In Life, there is only Truth.
And sometimes, when I’m stumbling through the darkened rooms of my soul, I turn to others that can see in my own darkness.
I have witnessed my own humanity in the eyes of those I love.
Especially in the eyes of my Parisian.
I have discovered recently, that I, for one, have expectations of my own Life. And, I suppose, in my own arrogance, I have expectations of others. Especially of my Parisian.
I yearn for his kiss. I long for his touch. I’m excited by his excited-ness.
In Truth, I’m not a terribly sexual person. Sex is fine, but it wanes. It cools. Sex ignites libidinous deeds: clothes ransacked, mouths feeding, textures of flesh and bone felt, all building to the tensing and releasing of pleasure. And while my flesh is satisfied, I know that there are precious moments following. It is in these moments, post coitus, that I discover who we are in our purest forms.
The first time we danced together, the first time that our bodies met in passion, we muddled through. We didn’t know each other very well. We self-consciously tripped over the others’ foraging. We were both in a hurry to discover the other’s passion. Stumbling, when looking back, we yielded, giving in to libertine passions.
But it’s at breakfast and dinner that we get to know each other. It’s at night when I write him unpublishable bedtime stories do we share what is truly genteel.
Those are the times I cherish.