Valentine'sWe meet in the dark when we meet. And I think it's so you will not have to look at me, and you think it's so I will not have to look at you.
But I hate to touch you more than to look at you, and I would never tell you that.
We meet in the dark when we meet, plunging into a night of shame, but no one feels ashamed. So much in this world bears a label without being what it is labelled. So much in this world is like this: not so much not what it seems but more what you think it should not be. Which is the same thing.
We meet in the light of the lamps in the street, burning sodium bright, and how the fuck do people in this street ever sleep? Draw the curtains, I am saying, because if they're not sleeping, they are making notes.
Everything has to be history. Nothing can be left unsaid. We are unable to let the passing moment simply pass. I feel your hand on my face and I wonder how I would describe it if I was made to describe it.
Do you want me to suck your cock?
I wish you wouldn't ask. I wish that we could have a world without words, where we just are what we are and do what we do, and none of us has to make account. Dogs do that, don't they? Dogs do that, just live and none of them feels the need to write postcards from where they are.
Everything has to be history. I know that I cannot enjoy this moment because I will have to describe how it felt to me to you. I know that you will make me cringe with embarrassment by asking how it felt to me. I know that and it siphons the small joy of the small physical thing that it is. I know that I will have to find words that do not say what I mean.
I wonder whether there is a harder task for the aware soul, and I know that I take on one even harder: finding ways to avoid it without feeling diminished by lying.
Nothing can be left unsaid. I cannot just be here and be gone. I must tell you how it was. I am thinking about what I will say and I cannot focus on what you are doing. It is happening, but it seems to be happening to someone else, to the person I must report on.
The real thing is that your teeth are on my cock and I feel the skin stretch a little. The real thing is that you are kneeling on the scuffed carpet of this room, my cock rolling in the wet void of your mouth, and I feel the skin stretch a little and I am a little scared that you will bite, and more scared that I will like it and want it more, that it will outstrip the common sensation to the point that just being sucked does nothing for me.
I wonder whether I should encourage you. How would it feel to say, bite it? Is that something I could say? I wonder whether my voice will work. It feels as though my throat is dry enough that it will not, and I remember that I have water on the table near the window, just within reach.
I check that you are not looking and pick up the bottle. Did you feel me move? I hope that you will not look up, because I will have to smile. I will have to show that I am enjoying it.
But what would enjoying it even be like? How do you look when you are? I suppose I will have to smile. But can't people tell when you are faking a smile? Don't they know straight away? What would it matter? You care that I seem to enjoy it, not that I do.
I realise that I have gone soft in your mouth. What's wrong, you are saying. Nothing, I am saying, I'm sorry.
You have moved to the bed, pulling off your trousers and blouse as you move. I drink some water from the bottle in my hand and then bring it over to you. I am sitting by your side. I can feel your skin against mine, your belly against my hip. It is hot and soft.
I suddenly feel that I have a task that I have to perform, another of the many things that I have to do to make the days pass. Such is love, I am thinking, when you strip away the hearts and flowers, such is everything you ever do, hollow and unreal.
I feel a cold draught from the window and move over to shut it out.
Come on lover, you are saying. I close the window and we are alone in a room with the world outside, and there is nothing to do but begin to fuck you.