Remedy For A Stumbler

Who, what, where, when, why? Have I lost the trail again? Have I lost myself in the moment and forgotten how to breathe? How to think? How to remember? This is all I know in those panicked minutes. That they come, moments when I lose my grip and tumble, and that I have to focus, focus, focus. When I find myself in a car, in a bed, in a room, and I find nothing else to connect with. Not in the surroundings, not in the depths of a gridlocked memory. When I'm nobody, and I can't recall anything. Open your eyes, look around. Find something to undo the stalemate, someone with the jumper cables to your identity.

People, walls, sky up ahead, stark shadows. It's a city. City, in the sense of the word centuries past. A labyrinth of narrow streets, cobblestone pavement and still life of postcard picturesque tourist traps. A turn around the corner and a new scene, another turn and a secret backyard oasis. I know the kind. The epitome Old Town. This is old Europe, a foundation cornerstone for the skyscraper metropolis madness that threatens to shade out everything else. But here, the footsteps of history from Hansa to Holocaust still echo. Now a petite cliché to Japanese flocks herded by in a flurry of Fuji snapping. Amsterdam? Leipzig? Prague? Warsaw? Does it matter?

Catalogue snapshot carefree teens camp on the narrow sidewalks still coloured from a time when latrines were dumped from the windows above. An old woman in an even older scarf sells Coke cans and Jugend style pottery cats from an 18th century hole in the wall. Cell phones bleeps outside a Byzantic ornamented copper gate of a palace of worship. Everywhere like that, time is omnipresent, all flashes of new gently wrapped or firmly trapped in tendrils reaching forward from centuries past.

This is old, and I am young. At least I think I am, and all I sense is the flood of empty people, trampling what might have been a proud hotbed of pivotal events into a Disneyland for the wannabe intellectuals. What am I doing here? Did I come to see if touching these old bricks would make a difference, as if walls and arches and blackened oak doors could tell me who I am? But all I get is white noise. Whatever might whisper messages of truth to me is drowned in a whirlpool of dreary distraction. How can I find answers when I don't even know the questions?

There. A more than static dispatch on a dead screen, a jolt of consciousness in the void. Noise to signal. My senses might deceive me, but not my spine. A rain of icicles down my central cord follows, a flash of my subconscious, hollering that something has changed right outside the periphery of my perception. I know it in my heart before it reaches my head, I taste it in the air before the words dig in, knock the right frequencies and ring a harmony of message.

It is a chant, a signal, a sonic watermark imprinted on the inside of my skull. A name, my name. I cannot hear the words explicitly, but I still know. This is my spine speaking. I follow it like a blind dolphin might follow an alluring dot on his sonic radar. Just that and nothing else is all I cling to. Just a siren's song for my ears alone, that stands out from cobblestone clatter and unfocused chatter like a fifth wheel fugue harmony, much higher and brighter, but still concealed in a weave on the brink of chaos.

I follow the melody, spin, search, scream to get an echo. And there, once again, the voice, calling for me, but mocking with its fleeting presence. I sense nothing but cosmic background hum, I see nothing but the same generic tourist duplicated over and over. There it is again. Scan, scan, stare, where, where… Not here, think outside the box. Outside, I said. Up? Up. I raise my head, find what I was looking for, and I am home. That is the feeling I get when my eyes meet hers. An angel on a balcony in a blue dress, black hair and dimples in her glittering smile.

She laughs. I love her. I have no idea why, except that she is beautiful, but there must be more to it than that. This is something, a straw to cling to, a loose end to unravel the knot that is me. I dare not speak. Does she know I'm lost? Does she know me at all? A forced smile in return and a feeble wave will have to do for now. She bites the lower lip of her grin in a poster girl poise and words a silent "Come here".

Come here, come hither, little boy, and I will sing you a lullaby…

What was that? Her voice, I'm sure of it, rising like a single bubble of information from the depths of my black pool of amnesia. I stare bewildered at her dazzling frame trying to lure something else to emerge, but all that I can find is her beauty. The delicate curve of her neck, her slender arms gleaming in the sunlight that doesn't reach down to street level, the proud bosom hugged by blue fabric. Dimples, freckles, dyed black hair, painted blue nails.

I stare, that is all I can do, and spread my hands in a non-committing gesture of confusion. Please understand, please guide me, lead me, love me. Again that laugh, and she rolls her eyes to my helpless condition. A thumb and a nod tell me, around the corner, and an amused eyebrow whispers, you clown. I blow her a kiss, it seems appropriate, and attack the pungent river of crowd oozing along around me. A purpose, a focus. I have a goal now. To reach the angel, to take her in my arms and let her carry my drifting soul in whatever direction she sees fit. It is trust at it's most basic. I have to trust my love, and the memory of a nursery rhyme on constant repeater in my head.

