A game of you and me

We came out to play. In a tiny hotel room. In front of the mirror.

You wore a white shirt, clean crisp pure, but your reflection showed something else - a person wearing black: dark soft sensuous: the same face though: a similar person. In another dimension.

“I booked us a double room,” I whispered in your ear. “Two rooms in fact. The all-seeing and the all-feeling.”

The all-seeing
You saw him in the mirror, standing behind her. Wrapping a silk scarf over her eyes. And her eyes were gone.
He took his time. Took off her black shirt. His fingers walked the contour of her body, exploring a new geography, searching, looking for the pearly round buttons to unhook. One by one, from the top to the bottom - she was breathing - the cleavage of her fabulous breasts revealed. Condensation on the mirror.
He was breathing, down on her. His teeth nibbling her long pale neck. Biting. Licking. Tasting. You saw his tongue. And you touched yourself, while his fingers went walking, walking, walking south.
The black shirt fell. The black pants fell. A lacy red bra and a slinky red thong. And a blush on her face.

The all-feeling
It was hot breath on your body. And your face was hot.
You could see nothing but you could feel it. You could hear me breathing. Warm and moist on your skin. Along the curve of your shoulder.
A click. The clasp of your lacy red bra. Loosened, and slid down. Your nipples stiffened to the cold air.
Pinned to the wall. Hard wall, but cooling to your back. Arms raised above your head, tied round the wrists, and couldn’t be brought down anymore. You felt me: my mouth sucking on your tits. Smooth wet lips wrapped around. Tits. Sucking. Tongue. Touching. Flickering.
And your pussy purred for more.

The hotel room
Split between the duplicity of reality, exists the irreal.
You were on one bed, on fours, clad only in your white shirt, looking into the mirror, and I was doggy-fucking you from behind.
You were in the other room, pinned to the wall, tied and bindfolded, your legs split wide open in a V, and I was rubbing my tongue up your sweet clitoris.
Perhaps there could be more of me playing more of you at the same time. And you, enjoying the simultaneity of sexual pleasures in each and every universes, undulating, exploding, converging in this multiverse of your singular body.
And we would make verses. Long drawn out ones. Poetry in motion.

The games we play
When the children of lust touch, their instruments of love, strumming through their minds and bodies are the melodies electric.
The blue fire. The red passion.
The warmth and the hunger.
We seek love, free and imaginary and perverse, and reject true love's responsibility.
We seek life, the process of making life, but denying a chance for life to be made.
We play God. We play the horny slut. We play with candles, we play with ice-cubes, we play with ourselves. We worship, we experiment, we go to the edge: tying, spanking, whipping, choking, cutting, hurting, crying, laughing, moaning, stripping, raping, filming, masturbating, licking, creaming, ass-rimming, muff-diving, lily-chaining, wheel-barrowing; we play the games of the wildest fucking.

When the children of lust come out to play, we play the finest game of all.
So, do you want to play a game of you and me?





Or are you tired already?

The literature student

So it was that she, an 18 year-old girl, committed suicide by swallowing her entire stack of literature notes. She left no explanations for this act, except the body of herself lying on the bed – right hand covering the mouth, left hand clutching the result slip.

When the news came out in the media, they pronounced ‘academic pressure’. She had failed her literature exam. The only F among the As.

When the school discovered her exam script missing, the literature teacher was already back in his country, reunited with his wife and children, and trying to forget everything. He had burned away that piece of love letter pleading him not to go. He had burned away that damning record of memory, which she had written in her usual cursive style, which she had written under the severe eyes of the exam invigilators, within 2 hours in the hall, at the exact same spot where she first kissed him after the rehearsal of the Shakespearean play. Yes, she was Juliet. He was the director. For when she read those lines on stage with all the intensity of passion and youth, they were not to Romeo, but to him down below. And he succumbed.

They made love in the midnight darkness, after the successful performance of the play, after the audience had left, on the stage, behind the curtains, under the watching eyes of gods.

Desire may be the root of suffering but fixation is its heart. Like a lodged thorn, stubborn and unyielding, obsession drove her beyond life and beyond death. She wasn’t in hell. She didn’t sell her soul for that secret knowledge of waiting. It’s all in the books. Always. The literature of living, loving, dying, and returning.

She’s in Limbo. And in Limbo, one waits. She waits by his bed. Waiting for his dream of Earth to be over, waiting for him to wake up from his sleep, waiting for him to hold her in his arms and tell her once more the everlasting beauty of star-crossed lovers.

They would be born again. This time, happily ever after.

She believes in happily ever after.

She has to.

