"You here by yourself?"|
"Yeah . . . I am."
"What are you doing here?"
"Not much, just waiting."
"Waiting, for what?"
"Anything I suppose."
"You want to go somewhere?"
"I don't live so far from here."
" . . . All right."
One more. But this one seems different from the others, as if he doesn't know what's occurring. They're usually all so sure of themselves; he must be too. After all, he came for me, as they do almost every time I'm here. But his interest seems to be more of a performance than a genuine feeling; more for my delight than his own.
Feeling an urgency to satisfy my expectations rather than my desires, I go with him, racing away with him down the hollow streets, fleeing the dark city to satisfy even darker agendas. The images, fantasies that dominate my mind at times come charging back through me in the taxi as revealing lights flash across his expectant face.
It all seems so removed now. Not worth fulfilling. But it's a new experience, an unfulfilled fantasy, and I want to be familiar with the reality of it from now on.
It's what I think of, what soothes my mind and my body, so I assume it's what I want even though there's nothing else between us. I don't care to know this one; I care only for the act.
Silence under streams of street light shining in between the blinds calms me. I look up to see dust floating through still air, silhouettes, gliding past a window. Underneath me, something smooth . . . cool . . . must be silk touching my skin. It's nice to lie on . . . relaxing.
My tranquillity, an evanescent richness, is destroyed by the penetration of a foreign desire. I'm lifted quickly to a state of pain, and beyond the pain to the ecstasy of his moving inside me. My desire, which beckons me to the city so often, leaves me lost in the company of a stranger.