Gemini meets Scorpio
I can hear my sister drawing on a cigarette on the other end of the phone, inhaling it sharply through her lips. Our lips – sensuous and often slightly pouting as if we’re sulking – are usually the first similarity between us that people notice. In my mind, I can see the way she lets the smoke slowly coil out of her mouth. I’m stressing her out. She exhales and then says,“He’s not good for you, babe.”
But I don’t want to hear that and I make an excuse to get off the phone. If I close my eyes, that bird song – so odd sounding in the 2am calm of a sleeping city – takes me back to one early morning when I couldn’t sleep lying wrapped in his arms in his apartment and the strangeness of feeling so safe in the arms of the man who was perhaps the most dangerous thing in my life. Everything reminds me of him. Every day and night he’s there. He comes into my daydreams during lectures, hijacking my daylight thoughts with memories of the hunger in his slow kisses, of our slow, long fucks under his beige comforter, and at night time I feel him in my drifting, tumbling sleep: his large, velvet lips that can completely cover mine when we make out, his exploring hands and those muscles undulating like snakes under the smooth, cacao of his skin.
They say that when love comes into your life, you often don’t know it’s coming. You don’t get a warning. Maybe you feel a suspicious warmth when you get that person’s name in your head, but you have no clue about the blaze catching in your soul. Then one day you try to go to sleep and you realize your heart is burning so hot that you can’t cool off, and every waking and sleeping moment is a confusing freefall through pain and pleasure. That’s me right now. Even when I’m doing yoga, trying to focus on the ebb and flow of my breathing, I can feel my heart fluttering inside me as if there were a trapped hummingbird behind my sternum.
I met him at a big gay club in the city during another blurred night of dancing with no t-shirt in one of those glamorous beautiful people joints where people forget their worries in a haze of substances and sex. It was a national holiday weekend. I had no need – and still have no need - for tequila shots, no need for coke off the end of a house key nor for G diluted in a can of soda, my high came from owning the body God gave me, from enjoying its beauty. I guess – rightly or wrongly – exhibitionism is what sparks my synapses. Arrogance is something I have used to mask my insecurities. I like watching people react to me. The smiles. The wide eyes. It makes me feel – for those moments – beautiful.
He just sauntered out of nowhere, bulldozed straight through my front and took one of my hands in his as he said goodbye to a girl: this blur of smooth, mocha skin over thick, athletic muscles, erotically full lips and these beautiful, distinctive black eyes – there were entire galaxies in those eyes. His hand anchored my hip holding me close. I heard an accent in his voice – something French maybe? His smile opened something inside me. He seemed little fazed by the Gabe Kapler-esque giant standing next to me – this guy who I had met earlier and who was absently stroking the back of my head as he spoke to a friend unaware of this invading presence. I do not hide my feelings easily and he knew probably immediately that I wanted him because he asked if I wanted a drink. I couldn’t go with him because I was already hanging with “Mr Kapler” but we exchanged numbers and I noticed as he kissed me briefly goodbye how smooth his lips were and how our kiss although brief was like a bite into something ripe and sweet. You can always tell what’s going to happen in the bedroom when you first kiss somebody.
[To be continued].
posted by goodmorningamerica23 @ 3:24 PM
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