If we were not consumed by the sexual jealousy of our own imaginations, we would have fallen in love forever.
We would record ourselves, then watch it back ten minutes later and masturbate holding hands. She told me she only dreamt once a year. When we were having breakfast she would look up at me with her coquettish little love-smile and whisper she wasn't wearing any panties. The waiter would hold our table while we went back upstairs. Her father had died when she was 4. Maybe that could point to a cause of her sexual appetite. Maybe, she said, telling me she’d slept with around 200 men. I guess it was closer to 500. Touching her arm was enough to make her wet. She would constantly be looking up at me, pleading, seductive, the darkest most devious little love-smile I ever saw. I never learned how to resist it. We were in total control of each other’s bodies, spending days on end holed-up in that hotel-room. When the feeling became too strong she would close her eyes and our four hands caressed her. She would come 8 to 10 times an hour, her legs trembling like a new born horse. Each shudder of anaesthetic joy no less miraculous or addictive than that first strange teenage shiver. Her low moans were the closest thing to heaven I've ever known, the most delicious thing I have ever known on earth. That inimitable cry. That sweet mournful sound - that dark look in her eyes, the way our bodies fell together like two waves reaching the shore - is perhaps the only thing I have ever really understood, the only thing I have ever truly loved. We eventually fell in love, of course, but couldn’t trust each other. Neither believed the other could be faithful. Now she’s gone I love her even more. One too many goodbyes in this sad brown world we’re all vaulted in. She liked me, she said, because I made love to her. The other boys just fucked her. I would kiss her with love and I could feel her sad heart when she kissed me. At night she clung onto me like a child scared of sliding off the earth. She spoke in a soft voice and would wake up, without having dreamt, in the same position, and we would make love slowly, still half sleeping, with the impossible tenderness of two lovelorn creatures thrown there side by side in this strange eternity, quietly moaning together in the half-light. Other times I would tie her to the bed and bring her to a frenzy, covering her for hours with firm slow little kisses and carresses, whispering delicious filth in her ear, her eyes closed, her whole body under my command, trembling at the slightest faintest touch and she’d cum over and over before I even put it in her. I knew she was seeing other boys during the week. And she knew I was seeing other girls. We both hated the situation and loved each other. But neither of us could stop ourselves, or the other, from the seduction of those sweet new embraces. We kept going back to each other. We couldn’t resist those hours of animistic joy, when her soft voice was almost sincere, saying that she was mine, all mine, forever - and at times we both believed it. And we are still tied together now somehow, although she is faraway, in someone else’s arms. The pure little white fire was too strong to ever really die down and keeps me going back to her now, clutching after her in my memory and imagination, like a junkie crawling through the shadows. But crawling for what? No longer really craving for a taste, but the addiction itself.
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AuthorEnglish teacher from the UK. Living in Granada. Currently working in Doha. Archives
February 2022
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