Friday, April 22, 2005

The Best Part

You asked me because I led you to suspect it. And even after all this time, all this silence, I didn’t want to tell you because I knew how it would make you feel.

Like a punch to the gut.

Even after all the times you left me with that feeling, even with the right to do what I did, as a free person, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.

To punch you in the gut.

But it’s true and it’s the best part and I will put it up for the whole world to see. Because I was too much of a coward to tell you when you asked. Because I couldn’t bring myself to rip it open and draw the blood from the final heart beats.

But it’s not because of you, it’s not for you. It’s not even for me. If anything, it’s for him.

Because I do not regret it.
Because it’s the best part.

It started with playing clever games of word and touch and two double gulps and hands on belly and sides. And I’m starting to loose my grip, my tongue tied by time and tide slowly receding leading up the stairs.
The lights were too bright and the surroundings too foreign but what was seen was never as important as touch and smell, and those were familiar. The lights were quickly extinguished and we were left in the glow of the city, coming into the room through a single window.
Laying in bed with someone a jumble of blankets and body heat their smell and your mouth open a little bit, like panting so you can taste them. But we don’t kiss, no foreign taste of someone else’s mouth in yours.

And it’s still all so familiar because this is how it all started.

And she on top of he and his hands at her sides and hips and kissing her neck but softly this time so he doesn’t leave marks and she knows it’s different this time it’s not play and pain and biting retribution. But it’s still a game that she plays obediently and when payment is due for parlor tricks she knows she can’t refuse him. And afterwards he pulls her back to him and on top of him and suddenly it’s not a game anymore.

It’s real now.

And everything it fitting together, procreation and perversion mesh and it’s both and neither it doesn’t matter because it all fits, right and nice and I know it sounds like porn but it isn’t.
It isn’t Dan fucking Mike up the ass and it isn’t really Graham demonstrating with hands what it’s going to be like for Allison to loose her virginity. And it isn’t one man sucking off another guy that came so easily to my prurient mind and fingers and spat onto a Microsoft Word document in 20 minutes time.

If it was, it would be words like dick and ass and cunt and clit. But like I said, it isn’t.

What it was is every cliché and euphemism and nuance the English language leaves at my disposition. It’s floating in an ocean and playing a duet and racing and living and dying and watching and breathing. It’s fucking.

And it’s over and they fall apart and it’s a game again and old jokes. The problem with playing with a girl’s hair is stopping. But in a few hours the birds will start singing and an hour later the sky will start to lighten into gray as it darkened into blue hours earlier.

And it’s a hug, and another. And a goodnight.

And maybe sometimes in the third person.

But it's exactly what you think I'm saying.

And also, most importantly, it's True.

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