picture perfect

They always fought. Always. Not that they couldn’t function in any other way, but she was very emotional and he was unable to let to of the small stuff. Even on the very day that they first met they got into a huge argument and a subsequent fight. And they immediately realized they had found the right person. Even back then – when she would grunt at his attempts to put an end to the endless quarrels and he would throw his hands in the air and storm out of the room. But he would always return. And she would always wait for him. In fights they went through their second date, then their third and so on, and so forth..

Continuing to fight, they moved in together and always laughed when people asked how they managed to keep working at something that so obviously broken. They simply knew there was no one else they could fight with. Just each other. Every time they were apart it was physically painful for both of them. She would laugh and he was proud to be the only person who truly knew what her laugh was like – like an explosion of things long kept hidden and contained. He knew he was the only one she fought and laughed with like that, and he no longer could recall a time when she hadn’t been in his life. Fighting, they decided to get married. Even on their wedding day they managed to get into an argument. But people had already become accustomed, so the just looked with jealousy. Because everyone wanted a man or a woman they would quarrel just as passionately with, and afterwards laugh with. And that look in their eyes when they gazed at each other adoringly..

But one time she really picked a fight with him and he stormed out without returning. After that they stopped fighting and starting acting very civilized with each other. They became a picture-perfect couple – attentive, polite and nice. He felt proud less and less, and she laughed less and less.

They never fought while shopping, going out, cooking together, planning a vacation or reassuring each other everything was fine. He would open doors for her, hold her bag, ask her how her day was and nod with compassion. Until he realized – he had no one to fight with any more. And that meant he had no one to laugh with either..

a fairy-tale, sort of

She always knew when he was with Her. Not physically per se, but in his mind and heart. It was in those moments that he became aggressive, detached and rough – pinning her down and turning the bed into a war zone. He was trying to extinguish his unhealthy attachment, to erase Her image – from his mind and life, strip it down and tear it apart until there was nothing but an aching scar in its place. She pursed her lips and took it, afraid to admit even to herself that she was enjoying this torture. Afterwards she was always quick to reassure him with her eyes that it was OK. Not that he seemed to care.

Inside her his movements were slow, deliberate; he listened to her sighs and barely audible moans and stroked her with tenderness he didn’t think he had in himself. Every time he wished they could stay connected like this until the end of time. She felt ethereal next to him; he needed physical validation that she was there. Albeit a short-lasting one.

He was careful to avoid all the places where he used to go with Her.Everything needed to be different. New. Unique. Luckily she didn’t resemble Her in anything. Different figure, brown instead of blue eyes, long straight instead of short and curly hair. Her features were so delicate she looked like a fair-skinned figurine; it took him a while to get used to handling her as he wasn’t fond of being careful. Sometimes he would think of Her generous curves and hour-glass frame. She was as different on the inside as she was on the outside – anxious, restless and fleeting like the surface of the ocean on a windy day. Nothing was what it seemed with her. He was unable to forgive her for nothing being like He, but loved her for who she was.

She often fantasized about talking with Her and so did he. A desperate attempt at seeking out the ‘why’ they hoped would fill the numerous cracks in their turbulent relationship. A vain one too as She had no interest in speaking to either of them. She had moved on; they were the ones who were stuck. He wished he could see them next to each other to know for sure if he had made the right decision. Not to compare them – no one can be better or worse than someone else; people are just different and he was perfectly aware of that. But he needed some sort of reassurance.

– Why do you put up with all of this? – he would often ask her.

– I love you. – she would reply.

– How is that even possible. I am so cruel to you.

– That’s all you have left.

– What if She never loosens her grip on me.

– She won’t, but it doesn’t matter.

One day he realized to his surprise he had pined her to the wall and was roughly slamming her against it not in an attempt to punish her (not her, of course, it wasn’t her fault…he was trying to punish himself), but because he had come to understand it was what she liked and expected from him.