And so, she waits…

Dream girl

I awake to the late afternoon rain – grey and chilly. In my dream, someone was calling me. Someone with no face. Faceless. Featureless. Yet, I know she's beautiful.
I was there, and I am here – realities shifting outside and inside of me.
She is calling. Yes, I hear her. The telephone is ringing in the background. Ringing. In the living room. I want to tell her it is not important. But she shakes her head.
“No,” she says, “pick it up. It's me. I’m calling you. Pick me up.”

I am awake. Or am I? The phone is ringing. My muscles and joints are aching. And my head is heavy and groggy. Fever. Feverish. And the ringing refuses to go away. Simply refuses.

***

I can hear her breathing through the receiver set of my telephone.
Calm. Unhurried. And sexy. But I would rather go back to bed and sleep my headache through.

“Are you the girl in my dream?” I ask.

“If only,” she replies, “if only I can be someone’s dream girl. It's nice to have men thinking of me. Even when they are having sex with someone else. Even when they are masturbating alone. I really don’t mind. Just as long as I'm their dream girl.”

I wonder what is so important that she can't tell me about in dream. For it seems so much easier to think there, than here, with a pounding headache. I try to hold my head intact with both my hands.

“It's going to be night soon,” she says.

It is true. The clock says 7.34pm. The sky is dark and stormy. Lightning flashes bright the world on and off, and the thunder rattles me.

“I am Sunday,” she goes on to say. “I was Joy this morning. I was bright and creamy. I was delicious. I was breakfast. Sunny side up. Rich and warm egg yolk, yellow and ready to be licked.”


*

She reaches my place at 10.48pm. In an oversize coat, holding a long and dripping wet umbrella. Coal black hair that flows down her neck, an egg-shaped face that is smooth blank and absolutely featureless. Without a nose or a mouth. Without eyes or ears. Just a plain vacant face. Staring at me.

“I can be anyone you want me to be,” she says. “Just think of me, think of her, and – I am her. Your dream girl.”

I take her coat, which she surrenders with a slight hesitation, I wonder. Yet she moves around my place with remarkable ease. Total confidence, perfectly calm.
She wears a soft blouse of light silk the colour of skin and a form-hugging skirt slit all the way to her hip. I am certain she has no undergarment inside. The shape of her stiff nipples can be easily seen.

"What do you want of me?" she asks.

What do I want of you, I wonder. What do I want of you?

Snatches: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the love expert

I read his book and thought of you:

"For there was a dream of an affair of a 100 nights, where you were his and I was hers; and in that cloak of darkness, we met. We met to escape the problems of love. We met without pretensions of loving or being loved, yet always in the hope of finding something, that resembled love.

Forgetting is a long long time. And I’m still in the remembering to forget. And though I still remember, I have learnt too: that I would rather love than dream; I would rather problems than pretense.

"I wish you well. I wish the best for you. And I wish one day, I may forget to remember."

Snatches: Tori Amos, the theoretical physicist

My scream got lost in a paper cup. You think there’s a heaven where screams have gone?

Snatches: Jim Steinman, the social critic

Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.

The show must go on

Do you know life? 
Every-where that we've gone, every-thing that we've tried, have forced us to this point: a gleaming point that cuts. 
I havn't got much left in my pocket. I havn't got much to give, anymore. So do you mind, if I keep some for myself?

I can't drink up all your tears and give you light every night. 
I can't see that beautiful picture myself. Though we've drawn it once. Out on a paper. Framed. Now I can't find myself in it. I can't see you in it. I can't see it anymore. I think -
It's a picture you've got to believe in first, for it to be revealed. A place you've got to live in first, before it becomes real. 
Or, maybe, I've just lost my faith. Or, maybe it's just a picture too wonderful; I'm too sad to be there.

No more I love you? 
The hurtings have got to stop - somehow, somewhere, sometime. For how can I not love you? Perhaps: I don't know how. 
Just a little boy, I am, plugging my fingers in the dyke. A dyke cracking apart. A dyke full of holes. My fingers are stuck in them.
My throat's hoarse from shouting. Yet no one's listening. No one cares. I'm feeling helpless. It is hopeless. I am tired. 
Sorry. 
I've got to let go.
Let the flood come.

Do you know life? Actors and actresses looking for an ending. 
We didn't choose to come here, did we? But we've brought her along. So now, we've got to go on acting. And the show must go on. Pretence. Pretence. The smiles that veil us. You've never heard my beating heart. I've never lived your life. We know too much, but we've understood nothing. I'm sorry: to you, to her, to myself. That, I've nothing much in my pocket left to give.