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Tags: Nyc, Brooklyn, Sex, Love

This is my story

Submitted:May 23, 2012    Reads: 224    Comments: 3    Likes: 1   

the alarm clock went off at 5 in the afternoon, the steam rising from the bedsheets as we had completed our first fuck. I lay stiff feeling the blood trickling from between my legs, my breath hard and short like a choking cough as he got up and left the room. I waited for some time, afraid to disturb this awakened creature, whose body had just raptured mine on a mid October afternoon. All the years of worry, all the gossip and stories and details of fucking and being fucked all cumulated for me at dekalb avenue, in bed stolen from sidewalk solitude, crowded into tiny bed room. I contemplated my unvirginity as I stggered to the ktichen where he was making tea. I tried to touch his skin but I knew he would pull away in hatred and disgust. This moment epitomized in daydreams and romanticized in my memories was nothing but cold and hurt that I could feel in his sweat that still lingered stale on my body. I just wanted some affection, not a cold afternoon fuck-and-go bedroom brawl where I was toiled and twisted like a rag and then tossed aside after wiped clean the dirt of sex. I was in love.
He was quiet and morose much of the time, deep and blue in his thoughts that could pervert any strangers with a gleam from his mystic eye. He was a legend unknown, a presence and force on the streets with his black hat and overcoat, long curls dangling tangled from his head, big nose hidden under sun glasses to shade the street lamps glow at night. He was sane and a just peacekeeper, a general in the army world of sex shop labor, determined yet pessimistic and existential in his ways. Poet, nonethless, poet he was. Great words and sprawls of writing scratched the pages he touched and left markings on the souls of those who he encountered. There was something magic about him, something pathetic still, something afraid yet confident of his fright altogether. A complex masterpiece, not suitable for any formal showings in the museum of human mediocrity but he was mine and I loved him. He was my rock on those cold days when the train screeched into metropolitan station, when the rain was drenching us and the taxis were fleeing he was there and he was my rock when I felt something wrong inside, when I knew there was something that was ours that was in me and in us and it couldn't be that way-we walked along bleecker street, he bought me a flower and took a picture of me as I sat on bench in sepia brownstone daylight, reflecting the light of something greater than all of us.. When we danced it was absurd and in the smoke twirling in the light we shared music and flew in our minds to places not everyone goes-we travelled in our dreams and danced like drunken fool ecstatic in the Brooklyn night.
We walked in silence cloaked in anger and misunderstanding, a dark black love that pained us both. He was my rock and I was his ball and chain- a beautiful burden that consumed and ate him alive as we fucked and my milky soft skin shown in the candlelight, my black hair gleaming, my eyes painted the way he didn't like them to be but I was not perfect. I had confused love and still do to this day with servitude and obedience and wished to be his slave to fulfill all his desires and be a martyr for him. When he hated me more I wanted him more, not touching him was condemnation to the deepest hell for me...as I pushed him further away his wrath grew and he began to resent his beautiful creature who only wanted to be in his arms and by his side. But it was too much, through the torturous months they tried to coexist as one felt more and more suffocated and the other more and more alone. Sharp strikes to chest, lonely heart screams for help and yet no one to answer. But there was love. When the calm came and the storm had gone and we were left to collect our broken selves, there was love.


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