He has neat black hair, the cut is shaved perfectly at the sides, with a hint of pomade at the thicker hair on top. A hint of a gangster. Old school. A bad boy in a good suit. A businessman, so he says. Shrewd blue eyes and a sudden smile. As he removes his blue checkered Gucci tie and unbuttons a Paul Smith white shirt, he displays the marks of street life like graffiti scrawled over his finely chiseled frame. Like the imperfections on a marble statue he has scrawled tattoos, scars, a knife wound across his hard stomach. Remnants of a fast past, something he has not entirely left behind but tries to hide.
He is good at hiding things. He is good at hiding me. He is adept at charm, deception and disappearing. Leaving behind the scent of Roja Parfum's Danger cologne. And what shall I call him, so that you, intimate reader, can capture more clearly this man in your own imagination? I shall call him, J. No, Jay.
When Jay removes himself from my life, from my body, my aura, so quickly and with such certainty in his direction, he leaves me cold. I wish at times I could also shut him out of my mind. But then, are not my fantasies of him, like the psychopomps guiding the soul connection, keeping this thing alive? Moving from life, to death, to life, to beyond. I want to drop more fuel onto the fire, to never let this die out. I want danger.
He is someone who is not afraid of going beyond.
Watching myself in the full length mirror, I slowly undress, unbuttoning the Zara black shirt-dress, holding my breasts together in the purple silk bra. My long dark hair is almost down to my waist, I am natural and wild, for now. At forty, I have learned to keep this side of me caged, revealed only to those that have the right key to unlock it. I imagine Jay's hungry almost-cold eyes upon me, surveying my neck, my back, my curves, and the skimpy fabric of my matching Primarni knickers. I take off the bra and I run my fingers over hard nipples, pink areola...wanting my fingers to be his.
They say mirrors are magical, a portal to other realms. Here he is stepping forth into my reality, just behind me. Jay places his hand over my cunt, and his finger is between the wet lips of my red mouth. Whatever I do I must not turn around. I cannot let him entrap me into this reflected world or shatter this illusion.
Standing, sliding my hand, his hand, between my smooth wet thighs, I see his hard fuckable face, just above my shoulder. My eyes are half-closed and he steps out from the mirror, he pulls me gently around, his large hands on my hips, on one bended knee he licks and sucks my clit. I can feel his hair, dark and thick and the soft part at the back, newly shaven, I stroke his head and call his name. Jay, Jay, Jay. My clit feels hard as if it is about to explode. I love that feeling where nothing matters, where I am losing control, shaking, reaching.....
The orgasm seems to shoot through me, buckling my legs. Then all I am left with is the sound of the shower in the ensuite. The gentle coo of resting pigeons outside on the opposite window ledge in the courtyard. They are somehow consoling in their everydayness, in their ordinary grey feathered beauty.
Now we are apart. Our fantasies bind us together, our minds are somehow connected, entangled. The pleasure of orgasm, yet the pain of being apart. At least I know that I feel pain. Does he?
Jay, please answer. When can I see you again?
I know he is mine, one day he shall be only mine. I want him so much. I try not to think about him with her, at home telling her about his day, kissing her. I try not to think about it as when I do I am green and sick with jealousy. And fear he will not return.
It is January and I like the freshness of a New Year. Yet Christmas- I felt colder, more alone than I ever have before. Solace was a choice, sipping creme liquor and chilling with a film or two. The coldness was not part of that choice. Heating on Mediterranean high, yet why did I still have icy shivers? I thought about Jay all through Christmas and then all through New Year....him with her. I waited for a call, a sign, anything to show me our connection is real. That I was not just a game to him. A plaything, or a distraction.
The bouquet of miniature roses, from him- now wilting and drying- to remind me or to fool me, that yes, it was real. It felt very real when we were fucking in his bed ten days ago.
...Come to me, come to my door. I really need you. Why are you not here when I really need you? Answer my message. Please.
All those unanswered texts. When I have almost given up hope, when the pain is too much to bear- a kind of loneliness, a longing, an ache- he comes to me, my dark angel, with the sexiest grin. He does this every time.
I could not resist. The red wine. Intoxicating. I placed the glass carefully on the bedside table where it left red rings on the smooth white surface.
I could not resist. He took of his red Hermes tie and loosened his shirt.
As he bound my wrists above my head, I could feel that ache deeper in my cunt, my limbs stretched, then my legs parted, already moaning, wet, wanting...dissolving into pleasure as he first brought me to orgasm with his tongue and expertly slid his cock inside, ramming it with an urgency and yearning I never thought possible. We both cried out. I came again, at the same time as his final violent thrust.
Then after, we kissed, talked, laughed, gently stroked fingers over warm skin. My soft fingertips traced over outlines of tattoos and scars, like points on a map of his past, leaving a trail up to the present moment. Wine dripped from the glass onto my breast. His head upon my breast and in that moment content.
I watched his smile fade.
Then he left me to go back to her. The wine glass fell to the floor. I shattered into a million pieces.
I swept up the broken pieces. The sunlight shone onto the shards of the broken wine glass. My wrists were sore. I had grazes on my skin and I do not know how they got there.
Shopping is always a good way to help those grazes heal. As are friends.
