Author: révolution
Rated: K-11, koska mainintoja seksistä
Genre: short story
nouvelle à chute?A/N: Olis ihana osata kirjoittaa jonkin sortin fluffya boy lovea, mutta koska en tähän mennessä ole vielä yrittänytkään, lähestyn nyt "aihetta" vähän eri näkökulmasta. Teksti on vanha, hieman hiottu. Mutta rakkahat, kommentit ja kritiikki on enemmän kuin tervetulleet!
On How I Slept With The Wrong Lover
On our first date he wanted to make love in the dark.
We’d spend the night sitting in an almost empty theatre, watching a movie in Spanish with subtitles that passed way too fast. The actors moved their lips as if they had fire on their tongues and I didn’t understand half of what they were saying. But it didn’t matter – I was staring at him anyway. His profile was illuminated by the light of the silver screen: in whites, in reds, in yellows and greens, then in wonderful hues of cyan and blue as the two protagonists, a beautiful lady and a very handsome fellow, kissed on the deck of a luxurious boat with a tropical sea glittering all around them, the waves splashing in a way that nearly made the most inspired of us believe in the taste of salt on our own lips.
I didn’t really know what was happening, of course, because my eyes were still glued on him. An expression I had never seen before had fashioned on his wondrous face. His chestnut eyes were gleaming, tearing up, and his mouth was twitching like he was trying to contain himself, contain all that was inside begging to burst out, craving to explode. I knew it was a fragile moment, one he would have wanted to keep to himself, but he was too beautiful, so beautiful that I couldn’t look away. I felt ashamed, but I couldn’t. So I watched as one single pearl of water rolled down his hallow cheek before he chuckled, wiping the tear away while pretending to scratch his face. He laughed, lightly, wonderfully, in a way that mesmerized me. I smiled, forgetting in a blink all that I had seen. He didn’t look back at me.
We went back to his place. We were both young, but unlike I, he didn’t live with his parents. I didn’t know why, and though I felt intrigued, I was too busy trying to rip his heart apart to ask. I wanted to burn holes into his skin with my kisses, and he seemed to mirror all my passion with just as much fire. It started when I kissed him in the elevator and continued as we staggered to his door. But as soon as we got inside, he excused himself and escaped to the bathroom. For twenty minutes, I sat on his unmade bed and examined the little square of an apartment. When he came back, I had studied every single corner. There were no pictures, no photographs, no television. His world was built on piles of clothing and dirty sheets, but in some peculiar way, I found it charming. I wondered where his family was, but then again, it was perhaps not proper to ask. Not on the first date.
We only undressed after he’d turned the lights off. I could see his white chest shining in the dark, the little golden cross hanging from his neck, and his knees hit mine as he pushed me onto the bed. He touched me in strange places, held me tight from my hips, but never tried to reach for my chest. He kissed the back of my neck and bit the gentle skin like an animal. His uncanny ways perturbed me, but it was okay, I was too intoxicated by him to complain. He felt good on me, he felt divine. I tried to search for his eyes in the dark, but I never found them, then forgot.
When the condom was tossed in the trash I wanted to hug him and hold him close, but he went to the sink and nearly grinded his teeth against it as he poured water into his mouth. His spine curved like a road lit by the silvery glow of the moon, leading up to his neck and the dark strands of hair that stuck to the sweat on his paleness. He splashed water on his face, shook his head like a dog and then came back, smiling in the dark with his white teeth bright as bleached. He laughed that mesmerizing laugh, and I didn’t even wonder.
I left in the morning and he promised to call me.
After three days he turned up on my doorsteps with a bouquet of dandelions and a sack of fresh tangerines. I would have preferred roses and red wine, but then again, I found these strange manners quite suited him. We didn’t make love that night, only sat on the porch, peeling the orange off the fruit. He taught me how to do it gently, how to pretend it was skin, and I fell asleep with my head on his shoulder, our fingers entwined like the chains of those necklaces that cannot be untangled. The black sky hung naked above us and beyond the silent neighbourhood, the city roamed, flickered, stirred, moving hectically while we stayed still.
And I didn’t realize, then, that if we couldn’t untangle, one of us would have to break.
He promised to call.
After three months of no calls and my body filled with the sickness of answer phones, he crossed my path again. Friends had ripped me off my sadness and brought me to the gig of some new underground sensation. The beats hit me hard, little kicks of raging melodies, filling my body with the energy of a million thunderstorms. I moved like it was enough, like I only wanted storms, then smelled a stranger just to see if anyone could compare to him. They smelled like alcohol and smoke and anarchy, raving around like false gods. They were beautiful accidents waiting to happen, but no one was quite like him. He had hit me with pure happiness, and I missed him. And I wanted to miss him, wanted to miss him even more than I did. I wanted agony or nothing at all, and the loss didn’t feel brutal enough.
And then, of course, what I saw was so much more brutal than I ever could have expected. I had seen him in my nightmares, kissing a girl prettier than I, with more voluminous hair, skinnier legs, a whiter smile. I had seen him with two of those, at the same time and separately, sitting in cafés, in parks, in cinemas and on porches. But what I saw now, with all the clarity of the adrenaline throbbing in my veins, was not that. Oh, not at all.
I saw him holding the hand of another boy.
The chain broke at once and I escaped without hesitation. The concert hall was a trap, the subway a tunnel to hell, and I held my tears only to look normal as I stepped through the front door of my house. When I was finally safe, in my room, inside the four too familiar walls, the image of the two boys was carved into my mind like a vision. Their bodies were so close, so natural, like their hips would fit with each other’s like the pieces of a puzzle. I could see them curled around each other, their limbs entwined, their arms crossed, their fingers glued together – so close, close, close. Only those two bodies could ever complete each other, and I was the part of the puzzle with all the wrong curves.
At first, intoxicated by tears and the heartbreak he’d caused me, I considered keying his car. I considered spraying graffiti on his door. I considered stealing the wheels of his bike. And I swear to God, I would have done it all were I not scared to death to go anywhere near him.
I would have done it because I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that the reason he cried during the kiss on the screen was because he felt society was pushing on him this idea, this idea that didn't seem natural. It was breaking him, breaking his essence. The movie made it seem like this image was the only right one, and it killed him. I didn’t understand that we made love in the dark so that he could pretend I was another man. I didn’t understand that there were no pictures of his family because he had none, because his parents’ vision of God and heaven did not include a boy who loved boys.
I didn’t understand that to him, only another man would ever be heaven. I didn’t understand and I couldn’t comprehend. It was wrong. It was so wrong. He was filthy and I was the victim.
This was the world to me for five years from then on.
Then one day, I fell in love with a girl.
