end of days

I felt the length of hair brushing against my arm, as I delicately lowered his neck unto the awaiting cushion. Our eyes were transfixed, glued to the abyss of the gaze. I was mesmerized by the beauty that lay before me, and the possible rapture that might follow. The eyes were black, as deep as the evening sea, but the gaze was captivating and enthralling. Effortless. Each moment an eternity as I try to fathom the images concocted in the head of this suitor, this accidental partner, this serendipitous sage that melded my half-broken spirit, sweeping me with his nuanced comprehension and his disarming manner of disagreement. The methodology of this meeting was unplanned, and impulsive. Yet here we were, in silken sheets, sharing his bed.

The kiss came as a surprise. It was quick, treacherous. Like a thief hoodwinking the oblivious. I was surprised at the audacity. He didn’t falter, merely squinted his eyes. Those beautiful feline eyes that disappear whenever he smiles, replaced by the solitary dimple along his left chin. He was perfection, I was awkward and sloppy. He had godlike features, complete and defined; I was a mishmash of half-baked physicality. He cursed loudly as I bit his lower lip, blood was tasted. Saccharine.

I guided his head into my chest, offering my skin to feed his hunger. He dove in, tongue-darting, tasting my sweat in every flick. Devouring my nipples and sliding his suave tongue. Down, deeper, harder to where my loins begged for attention. He was gentle, almost fragile. I reached for his hand as he slithered below. His eyes never leaving mine. I reached his hand, and our fingers danced. He kept me locked between those palms, and would remain attached at hand until daylight spreads our defiance apparent.

He took me in, all of me. I could feel his mouth quivering under the weight and immensity of my oneness. With much effort, he was able to succeed. I was thrilled into delirious moans, he was adept. The scene was surreal, like inter-species breeding. Bestiality deluxe. And yet surprisingly familiar, as if our bodies were meant to entwine, that we were parts of a missing whole, a chapter torn from each others’ books, the solution to a conundrum discovered finally.

We kissed again, this time asserting my dominance over his athleticism. The objective being to pleasure him beyond his capacity to understand. I let my lips do the talking, tracing his landscape at the tip of my tastebuds, every fold and crease, from his elven ears to that crevasse leading to his loins. The devil’s horns, their called. I was voracious, seething with a passion that threatened to combust us both. Sheets were ruffled, clothes torn off quickly. A violent moment.

I spread his limbs apart, seeking that point where convergence is conclusive. I let him embrace my back with his limbs. Long slender and lanky, he was awkward as I was. Yet it didn’t matter. I was over him, as he was over my mind. I was on top of him, as he deftly controlled the desires of my flesh. Fiddling my latent desires into fruition, actuation. Into his domicile, and into him. He was beaming. His ginger nibbling at my arm frail, as I mounted his totality.

“Are you sure?”

A nod.

I entered, and he was willing. A slight struggle, but patience came with its prize. He took me in without hesitation. And guided me with his limbs. Trembling, I traversed that bridge that joined us whole. We started to moan, I kissed him to silence the betrayal of his voice. I had a hand at the headboard, supporting my gargantuan weight, while the other beside us both, holding his free hand. Devoid of the violence my physical intrusion portrayed.

It was, of all unimaginable places, at a bookstore that we met. He was reading Barrie, I was browsing Carroll. It seemed absurd that we find ourselves smiling at each other across the stacks. I left the area and settled across my favorite lounge two-seater sofa at the smoking veranda. He followed not much later, asking if he can sit beside me. I was too engrossed with the Cheshire’s grin to notice his approach. He sat down. Our sides almost touching, defeating the gap by the humble scarcity of space. My reading was unencumbered by his presence, it merely felt homey and comforting to have him beside me. Although I have to admit his scent was musky and earthy, and his glasses glinted as I lifted my own. But I figured, sharing a seat wouldn’t hurt. Soon pages were piling on the other side of our tomes, and I realized my mug was empty, yet my caffeine craves were insatiable. I sighed. He excused himself, I gave a half nod, and went on reading.