He sighed with relief. Outside the dawn was breaking. Both of them had this renewed hope now everything would be different. And new. 

everything must come naturally

I’m curious about the way she kisses. Is it unique? Is there or has it ever been anyone else who kisses just like she does? Can any man out there explain in disturbing details the way she locks lips with another human being? Does she know just how natural, necessary and deeply emotional experience kissing is? Perhaps she knew, but forgot at some point..

I remember us kissing casually few brief moments after we met. It was awkward and we were nervous, but pressing my lips against hers felt natural. I don’t think I’ve ever done this before I met her – casually lock lips with someone you’ve been friends with until that point. All of this seems so far away in the past. Her kisses disappeared. Or maybe they never existed; it was always me who initiated them at least. We concentrated on the intensity. The count and depth of penetration. All of these characteristics are closer to the nature of the agreement. Still, I find happiness in being with her..in kissing her.

Present-day literature and cinema show an unhealthy infatuation with a person’s ‘first love’. You see, we’re all led to believe that a woman never gets over her ‘first’ and that a man becomes one solely with his ‘first’ sexual partner. What a crock of steaming shit! I realize with striking calamity that it wasn’t until I was in my late 20s that I met the woman who showed me what sex..good sex and a real woman were supposed to be like. Too bad it turned out she could go without those kisses I so desperately crave and need. One time she kissed me on my back, right between the shoulder blades and now – in moments when I’m particularly aware of her absence – I can feel the spot burning. It seems that after all – it’s not the depth, count or intensity of penetration that show the level of emotional infatuation since all of them can be recreated perfectly with another partner. The kisses can’t, however, and remain the only true barometer for love, attachment and intimacy. Every person kisses differently and you can never erase that from your memory. When all else fades with time, the recollections of former lovers’ kisses remain just as vivid and palpable. Yes, I’m intrigued by the way she kisses. Some may even say it’s vital to my existence.

Another thing I’m curious about is her smile. Not her laughter or her reaction to a joke or a funny story, but her reaction of pure joy. Naturally, she smiles when she’s amused, but she never smiles when she’s content or happy. (actually, is she ever truly contented or happy?) She squints her eyes and lightly purses her lips as she looks away – it’s impossible to tell whether she actually enjoys or is fond of something. You can guess and try to recreate it to see if the reaction will be different – more emotional and sincere – but it won’t work. Everything is under control in her. Her emotions, her feelings, her reactions, her actions, her words and, I figure, even her thoughts. This often leads to the [almost] complete eradication of any emotion whatsoever. Negative and positive ones. Especially if you abuse this self-control for a long time. And there’s nothing more peculiar than the sight of an indifferent woman, believe me.

I’m curious about her emotions. Although I’m afraid to dig as I don’t think I’m able to face what I’m bound to find. Sometimes I dread that I may not find any emotion whatsoever. I don’t know which scares me more. Either way I have a feeling that the later I find out the truth – the better for me. I just can’t chase away the feeling of pity that she hasn’t made the most of the man that I came to be.

Where is her pleasure center? I imagine her inner world quite desolate and lonely – nothing but a serene fountain, surrounded neatly by an impenetrable wall of stones fitted so closely that there isn’t a single crack. Al access to this fountain is restricted with an iron gate, barbed wire and a numeric sequence. There isn’t even an escape route. And there are so many joys out there, waiting in the big bright world. Does she see them? Can she feel them? Does she take? Use? Receive? Consume? It would be such a pity if she didn’t..

I’m also curious about her deeds. It’s because she’s very careful to avoid any as well as anything else that she considers ‘too final’; ‘too engaging’ or ‘too formal’. She subtly passes from one state to the next, from one situation to another, gradually shifting her attitude and body language. Acting as if though ‘things just happen and we have to make due’; as if very little [if anything at all] is within our control. Such a chameleon – she just blends to the point, where you can safely assume this has always been her natural state as far as you know. Everything is seamless; everything falls perfectly into place. Except for you as you’ve never felt more uneasy in your entire life. She doesn’t..she can’t understand your predicament – “why make a fuss? things just happen” and there’s no pulling her out of this state of existence. Is there anything that can jolt her out of it? What would invoke a human, heart-felt reaction in her – these are the types of things I’m curious about.

