The Sublime Moment
Title: The Sublime Moment
Rating: Adult
Summary: A woman meets an ex-girlfriend in a coffee shop, and remembers.
A/N: The title and the story is influenced by Salvador Dali's painting of the same name.
Living by myself has taught me many things. Sleepless. At night I feel like being fucked by a man, having something so strong force itself inside me, overwhelming me. The man has no face, but he's not fucking me. The 'me' in the dream has no body -- no head, no skin, only the strange sensation of having a clitoris.
This dream comes to me every night, and when 3 AM strikes the scenes change and I see people I know. There's this one girl in my dreams and my life, Mila. We were in love at some point, the way sixteen year old girls in catholic schools fall in love. She even wrote me letters. Not dirty ones, no:
Dearest,
It's midnight and I'm sitting in my room, working on a paper about Sigmund Freud. Who does this guy think he is, anyway. I don't see penises -- penii? -- at all.
I miss you already. Sleepover on Friday? My mom's making pasta.
She'd sign the letters with pretty, neat cursive, born out of years of training in catholic school. All these nuns writing gothic-looking letters perfectly, you'd think that's all they do in the convent. Which sort of makes sense, since it's boring there. Her signature was hot pink, decorated with tiny hearts and stars, real cute. The stationery's adorable too, has sunflowers and bees. Looked quite expensive, and I have about more than a hundred of those letters in a shoe box. I never kept them under my bed -- my mom's meticulous like that.
We never had sex in highschool. Ever. Or rather, we dry-humped each other like mad and sucked each other's tongues, but I never went too far. Tried sticking a finger in her, didn't really do anything spectacular, because skin on skin was more than enough. That's the advantage of the female body; so many erogenous zones, you can get wet with just rubbing. Besides, I think she was saving herself for marriage. That's right. We loved each other, and we said our forever and evers, and we weren't aware that we were lying but we didn't really look ahead. Didn't care. Girls can bounce back pretty easily -- we don't have egos the size of planets. So when we met again after ten years, the first thing that came to mind was "Oh, we were so close back then!" There's this rush of happiness, and the urge to recollect, memories of easier times and stupid fights and complicated hormones. She owns a coffee shop at the city I was visiting for three weeks, and I casually entered not knowing she was there. It was a pleasant surprise, very comfortable to dwell on nostalgia. It's real easy to look back and see it as intimacy between friends. Men do not understand this.
"Married, are you?" I ask. Mila was real cute at sixteen; now she's mature and in control and for some reason I see her signature on my palm, clear as day.
"Separated. We lasted for three years."
"Any children?"
Her expression changes -- a cross between angry confusion and regret. "None, thankfully. The ex and I still talk. It's alright."
We talk more after that. The first hour was all pleasantries, and then we grew at ease. Well, we were quite close after all, very used to being together for long periods. I remember the way she clung to me in our highschool years. She would sit on my lap everyday, looking pretty and feminine, while I kissed her shoulder from time to time. That was the daily-set up inbetween classes. I'm not what you'd call butch, though I have broad shoulders and the height. Oh, and when we first made out. Normally people would thik one should freak out when you feel a pair of breasts push against your own. It's not strange at all -- it's the perfect fit. Try embracing a woman, any woman. Don't let her breasts make you think that she's pushing you away. Aren't they soft, inviting? Warm, too. Definitely ten times better than shoving yourself against a wall.
Suddenly I realize I want to have sex with her so bad. She's still beautiful. She always will be. You're always fiercely loyal to your first love. They can screw you up, make your whole life miserable, but you can never bear hearing them criticized, unless you're doing it yourself. It borders on obsession, your first try. We didn't even have a major break-up. Our parents just thought we were best friends who drifted apart after a few years of college. It isn't an issue.
My panties are getting wet. While she's talking about business in the shop, goddamn money, I'm thinking dirty thoughts and sweating like mad. I cross my legs, and think about her inbetween my thighs. Heh. We haven't even progressed that far.
I have to leave when the boyfriend calls.
