A lover's discourse
It goes something like this:
We have a conversation about your cock.
You show me you cock, you let me touch it, let me hold it, let me fondle and pet it.
Let me Kiss it. it. it. it.
You trash and moan like nothing I have seen before.
I tell you, I want your cock. I want it. I wan it. I wan it.
You say, it’s yours. Take it.
I am quivering all over as I let you inside me.
You. My first cock.
,,,
I say, this will be the end of us.
You say, You should have thought of that before we started clawing at each other’s clothes.
I say, it’s been looming over our heads all along. We just chose to ignore it.
You ask, you don’t want me anymore?
I respond, the first rule of attachment is proximity.
You just say, You. Come here You. Come to me.
I huff and puff, oh for pity's sake, we don’t even live on the same continent.
You chant dreamily, same galaxy. Same stars.
I bite my lip, do you even realize what you have done to me?
There is something of you in me,
even when you are not inside me.
What do we do now? Are we thinking this or does one of us say it out loud?
I am silent. We sink back onto the covers. You squeeze my hand so hard it hurts.
We have sex. We fuck. We make love.
Later I cry. You look out of the window.
,,,
Commentary from the Anthropologist of Love:
In all societies the allure of futile attractions lingers. Lovers create their own reality, a time outside time. They are neither here nor now. Love provides a spectacularly dense emotional climate ripe with experiences of peak arousal. Agony and ecstasy come full circle and often the sheer intensity is unlike anything the lovers have ever dreamed of.
(You. You. You. You. You. You.)
But unbeknownst to the lovers, this starburst of emotion has raided the lives of men since the beginning of time. The lovers are merely two mortals elevated to godly status, acting out the immortal scenario of forbidden love.
(Our very own epic, think about it.)
For those past passion, the dust has long settled, and all that remains is a feeling of safety and security. The emotional climate is fertile, not violent. There the heart comes to rest.
(Piff. Creatures of habit. I do not take your kisses causally, every time you kiss me it is the first time.)
Onwards march the lovers with their story, unable to escape a sense of foreboding tragedy. Would passionate love prevail if they were to cross the last threshold? Surely, you see that the answer is death.
(And who is to say that love is not beyond death?)
,,,
This is where it gets ugly.
This is where we rewind, where we scrutinize.
This is were we start to reinvent memories, singular moments ending up on the cutting room floor.
This is where we start looking for a scientific explanation for love.
Can we rationalize this madness that has swept us away?
Love has become a mortal threat you see, an open wound, sickeningly beautiful.
Will you curse the day you laid eyes on me? Will I regret that you did?
We operate on each other’s wounds, searching for a cruel nerve that will silence us into oblivion.
We have succeeded in destroying one another.
WAIT!
But then
if
I love you and you love me
the only distance that can separate us is…
me not loving you!
(When you come to me leave all fear, guilt, and shame at the door. Just bring you.)
Oh You. Come here You.