Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Pleasure & Pain

He was in her flat, in her front room. He was sitting beside her on the sofa. He was looking downwards at the laminated floorboards as he talked. He was sad, distant, as the words came out of his mouth in no particular order. He spoke emotions and nothing else, he explained his feelings, which were broken. Outside, his body was whole, but inside he was in pieces.

She was silent, sitting beside him, watching. She was still, listening to his words, comforting him. She had invited him over soon after he had told her that his girlfriend had left him. She had told him she was good at dealing with this kind of thing.

As he talked she had listened. She had kept their glasses topped up with wine. The glasses were never empty; at the very least they were half full. They were drinking a very dry white wine, a Muscadet. They were on their third bottle now. She could feel that she was drunk. She could feel it but she kept it to herself, not wanting to let this piece of information leave her. She looked down at her legs. She wondered if the skirt she wore was appropriate. She squeezed her thighs a little closer together.

He was saying how much he still loved her. That he would never forget her or even stop loving her. She would always be there, inside of him. He explained how she had made him a better man, how she had shown him a different side of love, a beautiful and tranquil side whose tranquillity reminded him of a giant lake. He said he could picture a lake in a valley of mountains. He said he had seen its calm surface, he had drunk from it, had been greatly refreshed from it. He said it held a beauty like nothing else, a beauty like Monet’s ‘Water lilies’, whose colours and tones were staggering.

She had not let her eyes leave him for one instant. She had looked at him the entire time. She had wanted him for a while now, she had fantasised about it. Sometimes when alone in her bed her hands ran over the surface of her body. She was like the sea in a storm as her hands taunted her own skin. Her thoughts, as this happened, were filled by the two of them – her, on her back, with her legs spread and him, on top, with his cock thrust deep inside her.

Her thighs came together a little tighter. She remembered, once, after coming back to the office after a pub lunch. She remembered that she was a little tipsy and had sat on top of a desk close to his. They had talked. They had laughed as she had stood there, smiling, enjoying the words that went between them. Her posture had been a little seductive, though it was not an intentional thing. She had not been conscious of it. He had caught onto this, momentarily, and had glimpsed her legs as he told a story. Her legs were amazing legs, eye catching, and so was her behind.

He took a mouthful of wine. He looked at her, waiting for an answer.

She gave him an answer, the right one. She then touched his arm. It was a touch of comfort, reassuring. She found that her eye line was looking down at the crotch of his trousers. Suddenly she could not help thinking about unzipping them and slipping her hand in, and grasping what was inside.

He smiled at her, and then said he had to go. He then stood up and thanked her profusely.

The alcohol had slowed the speed of their movements.

She walked him to the front door. She was nervous, nervous that she wanted to make a move but not sure how he would react. She bit her lip. She breathed in and out of her nose, feeling her heart racing. She turned to face him and then put her arms out to hug him.

He slipped into her embrace.

She could feel his right hand on the bare skin of her hip. She could feel it, against her flesh. It was warm.

She then pushed her hips forward a little, bringing their bodies closer together.

He was still talking, saying things that she did not hear.

Outside, a siren could be heard.

Inside, her lips found his neck. They hovered above them, a few millimetres away. She smelt him and then crushed her lips against his skin.

There was a vast silence. Everything was still, like a lake in the valley of mountains.

Rain could be heard outside.

They moved their heads back and looked into each other’s eyes.

It was suddenly hot and stuffy where they stood.

Their lips suddenly crashed together, their hands ignited at the ends of their wrists and burst alive with movement and motion. Their bodies pressed tighter together. They caressed one another and ran their hands over one another, feeling. Their tongues darting between parted lips.

Another siren could be heard.

The rain got heavier.

She could feel him tightly against her. She could feel his body against hers.

Gradually he began to fall apart in her hands, like wet paper. He was a mushy pulp, weeping from his eyes.

Softly she told him that it was all right, that he should not hold back and instead let go to pleasure and pain, to simply let go and to feel everything that went through him. She whispered that he was alive, that he was in one piece and that this was the main thing.

His eyes, still damp with tears, looked down at her.

She slid her skirt and her knickers down to the floor and stepped out of them.

He was confusion and lust, he was lost, overwhelmed in emotion. He breathed in deeply, silently watching.

Matthew Coleman

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