I have alot of bad habits. One is actually in the title for this little entry. It reads like the title to a Silverstein song. Silverstein is an awesome band by the way, I’m jusy saying I tend to follow the emo trend of making really long titles. I dont know, I’m just all over right now.
I like feeling people. Like not in a pervy way. Actually no, in a very pervy way. It’s one thing to do the polite, acceptable thing in public and grab someone here, tickle there, then lean to a friend and remark just how hard and how long you’ll give it to them, its all well and good. It’s something completely different when it becomes more intimate and it’s just you and that person. For me, regardless of my own physical comparisons to the other person, I feel vulnerable. I feel like, once that layer of carefully choesn, constantly donned armor and fashion choice comes off and the lights die in a blinding gasp of darkness, I’m a living puff of smoke, coursing and surging with another entity wholly separate yet connected by the same uncertainty, lust, and pure contact high.
From my fingertips I feel sparks of suprise and ephermal pleasure, their skin like a conductor of some electric current made of sighs. Rises and falls, the coursing, worried blood in my fingers beat just ahead of their distant heartbeat in tempo, feeling each shudder as their heart pushes against the stressed ribcage. Dry friction, unwanted yet still welcome pins of heated needles, nerves overloading from sensation. My hands feel each curve, each taut muscle, each rumble from a shortened breath, and they hold fast, catching each and every vibration and drowning my mind in an amorphous, overcolored strobe-light display of interpritation. Pull, Pull, Pull, my arms flex and pull them closer, the feeling of oblivious but inexplicably involved whisps of smoke shattered by the hammering feeling of both heartbeats becoming aware of eachother, each trying to communicate to the other some measure of disjointed closeness, the wavering tendrils of manipulation attached to them involved in other things.
Lips, no one has the same lips. No one has boring lips, no one has unwanted lips, everyone has lonely lips. Lips that stammer, quiver, split, crack, become crooked, slide backwards like a thin curtain of off-colored tapestry to reveal joy, sarcasm, malice or shock. Dry lips, moist lips, thick lips, thin lips, lips that forget themselves when met by another pair, another pair just as frenzied that know what to do but still hesitate to do it. They touch and purse and part and accept and break apart. Lips command eyes to stay shut, clench shut, open for a moment to make sure this isnt a wet dream gone too real, close again, flutter, roll backwards in enjoyment, the list is as endless as the subtleties of human emotion and expression. Lips that display hunger mixed with confusion mixed with primal lust mixed with insecurity mixed with who-gives-a-fuckedness. (that isnt a real world but my vocabulary was running on empty at the time.) They dont taste but they act like they can, they tell me that the moment is delicious, that this is a meal that feeds desire and nothing else, that I have to keep going or I’ll starve, wither and die, forget who I am and what it feels like to be this kind of hungry. Lips burn from labored breath, they feel abused, like every strand of muscle in them has been taken to the tearing point, but they dont ever feel like giving out, they want to keep going till there’s nothing left to cover my skull’s grin but a jagged rift of skin. Lips are still barely stage two.
Together, togetherness, being together, unison, unity, culmination, penetration, exhaustion, explosion, hard, harsh, rough, soft, delicate, ticklish, lovely, inexperienced. Thoughts race and hearts feel like they’re beating so fast that they’ve stopped. One allows, another Obliges, force expressed without hostility, nothing but a moment, a barrier of discomfort before a repetative numbness that dissatisfies concepts of romance but enthralls more base senses. Everything feels pummeled, lose, set to fail, and it doesnt, it goes on like a poorly coreographed dance put together at the last second for no one at all but still driven on by some deep-seeded want of finale, of fin, of the grand, trumpeted end older relatives and forgotten faces on screens of every width and length proclaimed like survivors of a non-lethal catastrophe.
Climax, in every way you can concieve it; a falling action, the Denoumont, a resolution to a problem that decided to stay ambiguous. All the wear, the invisible weight, finally registers as a reality in your suddenly broadened mind, and you come crashing like an ornate statue of stressed bone, tenderized meat and toussled hair. My heart slows, but it is still trying to make itself believe it’s not going to implode. My lungs draw air from the heavy, humid air and feel like they’ve been filled with woodsmoke, that wholesome but still irritating feeling of thickness that awakens some unassociated nostalgia for someplace, anyplace but there.
In my weakness, my moment of exhaustion, I become aware that I’m not the only tired body in the fray, and compell myself to share whatever I havent already phisically. Touch them again, pull them close again, but this time with a tenderness I forgot I could still muster for another human being. The air is still warm, the bed is still warm, they are still warm. All this, and we come together to stay warm as everything outside permeates the room and leaves everything but your cores cold and detached.
Everything about them becomes overwhelming. Whatever chemicals or sprays or scents they doused themselves in to satiate their early need of formality replaced by the musk of ownerless tiredness. Their hair is brittle and dry, even though it isnt, my hands are now just gloves over unfeeling ivory that tries to get the sleep out of the works. Straw, no, melting glass, no bristles on a comb, no, no, none of that is right. Their body comes into focus again and I realize how unlike you they are, how out of proportion I am to them, or they are to me, or any other discrepancy with the earlier image of smoke.
If it took the course of night to achieve all this, the sun still isnt due for another hour or two, and the other people, now suddenly re-existant, up in about the same time. I try and forget my weaker side, still laying in my vulnerable suit of nothing, and keep a confidence up to talk about something, anything, to forget the sound of my own breathing, labored and sleepy. When the time comes, I’ll head home, and begin a cycle of odd trivial fear and paranoia towards no-one but myself.
But till then, I’ll lay there, holding them, feeling them, thinking that everything that preceded that moment was a flash in my mind, more a daydream than a reality, and that my current state of nudity and exhaustion is… something entirely different.