Moments later, he came back, with two fresh mugs and his book in tow, and laid the other mug beside me. I smiled. He smiled. His eyes disappeared, replaced by his dimple. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

For weeks we would see each other in that same bookstore, nodding and acknowledging each others’ presence, but neither ever having the courage to strike a conversation. I was growing weak waiting, he was being impossible and impatient. Mugs were shared, opinions declared, but an invitation to meet beyond these academic environs remained latent.

Months pass, every now and then he would lay his head over my shoulder when we read, or sometimes I would on his. But no words were spoken. No numbers shared, or emails exchanged. No details. Just a weekly reading, and the occasional mug. Then he asked, out of nowhere. One Thursday afternoon.

“Will you keep me company tonight?”

It was my turn to nod.

The scene came back. I was in him, and he was me. The gravity of the act threatening to consume us both. Every heave, every thrust, every grind, and pump, he was there to accept me. The sheets crumpled beneath us, simultaneously soft and delicate, brittle and piercing. He dug his teeth into my shoulder I released my emotion into his being. I felt his gush, his release arriving almost at the same moment. It was wet and hot, and yet comforting. It didn’t make sense, and I was thankful it didn’t. It didn’t have to. Reason has no place here, now. Spent, I guided him around my bulbous stomach, never letting go of his hand. And he knew exactly where to nestle. Between my legs, and into my heart.

We were feline forms spread atop an alley wall. Engulfed in the absolute bliss of our sensual violence. Entrenched in the depths of a union hurried beyond the pervasive dusk. The only witness to our weakness are our glasses strewn haphazardly on the side table. The solitary bedside lamp lit the sheets that sheltered us like spotlight on an empty amphitheatre. Contemplative and convulsive on its silent perspective. Our clothes scattered clumsily across the wenge floors, their ruffled softness a foil against the ensuing ravaged physiognomy of our act.

Kisses were famished, hungrily devouring each others’ breaths. The parched lips parting into convoluted forms to accommodate the segue of our tongues. Consuming spit like flames to the warmth of embers, fuel to an embalming pain that must be fed. Feeding off the hunger of both. The gluttony immensely uncompromising. Muffling the screams of two.

Hours pass. I forgot how long, all that mattered was he was sleeping soundly, tranquil and content, and I was in him, into him, and of him.

Dawn was breaking, sunlight violating the serene drapes that shielded our nakedness. An alarm goes off in the adjoining unit. We didn’t mind. People were starting to get up, frantic to regain their lead in the rat race of life, crazed and eyeing the prize of success and adulation. We kept still, in each others’ embrace, oblivious to the urban chaos resuming its velocity. Here, we were complete and content. It didn’t matter that it was a workday. It didn’t matter that our morning breath tasted of coffee and cigarettes, and last night’s cheesecake. It didn’t matter we were at a loss for words, or conversations to engage in. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He looked right at me, adjusting his torso to face my sleepy demeanor across the covers that laid witness to last night. His eyes melting me into the lump of clay against the deluge of spring. Debauched, passionate and irrational. Consuming, absolute. His eyes were searching, pleading, almost begging. A question lingers, but he doubts his decision to verbalize it. Attempting to allay the anxiety that the preceding evening was a mere lapse of judgment. A, daresay, one-time-only affair. He mustered the courage but his voice was cracked, failing. He uttered finally, a whisper.

“Will you stay?”

I took his hand, the same tired hands my fingers embraced throughout the night, heedful that it may disappear into the ether of day. The same one I refused to let go, through all the positions and actions, movements and meanderings. I brought his hand to my lips, and kissed it softly; letting my mouth taste his saltine skin, and my nose to smell his earthy exhaustion. No hesitation, nor regrets, nor second-guessing. Our eyes met. The words came to my lips, still caressing his hand.

“Yes.”



Image from here.