Somewhere, deep below the calm surface lie the answers to all these questions. Reasons and justifications lie in an erratic pile she clearly doesn’t want to dig through. Or she doesn’t feel like it. It’s hard to say, but I have a feeling that in these depths there isn’t a single crack, vent or any outlet whatsoever – everything is sealed with stones and concrete – smooth, orderly and neat. There’s probably some quiet harmonic music in the background. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

This type of person who always blends with the surrounding reality is impossible to please. ‘Things just happen’ and she accepts them whether they cause her pain or happiness, because she’s given up on being in control of her life long ago. How can you convince such a person that the two of you can make one hell of a life together? … And I ache to see her smile; to taste her kisses; to feel her hand running through my hair; or to put my hand inside hers. I crave to sense an emotion in her voice, in her actions, in her movements.. ANYTHING. Either way she will give me exquisite pleasure because she’s mastered the technical side of things. But it’s not enough to make me happy. It’s so unfair that I can’t do the same for her. And I can’t chase away the fear that, sooner or later,  she’ll meet someone who’s perfectly capable. This will come naturally to him. Like everything else in her life.

 

 

peer pressure vs. pure pleasure

Some people have to learn what comes natural to others – isn’t that sad? What’s even worse – it takes a fairly simple and quite painful heart surgery (if the correct way to refer to the removal of the specified organ by a highly skilled professional known as a ‘jerk’ or a ‘skank’ can, in fact, be called ‘surgery‘) and an even longer healing (hahaha) process to learn to keep it simple – something which everyone else around you have been and always will do. Now you’re just like the rest of us – living without love, without promises, without a thrill and without anything beyond your body (it’s not as if you’ve got any soul left anyway).Oh, rest assured – none of us was like this in the first place. It takes one charming person to lovingly vandalise your heart to render you incapable of getting too attached, too close, too comfortable with anyone from now on. It’s not that bad, but the problem is when you’ve lived without your freedom for awhile, you don’t know what to do with it once you get it back. In reality you should’ve just stopped attaching your life onto his/hers and lived as a self-sufficient individual (remember those?), but truth is you’re an amputee and your disability is slowly killing you. You simply HAD to trust big promises, HAD to use big words, HAD to believe in forever and always, while the rest passed by without too much involvement in anything whatsoever. Now, you’re like a 1st-grader, learning something, which everyone else has long been proficient in: nothing is special, nothing is serene, nothing is meaningful – everyone’s just as good-looking, just as good in bed, they all kiss, giggle, touch, fuck, promise and dress alike. It’s hard to fall in love with one in particular – especially when deep in the back of your suffered mind there’s a burnt imprint of…what was his/her name?

Slowly drifting away in the cigarette smoke, you try to recall your formal self – confused, weak and in love. Time heals nothing. You will see her image imprinted on every woman you’re with for the rest of your life, re-living the disappointment, the hurt, the anger, the emptiness. Just as well – you can get back at the rest for what she did to you. People who’ve been hurt like hurting – makes it more bearable somehow…Or does it? I’m not really sure. Sadly no one but you keeps holding onto broken pieces from a past long gone in vain hopes of finding solid ground to carry on with life. She forgot you long ago – the way you pulled her hair back, the way you touched her bare skin, what made you laugh and what upset you, what you dreamed of and what you ached for – you were alone in your childishly naive dream for a happily ever after and you’re alone now in the crumbled sand tower, where only the ghost of your former self roams and still cries in pain. Truth is she remembers someone else’s touch, voice, look, everything…She searches for someone else in all men she’ll be with from now on, you’re as good as dead to her.

It would have all been so easier if we had stuck to the plan from the beginning – doing what other people do daily and a lot. Why should sex be about something other than satisfying the most basic of our needs and the most twisted of our desires. How naive do you have to be to try and find love, intimacy and tenderness in a purely physical act of lust, which was never about closeness to begin with? Because in the end only cavities gets filled, but the void never does. So fuck, cheat and lie – you’re never that close anyway. And sex is just sex – don’t read anything into it. Especially something personal.

Use, consume and procrastinate – it’s not like we’re good at anything else anyway…