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Monday, November 1, 2010

It's Time (A Story)

It’s time

This morning I dreamt about you, for the first time in a while. It was that bleak hour before sunrise, before the alarm goes off, when one lies in bed, contemplating the horrors of the day to come – the dark expanse of work; and facing facts; and being nice to co-workers, when all you want to do is die. You looked thoughtful, but happier than I’ve seen you for ages. I’m glad, if it’s true. Who knows, with dreams? Sometimes they seem so fucking real. Your hair, my darling, has a few grey streaks now. It’s not quite as black as it was in that photo of the two of us at our ‘commitment ceremony’. (What a stupid expression! Just because narrow-minded bigots won’t let us be married! “Marriage,” they portentously prate, “is between a man and a woman.” But then, it would have made no difference in the end, would it?)

Anyway, you were in the scarlet Budgy Smugglers I gave you. Do you remember how shy you were to wear them? You Americans are so prudish. You were amazed at how many straight Ozzies wore swim briefs – including some who shouldn’t! In the end, I had to hide your horrible baggy shorts (the kind you guys prefer) and threaten you with dire punishment if you didn’t wear the Speedos just once. Of course, you looked sensational in them, as I knew you would. Just looking at you made me want to eat you, never mind take you back to the cottage and pound you into the mattress. You have a lovely body, not over-muscled, but slim and shapely. You looked stunning in your Ozzie cozzie.

And afterwards, we did go back to the cottage, and I wanted you so much I didn’t bother to take it off. I fucked you right there over the back of the sofa, just pulling down the seat of the cozzie and sliding in, barely bothering to lube up. You grunted a bit. I’m sorry, love, often I wanted you so much I didn’t prep you properly. Though on that occasion, I hit the spot right away (sometimes I wasn’t so skillful – do you remember?) and you climaxed before me, and your pleasure took me over the edge too. You filled the Speedo’s pouch with your jism. We went for a swim straight afterwards, without bothering to shower or change. Later we made love again, only this time, we took our gear off, and you fucked me. Your skin tasted of the sea, salt and sand and sunshine. Did you know – but of course you do, for I often told you – that you were the first man to give me a hands-free orgasm? I’m still amazed at just how erotic it was, that first time, when I felt my insides explode into pleasure, and you grinned down at me, so proud and pleased and full of love, one hand on my shoulder, the other caressing the legs wrapped round your waist.

It’s funny that you were wearing the Speedo cozzie in the dream, because you don’t have it, do you? I found it a few months ago, in among my undies. How on earth did it get there? It still smelt of you, the rich musk of rectal mucus and the dried apricot of balls and cock, faded and dusty, but so real. I suppose I could have jerked off while I smelled it. I didn’t have the heart.

For some reason, in the dream, even though you were in your swim briefs, you were playing Rachmaninoff, but on a concert grand, not our old upright. ‘Rach’ you call him, as if he were an intimate friend. I watched you pour your heart and soul into the slow movement of the second piano concerto, and it was unbearably moving. And very erotic – how absurd is that? You struggled at that place you always have difficulties, and you sighed and stopped. I used to hate it when you did that, when you were still with me. It was no different in the dream. I knew better than to try to console you, so I made us some tea (you developed such a passion for Ozzie tea! Do you still take it now, back in America? Or have you gone back to that vile muck they sell in Starbucks?)

I’m taking a long time with this, amn’t I? Sorry. You’ll remember what a gabber I was, except toward the end, when silence seemed better. Anyway, in the dream, I wanted you so much, I hugged you and tried to kiss you, and you said “Get off, you ugly old queen,” and pushed me away. Of course, you never said that in real life, did you, though towards the end, I sometimes wondered what you truly thought. You stopped telling me how ‘noble’ my expression was, how much I turned you on. But you never actually said to my face, that I was ugly or fat or old or a queen. So that was probably me, my own horrible insecurities and feelings of inadequacy. That won’t surprise you, naturally.

In your last email you were relentlessly jolly. Rather arch, in fact, which isn’t like you. I guess things aren’t quite working out as you thought they would. Or maybe you feel you must humor me, be kind to me. A sort of partial compensation for breaking my heart, the consolation prize as it were. You were always a kind, thoughtful bloke. That was what drew me to you in the first place, when we met on the tram, not your handsome face, your gorgeous nose, your soft brown eyes or your mobile, unutterably sexy mouth. It was your gentleness and generosity and simple human goodness. Heaven knows, there isn’t enough of any of those things in the world. Sometimes you can see into someone’s heart from the first moment you meet them.

We never had an ‘un-commitment ceremony’. Too dispiriting, neh? But I think, after this dream, it’s time. Not an exorcism. More a coming-to-terms. Of course, you won’t be there, but I think I’ll drive down to the cottage and drink a glass or two of red, and say a proper requiem for our marriage and our love. I’m reading Turgenev again. His celebration of the power of love moves me so much, and I agree absolutely with his belief that it is only love that makes death and loss bearable. He should know, after all – he was hopelessly in love with a woman he couldn’t marry. Yet, somehow, he was happy. But then, they remained intimate friends all their lives.

I’ll put this letter with all the others in the drawer with the photos and your ring (I still wear mine) and the card you gave me on the first anniversary of our marriage.

It’s time for my weekly email to you. Of course, I shall tell you that I am happy, and that I’m dating again. You always did worry. I think the worst thing about us now is, not that you broke my heart, or that you broke your solemn promises, or any of that stuff, but that we lie to each other.

All the best, my dear, as ever. Thinking of you.

© 2010 Nikolaos Thiwerspoon. All rights reserved.
Romantic m2m novels and short stories


Anonymous said...

Life is full of the "Bittersweet", isn't it? And it is certainly better to have loved and to have lost than never to have loved at all. At least we can love the memory. Lovely story.

Nigel said...

I'm not sure whether to have loved and lost is better than not to have loved at all. Put it this way: if you were to have the hangover first and the party afterwards, would you do it? I'm glad you liked the story. The management aims to please. :-)