I visit Mila everyday. Trying not to look too eager. Trying not to make it look like I have a plan. I've forgotten how to seduce her; our relationship was so pure, so set like it was ordinary that I don't remember how it began at all. Funny how something important hides itself at times like this. Mila's hair was long, straight, shiny black. She was like a doll. Even when we kissed, I was always a afraid I might pull her arms off their sockets. Now she looks more stressed, like she's seen it all. Not a doll, though there are still some strings. By this time the low pulsing below my abdomen becomes unbearable.
Tonight. I tap my fingers on my teacup, radiating calmness. "Help me pick an outfit." Being a girl, dress-up is fun no matter how old you are. "I'm attending a wedding this weekend, I don't have anything to wear at all!"
Mila's eyes glisten with excitement. "You'll need killer heels."
I take her hand and we go shopping. Acceptable enough. I paid for our dinner, vegetable curry and naan. While ripping off a piece of naan I cross my legs, but I can still imagine my fingers on her hair, pushing her head down. My boyfriend does it, but a woman's lips are soft, like bread.
We become quite drunk -- my intention, naturally -- and I drag her back to my hotel room. I throw my clothes out of the way, watching as she undresses in front of me. "You're boobs are bigger than now." She teases me. "They're amazing." I couldn't really answer, as my mouth was drying up. We all wore standard white bras and panties with ribbons in highschool, but now it hits me. She's a woman now. Her underwear is black and dangerous, silky, held together by itty-bitty strands of string.
We kiss, grope each other bodies, not caring one bit about the noise we're making. Familiar hands on familiar curves and smooth-shallow edges; it's enough to make me scream. A man's grunt is grating, self-centered -- a woman's moan ends with a high-pitched whisper, then a breathy exhale, urging you to go on, ending the pain-pleasure with a question mark. I rub my fingers against her again and again, the wanting becoming so fierce that I can't even open my eyes. Mila demands more, pushing her body up like her life depends on it. Her breasts are full, but for some reason they seem abandoned, unwanted for a long time. I touch them with both hands, and my heart jumps twice.
"I want to be inside you so, so much." I say. It sounds like a whine.
"I know, dearest. You've been looking that way since last week." We're moving our bodies faster, stronger, not a care in the world. "How does a penis feel inside you?"
"Pretty good." I answer breathily, falling from the edge. "Most of the time I think I can do without one, though."
"That's true," She gasps when I finally push two fingers in. Mila is warm inside, yet she's got her scent all over the place. "We're lucky."
We do everything we didn't have the guts to do in highschool. Cover all positions, all angles, licking and sucking and using other things. It's over pretty quickly. My visit ends, and there is only goodbye.
"Write to me." I say. She promises, and as her body arches up against me I have visions of a parting sea.
Dearest,
How are you? I'm sorry I haven't wrote to you in ages. There's a famous festival coming up this summer, and the coffee shop's been invaded by tourists. How is it there? I imagine you are busy with the kindergarten as well?
Now I know this will seem weird, and crazy, but I hope you'd continue reading, anyway. Two days ago, I had a dream. You know me, usually I forget my dreams, but this time I remember it as clear as day. I had to tell you, dear. I was walking all alone on a street -- remember Collective Avenue? That one. Well, I was walking, and a man or a shadow came up to me, stabbed my stomach, took my purse, and ran off.
Now while I was lying there bleeding and dying and clutching my belly, I thought 'now, I shouldn't be selfish. I shouldn't think about myself at the last moment of my life.' So I thought of you, and all of a sudden I felt warm all over. The warmth came from my wound, spreading all throughout my body like oxygen, and then I heard gentle laughter. Death finally arrived, but there was also joy.
Last night I took a test and found out I was pregnant. I think this is my calling. This is exactly my dream. Even before you must have known. Please don't laugh or make fun of me, I swear, it may be strange but it's the truth. I think it's yours. This is your baby, our baby. You're the only one who has been inside me. Not literally of course, there was another man. Oh, you don't know how long I've tried. How long I've wanted. It has ruined me and other people, but because of you I'm finally happy. It was you. You made this possible.
The child is ours. I touch my stomach and I feel our baby, and it gives me the same feeling of you. Will you carry him on your lap? I just know he will be a boy, a healthy baby boy. I could imagine you giving him a bath. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Would you teach him how to write, dearest? Your handwriting is better than mine. I am so excited.
I hope you visit me and our baby soon. Please don't be scared. I'll explain it to you in greater detail, when we meet again.
