I’ve been contemplating my first loves, or my first desires - depending on your point of view. You know, the ones you can’t erase from your mind. The ones who leave an imprint, who leave you restless and throbbing with longing until they drift into the distance, only occasionally igniting reflection and recollection. There the one’s who remain.
I was 15. How can I describe him. It’s impossible, but his shadow is engraved in my retina in a kind of shimmering dark light. Languid is the way he moved, but he worked hard. And his smile - quiet and reserved, but full of piercing light. For a long time I watched from a distance. I’m guessing he did too. Tall and dark in every imaginable way. He knew he was beautiful, and it embarrassed him. He’d disappear for long weeks; chasing wild horses, I don’t know. We weren’t too bothered with the details. Touches and smiles, and everything new. Women have that burning need too. Just a little different from you. We never knew each other in the biblical sense till way down the road, after we’d left each others side. We satisfied our curiosity, but not our desire. Imaginings and beauty can be disappointing.
It’s an intoxicating alluring hook, beauty, both from within and from without. And, oh…… to be desired. The power it wields, and the desire it evokes in the holder and the beholder. Desire summoning desire. Wonderful, luxurious, delightful desire. Power and play. Playful and painful flirtations of love. Wrap yourself in it, but remember it’s a tenuous dance, even when it’s beating and primal and full of force. There’s always a danger of leaving imprints. And, imprints can capture the beauty, but they can be scars too.
Men wanting to own you in one way or another. With their eyes, with their arms, with their minds. With their cocks all proud and blue. When they can’t; some despise and try to destroy you.
A carefully groomed man tried to pull me into a car once. A stranger in a darkened city street, in a crappy car and a perfect suit. We didn’t exchange a single word, but his eyes told me to run, and I did. Lucky escapes. Oh God! Mercy for lucky escapes. When the fear disappeared the rage rose up and burned me. How fucking dare he. How fucking dare he. Where is your fucking honour? Where is your fucking respect? Blind men, don’t waste your time on them. When I told my man, he just brushed it aside with a smile. In his darkest spaces, his desire longed to have a stranger rape and mutilate me. There is no worse punishment a man can inflict upon a woman, and he knew it, even though he’d never say, right up until his dying day. You don’t believe me do you; but that’s not unusual is it. You want scientific proof, but I’m telling you - isn’t that enough - I saw his insides, and he despised me for seeing his weakness. That, and my refusal to abide. I wedded that one for a moment. Perspectives change, and so do realities. It takes awhile for knowing to bubble up sometimes.
Some men are born knowing how to love a woman. Some never know. Many men can’t rise above the scripture. Never bothering to look between the lines to discover the Rapture. That’s cowardly and lazy, don’t you think?
A man drove a thousand miles once to bring me a garland of flowers. I still couldn’t love him. I think it was the flashy car. No, I’m lying. He should have delighted me with laughter, and casual sentiments crafted on a damp coaster, which he gave me in a bar. Now that one remains. No. I’m still lying. Chemistry. It’s all about the meeting of the souls, and even if it only lasts a minute, or a second, or a glance, a soulful rendezvous is far more pleasing than a couple of rubbing bodies. Why not explore possibilities? But then, possibilities and plans can be painful.
I loved a man for awhile and he loved me too. I think we loved each other too much, at the wrong time. Cars do not crash when they’re standing still. Sometimes they try to steal your soul. He was the kind of man that was drawn to my strength, but wanted my weakness. He remains.
Never, ever lay down with a man who is drawn to your weakness, and don’t delude yourself we all have them. Including weakness disguised as strength. It’s drab and not very pretty. It’s not worth the time, and Fuck You, I don’t need saving.
Don’t believe them when they tell you it’s simple. It never is. Never. Even when the surface says otherwise. Even when you deconstruct it into a plausible explanation. Even when you tear it into a thousand rational pieces, so that it no longer has any meaning. It still remains unsimple.
Two things. Chemicals and consciousness. Oh, and cocks and cunts, or any permutation of those two. It also helps to be good at dancing. By that I mean Flamenco. Or, perhaps the Carinosa. Actually any form of dance, except for the hokey pokey, water ballet and the highland fling. They should be reserved for other things.
Picking up is easy, but we invariably miss the point, when all we can think about is the explosion at the end, or sunsets. You miss the joy and the pain. Fireworks and backdrops are just embellishment and imaginings, but Dancing is full of Rapture. And Rapture is what it’s all about. Stop being dull just because you’re frightened. Not all orgasms leave you walking into the world full of strength and power. Some just leave you empty, and empty isn’t love, but Rapture is.
I fell in love with a man once who always kept me laughing, until it was at my expense…… until I realised it was all just deflection. I feel soft when I think of him. Mostly.
Another took my love for a moment with Elgar and words. He lost it with too many words.
There is one who loves me now, who loves me good and true. He loves me with a passion. He loves me through and through. I’m not entirely sure, if that doesn’t make me feel a little blue.
You have to be careful not to inflict bruises, and that takes alot of energy, alot of sacrifice.