When we met, we led different lives and rushed to fill each other in. I needed to hear what you had learned along the way, and I wanted to tell you my history too. We let words spill off the page. Evenings over cheeseburgers and red wine turned into midnights, and mornings in bed became sunny afternoons, pillow-talking the hours away. We held back nothing. It was messy. We were late to work. The cup ran over. I easily, even forcefully, showed you what I liked. I drew a diagram on my skin with your fingers. I was right at the surface, blood hot under the skin, my heart pressed against your hand. Come to think of it, I downright embarassed myself! I let it all hang out. But hell, some pages got stuck together, like a book that's been dropped into the bathtub and then dried out. I turn away sometimes, and you do too, thinking our thoughts, lost in private worlds while we share the same house. We could crack the spine of this. it will hurt, but there's a story inside.
I want you to drive the casr and open the door, I love when you present my coat like an invitation, and I slip into it, arm by arm, and you close me up. You tell me everything will be okay and you mean it, even though you don't know how it will be. •In this modern world, we must have two incomes and equal rights, and we're co-parents. But occasionally, I'd rather have a white mink and a big night out, do you know what I mean? You could kiss me hard and tell me what to do. Progress is progress, and progress is vital, but one day, for just one hour, I might like no freedom.• I dream a midcentury delusion of green lawns and peach pies, of Cadillacs and martinis, of gentlemen and ladies. A time when we were distinguised as two differrent animals. You get the bacon, i fry it up in a pan--this is a definite answer to a murky question, it's a parable, a binary system. •Let's try this: For a sliver of time, I'm yours, I belong to you, take care of me, I'm vulnerable, and other stuff I'm not supposed to say within earshot of anyone we know.
I sort of feel cold, as if love isn't for me. I adore romance, I see glimpses of it in others around me. I even experience it myself, but it won't remain. I feel as if the stars are laughing at me. They are pleasently occupied with the futility of my plight. They giggle at my mortality, and revel in the languorous fruits of my pursuits.
When we got together, you brought a black leather couch stained with beer and ghosts, a few NBA posters, and nihilistic cupboards. I took one look at your empty rooms and filled them with the structure and material of life. now you might drown under eiderdown and bath salts and cornflakes--under the crush of love--but it's not a bad way to go. · The domestic art--it's voodoo and tricks. I don't get it, I just practice it. A bit of chintz here, a cookbook there, embers in a fireplace, jasmine on the porch, bread, wine, heat, light, cleanliness, godliness. It all somehow combines to make the center of the world.· I mean, in a sense I am your home. I'm your address. Christ, I'm even your two-car garage and your heated swimming pool. I'm your strawberry patch and your swing set. I'm where you sleep and dream. This is where you're safe, and it's to me that you return.
At first you and I were virgins--at least to each other. We hadn't even kissed! We were like teenagers in a borrowed bed, nervous as hell and clumsy. We were new snow, no foot prints. Ready to get dirty. All of me was strange: my breath and my eyes, my lips, my hips, my hands, and my thighs. You didn't know what to touch first. The proximity of discovery made you delirious, and that made me delirious. But nights turn into days, and it all turns into years. We became familiar--isn't that what happenes? We do our dirty laundry. We snore. We bleed. We fight. You finish my sentences, and I read your mind. Believe me, I loved laying myself out for you that first time. Shivering on the bed, as open as the night is long, as scared as I was tough. Let me do it again. The French actor Jean-Louis Barrault said you have to wake up a virgin each morning.
Do relationships always simplify us? When we met, you loved my complexity, and I reveled in your contradictions. But the months and years took away the mysteries that brought us together, and a few pieces of my game got lost. Let me reintroduce these missing parts, the secret sides of every woman.
diogenes Forum Posts (4,761)
I've never lusted after a 73 y.o. before
RE: We should organise a CS Get-Together in Malta
It's an island in the Mediterranean