Yours,
Mila
Rating: Adult
Summary: A woman meets an ex-girlfriend in a coffee shop, and remembers.
A/N: The title and the story is influenced by Salvador Dali's painting of the same name.
Living by myself has taught me many things. Sleepless. At night I feel like being fucked by a man, having something so strong force itself inside me, overwhelming me. The man has no face, but he's not fucking me. The 'me' in the dream has no body -- no head, no skin, only the strange sensation of having a clitoris.
This dream comes to me every night, and when 3 AM strikes the scenes change and I see people I know. There's this one girl in my dreams and my life, Mila. We were in love at some point, the way sixteen year old girls in catholic schools fall in love. She even wrote me letters. Not dirty ones, no:
Dearest,
It's midnight and I'm sitting in my room, working on a paper about Sigmund Freud. Who does this guy think he is, anyway. I don't see penises -- penii? -- at all.
I miss you already. Sleepover on Friday? My mom's making pasta.
She'd sign the letters with pretty, neat cursive, born out of years of training in catholic school. All these nuns writing gothic-looking letters perfectly, you'd think that's all they do in the convent. Which sort of makes sense, since it's boring there. Her signature was hot pink, decorated with tiny hearts and stars, real cute. The stationery's adorable too, has sunflowers and bees. Looked quite expensive, and I have about more than a hundred of those letters in a shoe box. I never kept them under my bed -- my mom's meticulous like that.
We never had sex in highschool. Ever. Or rather, we dry-humped each other like mad and sucked each other's tongues, but I never went too far. Tried sticking a finger in her, didn't really do anything spectacular, because skin on skin was more than enough. That's the advantage of the female body; so many erogenous zones, you can get wet with just rubbing. Besides, I think she was saving herself for marriage. That's right. We loved each other, and we said our forever and evers, and we weren't aware that we were lying but we didn't really look ahead. Didn't care. Girls can bounce back pretty easily -- we don't have egos the size of planets. So when we met again after ten years, the first thing that came to mind was "Oh, we were so close back then!" There's this rush of happiness, and the urge to recollect, memories of easier times and stupid fights and complicated hormones. She owns a coffee shop at the city I was visiting for three weeks, and I casually entered not knowing she was there. It was a pleasant surprise, very comfortable to dwell on nostalgia. It's real easy to look back and see it as intimacy between friends. Men do not understand this.
"Married, are you?" I ask. Mila was real cute at sixteen; now she's mature and in control and for some reason I see her signature on my palm, clear as day.
"Separated. We lasted for three years."
"Any children?"
Her expression changes -- a cross between angry confusion and regret. "None, thankfully. The ex and I still talk. It's alright."
We talk more after that. The first hour was all pleasantries, and then we grew at ease. Well, we were quite close after all, very used to being together for long periods. I remember the way she clung to me in our highschool years. She would sit on my lap everyday, looking pretty and feminine, while I kissed her shoulder from time to time. That was the daily-set up inbetween classes. I'm not what you'd call butch, though I have broad shoulders and the height. Oh, and when we first made out. Normally people would thik one should freak out when you feel a pair of breasts push against your own. It's not strange at all -- it's the perfect fit. Try embracing a woman, any woman. Don't let her breasts make you think that she's pushing you away. Aren't they soft, inviting? Warm, too. Definitely ten times better than shoving yourself against a wall.
Suddenly I realize I want to have sex with her so bad. She's still beautiful. She always will be. You're always fiercely loyal to your first love. They can screw you up, make your whole life miserable, but you can never bear hearing them criticized, unless you're doing it yourself. It borders on obsession, your first try. We didn't even have a major break-up. Our parents just thought we were best friends who drifted apart after a few years of college. It isn't an issue.
My panties are getting wet. While she's talking about business in the shop, goddamn money, I'm thinking dirty thoughts and sweating like mad. I cross my legs, and think about her inbetween my thighs. Heh. We haven't even progressed that far.
I have to leave when the boyfriend calls.
I visit Mila everyday. Trying not to look too eager. Trying not to make it look like I have a plan. I've forgotten how to seduce her; our relationship was so pure, so set like it was ordinary that I don't remember how it began at all. Funny how something important hides itself at times like this. Mila's hair was long, straight, shiny black. She was like a doll. Even when we kissed, I was always a afraid I might pull her arms off their sockets. Now she looks more stressed, like she's seen it all. Not a doll, though there are still some strings. By this time the low pulsing below my abdomen becomes unbearable.
