When bodies meet like old friends

When bodies meet like old friends

I have played the field long enough to memorize its rules—and how I can bend them to my advantage or break them whenever necessary. And this is what I learned:

A body is only a body; nothing special. It only becomes more than itself when it meets with another, in an unfamiliar bed whose smell you won’t remember when you wake up. The two unknown bodies greet each other in a language only they can comprehend, like old friends; it is when as if your hands and legs have brains of their own and you watch them slither around his body—travelling into foreign territories and dominating them as you go. But when he grabs you by the neck and thrusts deeper and deeper into you, you’ll get what I mean.

I’ve had my fill of conquering lands and claiming everybody’s body as mine. That’s why, don’t undress me with your gaze if you don’t intend to help me put them back on at five in the morning, or when you want me gone at first light without breakfast nor a goodbye kiss. You can’t entirely conquer my body without conquering my heart; dethroning someone who’s been king all his life is never quite an easy task.

His body says hello. Don’t be rude. Invite him in. ■

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Almost

Almost

So, here we go. Again.

It’s finally that time of the year again when all motivations to subsist would escape me, gradually at first — unwashed dishes and cheap wine in a coffee mug, unreturned calls from my boss, creased shirts and mismatched socks on a Monday — then later, well, we know how it ends; and it rarely ends well. I’m half-expecting that a series of bad decisions will already have been made by the end of this week. But considering how I’ve outdone myself these past years, surely I tend to underestimate. While most people could no longer contain their excitement for Christmastime, I keep myself away from objects I could slam my head onto. I easily get frustrated, and I get mad when people couldn’t understand me. I don’t need sympathy, that’s what I say. What I need is a pack of cigarettes, sixty-five tequila shots, a very long sleep, and maybe a ten-wheeler truck that would ram into me until the necessity to drink the remaining quarter of this year away is long gone. But, instead, I find myself getting in line for the cashier, my hands clutching a grocery basket. Look at what I’ve got: a box of fresh milk, canned goods, two loaves of bread, a large bottle of Coca-cola. “Cash,” I told the cashier. I keep a forced smile at the lady behind the counter as she scans the bar code of a really sharp knife. I walk my way home. ■