But I’m not going to say “I’m sorry”. Not this time. I can’t bear the serious sex, either deeply involved or extremely detached. I can’t help but be lightheartedly present. Caught up in the electric energy created by the body of someone I like. Delighted by this comically rejuvenating feeling. Absorbed in this ecstatic moment though not committed for life. Somehow my euphoria translates into engagement, as if I’d ask them to marry me at every laugh. No, sir. Oh, God no!
I only want some sex I can recall with pleasure and joy. Sex that will put a secret private smile on my face while recollecting fragments of its memory. So, no. I’m not going to beat myself up over another frightened selfish guy. Too bad for him. I’ll continue to be an over the top partner, loving in my own ridiculous, crazy and happy way until I’ll find someone that can appreciate what I do, and correctly decipher why I do it.
To all the others that didn’t get it, you’re the lovely assholes I’ll remember fondly because of some really good, happy sex.
My little sister and I organised this trip to the UK with three months advance, which naturally resulted in as much time spent in fantasising about the amazing things we were going to see and do. My mind created the ideal vacation during those three months without thinking once to compare it to reality. I only had those seven days of complete and utter freedom, so all my expectations were concentrated on this one holiday: I needed it to be perfect. I didn’t leave it all in the hands of Fate, I actually did some research and put some effort in looking for alternative spots to sightsee.
To cut a long story short, I had put all my money (literally and figuratively) on this trip, so it was bound to disappoint, at least partially. Nevertheless, some stories are worth telling even though they are not all rainbows and unicorns.
Are we going to get this flight?
I had the genius idea to go to the Esperanzah festival the day before our departure. We had arranged a shuttle to pick us up at home (in Brussels) at 3:00 am to bring us to the airport. The festival takes place in Floreffe and officially finishes around midnight, but no public transportation is available that late, so we had to leave earlier. We were so worried about missing our last connection that we decided to go to the bus stop well in advance (20 minutes). It would have been a good move too if we didn’t notice (obviously too late) that we were waiting at a suppressed stop. We did run to the following stop, tongues sticking out and heart pumping, but deep down we knew we couldn’t make it in time to catch the bus. Continua a leggere
Suffocating blackness is swallowing me. I try to claw my way out but my fingers keep slipping. Where is the handhold in this damned place? There’s no water, but I’m drowning. Fighting for the breath I will never be able to breathe. Feeling the surface up there, so close and yet completely out of reach. Wrestling with all my strength like a mad shark caught in a fishing net, frightened and angry. Panicking, I kick and scream my head off. Let me OUT! A rope, a hand… please! Nothing, I’m left alone to battle this crushing darkness.
I finally manage to wake up, my body rigid with tension, my mind a scrambled mess. I fought off my nightmares, but the day just started and I’m already exhausted.
Phone. Clock. How many minutes do I have?
Planning. Programming. Filling my agenda.
Project. Class. Work. Run… run… run!
What about that meeting? Where are you going to fit the preparation for that exam? And don’t forget the project! Your group counts on you.
Where is that damned bus? You’re wasting 5 minutes you could use to half read a page from that book you planned to use on your thesis.
Counting the minutes, the seconds, I can use to achieve multiple ever growing goals. Filling my agenda with never ending tasks. I don’t feel in control anymore. There’s always one more thing to do, one more important page to write, one more urgent email to send, and I’m constantly trying to catch up. The finish line is moving faster than I’ll ever be, always out of the reach of my stretched hands.
Today I stopped.
There was no face staring back at me. Although I’ve met so many beautiful people. No comforting voice asking me if I’d like a drink and a chat. Because I’ve said so many times ‘no can’t do’ that friends have quit asking. No comforting arms ready to hug my stressed body, no one to let me know everything will be ok.
Just the cold face of my oppressive clock. Just the filled urgency of my agenda. I realised in the self centered maniacal attempt to keep up with my stressful life I forgot to nourish my relationships treating them as secondary, accessory to my ‘oh so important’ routine.
What have I done? Where are the hours spent listening? Reading? Looking? Enjoying not knowing what hour it is? Deciding there’s no need for a start or an end time? Just savouring the suspension of a present moment and giving my activity the time it really needs?
Suono viscerale. Intima attrazione che risuona all’altezza vaginale.
Come uccelli nella stagione dell’amore. Come animali in calore sentiamo quel richiamo e rispondiamo con altrettanto ardore.
Quando lussuria chiama andiamo tutti all’essenza della carne. Danza della carne.
Il desiderio eccitato dei neuroni. Il brivido della pelle. Il bisogno irresistibile di bruciare tra le mani di qualcun altro.
Questa è la musica della riproduzione.
La danzano i corpi che vogliono unirsi. Toccarsi. Farsi piacere.
Trans irresistibile, animalesca. Profondamente umana e carnale.
Baciami. Prendimi. Fammi godere, qui ed ora, su questa colonna sonora.
Conquistami, portami lontano.
Baciami. Ora, adesso, su questa nota gutturale. Prendimi. Fammi tua per questa notte.
La chitarra comincia, la voce segue ed eccola quella nota che determina la tonalità dell’amore, no, del desiderio.
Lo so, la riconosco, la sento tra le mie gambe.
Sesso, desiderio e oblio fino al mattino.
Alla ricerca del cavaliere nero. Un po’ peccatore, imprevedibile, grigio mistero. Lussurioso amante della notte. Sensibile e sorridente. Positivo, ma peccatore. Dove sei mio dolce amore?
Ti cerco e non ti trovo. Ti chiamo e non rispondi. Ti guardo e non ricambi. Ti scopo e non sei tu.
Cercami. Trovami. Baciami. Fammi tua.
Il suono si dilata. Il suono della mia vagina. Lo stesso del tuo pene. Il suono della loro conoscenza e frizione. Il suono della loro unione… del desiderio della loro unione perché la tensione è più potente di ogni consumazione.
Conquistami. Prendimi nelle tue reti. Amami.
Fammi male e poi abbracciami. Cullami.
Fammi male ma senza ferirmi.
Mordimi come se volessi assaggiarmi, non sbranarmi.
Abbracciami, per mostrarmi che mi vuoi tutta e non solo stanotte. Che tornerai da me anche quando avrò voglia di piangere. Di silenzio. Di pace. Allora tornerai da me con un bouquet di baci per ridarmi la voglia di sorridere.