Tonight. I tap my fingers on my teacup, radiating calmness. "Help me pick an outfit." Being a girl, dress-up is fun no matter how old you are. "I'm attending a wedding this weekend, I don't have anything to wear at all!"
Mila's eyes glisten with excitement. "You'll need killer heels."
I take her hand and we go shopping. Acceptable enough. I paid for our dinner, vegetable curry and naan. While ripping off a piece of naan I cross my legs, but I can still imagine my fingers on her hair, pushing her head down. My boyfriend does it, but a woman's lips are soft, like bread.
We become quite drunk -- my intention, naturally -- and I drag her back to my hotel room. I throw my clothes out of the way, watching as she undresses in front of me. "You're boobs are bigger than now." She teases me. "They're amazing." I couldn't really answer, as my mouth was drying up. We all wore standard white bras and panties with ribbons in highschool, but now it hits me. She's a woman now. Her underwear is black and dangerous, silky, held together by itty-bitty strands of string.
We kiss, grope each other bodies, not caring one bit about the noise we're making. Familiar hands on familiar curves and smooth-shallow edges; it's enough to make me scream. A man's grunt is grating, self-centered -- a woman's moan ends with a high-pitched whisper, then a breathy exhale, urging you to go on, ending the pain-pleasure with a question mark. I rub my fingers against her again and again, the wanting becoming so fierce that I can't even open my eyes. Mila demands more, pushing her body up like her life depends on it. Her breasts are full, but for some reason they seem abandoned, unwanted for a long time. I touch them with both hands, and my heart jumps twice.
"I want to be inside you so, so much." I say. It sounds like a whine.
"I know, dearest. You've been looking that way since last week." We're moving our bodies faster, stronger, not a care in the world. "How does a penis feel inside you?"
"Pretty good." I answer breathily, falling from the edge. "Most of the time I think I can do without one, though."
"That's true," She gasps when I finally push two fingers in. Mila is warm inside, yet she's got her scent all over the place. "We're lucky."
We do everything we didn't have the guts to do in highschool. Cover all positions, all angles, licking and sucking and using other things. It's over pretty quickly. My visit ends, and there is only goodbye.
"Write to me." I say. She promises, and as her body arches up against me I have visions of a parting sea.
Dearest,
How are you? I'm sorry I haven't wrote to you in ages. There's a famous festival coming up this summer, and the coffee shop's been invaded by tourists. How is it there? I imagine you are busy with the kindergarten as well?
Now I know this will seem weird, and crazy, but I hope you'd continue reading, anyway. Two days ago, I had a dream. You know me, usually I forget my dreams, but this time I remember it as clear as day. I had to tell you, dear. I was walking all alone on a street -- remember Collective Avenue? That one. Well, I was walking, and a man or a shadow came up to me, stabbed my stomach, took my purse, and ran off.
Now while I was lying there bleeding and dying and clutching my belly, I thought 'now, I shouldn't be selfish. I shouldn't think about myself at the last moment of my life.' So I thought of you, and all of a sudden I felt warm all over. The warmth came from my wound, spreading all throughout my body like oxygen, and then I heard gentle laughter. Death finally arrived, but there was also joy.
Last night I took a test and found out I was pregnant. I think this is my calling. This is exactly my dream. Even before you must have known. Please don't laugh or make fun of me, I swear, it may be strange but it's the truth. I think it's yours. This is your baby, our baby. You're the only one who has been inside me. Not literally of course, there was another man. Oh, you don't know how long I've tried. How long I've wanted. It has ruined me and other people, but because of you I'm finally happy. It was you. You made this possible.
The child is ours. I touch my stomach and I feel our baby, and it gives me the same feeling of you. Will you carry him on your lap? I just know he will be a boy, a healthy baby boy. I could imagine you giving him a bath. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Would you teach him how to write, dearest? Your handwriting is better than mine. I am so excited.
I hope you visit me and our baby soon. Please don't be scared. I'll explain it to you in greater detail, when we meet again.
Yours,
Mila