Church bells. If the music is not too loud, church bells accompany our every fuck.
We are sharing two rooms in an old house, right next to a small church. You fantasize about doing it in the backyard or in those box-like cabinets where people come to confess their sins. Very peepshow like with the curtains and all. There are video cameras hidden in every corner of the church, so we end up not doing it. Standing naked for one second in our doorway, is about as far as you go, acting out your exhibitionism.
Sex is still relatively new, a bit newer to me than to you, but still new enough to you, to make even doggy style sort of experimental. Especially when we try to combine penetration and fingering. I’m really not used to being so intimate with a girl. So it sort of feels like you are boy, only way prettier, with breasts and no penis. I have no idea how to handle what’s going on.
You break up every routine I have. I used to go running 12 km every other morning. I don’t do that any more. Sleeping in and having sex with you, beats the hell out of getting up at 6am to go and run ten laps around a park.
Your blue eyes and black hair will be on my wish list for years to come after you are gone. That’s past now. I buried you, in a way, when I buried the little boy inside me. His death knell started echoing when I met you. I didn’t realize it then. Though the song in the background ‘No way back, by the Foo Fighters, felt like some kind of adrenaline filled omen.
Most first loves have to die too. Or at least be destroyed at some point, before they can be allowed to be reignited. Our love died. Mainly because I thought any pretty looking girl was exactly like you. And so pretty looking girls should have been interchangeable. Nope. They weren’t.
So our path didn’t lead to church bells and two whispered ‘I do’s’.
You did break my autistic patterns. I still don’t know if that’s such a good thing. It gave me the strange and rather self-sabotaging association that a disciplined life can’t be combined with great sex.
I should mention the obvious part: you left me because you couldn’t stand my ongoing self-analysis any more. I don’t blame you. And you also didn’t like the status-seeking streak in my personality. Something you didn’t have at all. Very Virgo like. And you also didn’t like finding me in bed with naked girls past midnight. Not that the time of the day mattered much in that regard. You just didn’t like that.
If a relationship depended on sex and sex alone, we’d still be together. And maybe if I’d had a bit more experience we’d also still be together. I had the best sex ever with you. And then there’s this quantity versus quality debate in my head. If this alphabet had only the letter K, what would I be like today? Richer as a person or poorer? Richer, of course. Are we only as rich as the number of wounds we survive? Or is that just what optimistic masochists like to say?
For a long, long time I saw your face whenever I came. Like an orgasm ghost. I lost that along the way, the intensity of that. It never got so intense after you. It probably can’t. You took a piece with you. And I don’t think you kept it. I think you dropped it somewhere. It would be nice, nice or maybe just cruel, to experience one more orgasm like I had them with you. When living was living. The future was bright and promised the sun on my face and the wind in my back. When your scent was in my nose, and I couldn’t imagine what death was, feeling young and immortal, all my senses drunk. The high watermark of my emotions and my hormones. When faced with death, I’ll think of you, and know that I sucked the marrow out of life, thanks to you. And I won’t have any need to cling to life. ‘No way back.’ 26 letters and you are among the three or four that I actually loved. And yet your chapter is among the shortest. There are things too private after all. You stumpstarted my life, in the mere nine months that we knew each other, I’ll think of you when it ends. In your honor.