Come here, come hither, little boy…

Yes, I'm coming. Wait for me. Please wait.

"Hotel," says the sign above the door. "Hello, sir," says the man behind the counter as I barge in. A returned greeting rewards me a snappy nod and a brass key on a silver tray. It is old, he is old, the lobby is ancient and all three smells of teak oil. A key, and a nod. So this is the right path, this is where I belong. Steps blur past, I take them two or three at the time. Doors, people, paintings on the walls, all become a tunnel stretched endlessly in front of me, writhing and twisting, but never leading to my passageway to Narnia, no door matches the glowing digits on the key chain. Acid milk burns and I feel the rush of pulse strike from behind. Where are you, where the hell are you? Calm, breathe, focus. Don't give in to the panic, don't fall into the black void. Breathe and think. Think and breathe. 4-C it says. The key to redemption. One more climb, just another set of stairs. Please let it be true.

My tongue taste of iron, my lungs ache and my head is bursting with purpose. This is it, two inches of fir and paint between me and my saving grace. Or my desperate hope that she will be. A shaking hand fumbles with the key, a shaking head tries to blow the hurricane out of my coordination centre, a shaking fist finally gives up and hammers on the thin doorframe.

Movement, thumping sounds and a lock that rattles. She is there, her face now not a seductive wink, but a worried fluster, her frame no less wonderful, standing in the doorway with a speech halfway up her throat when she stops. The city, the cardboard tourists, the old bricks and new inhabitants, all fade away into nothingness. She is my key, I know that now, my guide back to a safe foothold. The look on her face… A frown? A smile? Somewhere in between? She wears every nuance of her heart on the outside. A joyful loving laughter back on the balcony, and endless care and concern in the doorway. Yes, that fragment fits the frame. That is why I love her.

"Oh puppy," she sings in a minor key of compassion. No, not sings, but every syllable hits a clear note that rings true with my own frequencies. "Did it happen again? Are you lost?"

Am I lost? Lost for words at least, and I numbly hand her the key from my still shaky hand. She knows. Oh god, she knows. And holds a hand out in invite.

Come here, come hither…

It tears my last defences down, and the terrified little boy inside, so far kept suppressed to survive, can no longer be held at bay. My chest shudders, my head spins, and I stumble forward into her waiting arms, fall to my knees and bury my weeping face in the tender softness of her belly. Each tear paints a dark Rorschach blot emergency call on her bright blue dress. One.

Help me.

Two.

I'm so afraid.

Three.

Who am I?

Four.

Why me?

Her hands on my head, her fingers in my hair, her voice, saturated and deep from the closeness reaches deep, deep into the dark well of my confidence, finds and smothers the leak of anxiety that threatens to drown me.

"Hush, baby. You're with me now. Don't be afraid, don't be afraid. Relax. Just relax."

She kneels down. Careful, motherly, feline. Kisses my face, light little butterflies of comfort in a circle, forehead to chin, and back. She licks up a tear from my cheek and brushes her tongue over my lips, then melting, merging with me, lips to lips, mould to perfect mould. She is close, she is mine, she loves me and she will make it all right. A slender frame of hope, an angel in my arms. Guide me. Bring me back.

Ancient floorboards creak as she stands up. I notice smells, vanilla, perfume, coffee. Yes, these are the fragrances of my universe. They are in the room, in her hair, on her hands. I put her delicate palm to my face and breathe, inhale memories and notions. Still scattered, still without a name and direction. But they are right, true, me. She smiles and pulls me up.

"Ring any bells?" she says and bring me close again.

"Small ones, far away." It's the first thing I've said, the only words I can remember having ever spoken. They seem too small for the occasion. "I remember…that I love you."

Her response is a gleam, a diamond sparkle in her eyes. "Good. And remember that I love you too. Remember that, and don't hold back."

"Hold back?"

"Yes. Don't. Are you afraid of me?"

I shake my head no. Not of her.

"Are you shy?"

Another no.

"Then why don't you touch me?"

That wonderful smile, those deep dimples, a playful fire in big, dark eyes. Playful, erratic, erotic, sincere, emotions and intentions lighting up like flares in her face. Who are you? What is your story? Will I ever know? Do I really care? I have here and now, and here and now is wonderful. I pull her close and kiss her for as long as my breath carries me. The curve of her back and mound of her buttocks feels warm and welcoming in my hands. She clings to my intentions and neck, squeezes her body against me and her promises against my desires.

The room is white, all white. Ivory hue paint over dark wood, porcelain figurines on white shelves, pale, pale yellow curtains pulled half aside, glowing white in the sharp sunlight, lilies on a table, linen on the bed. Only the bright blue swirl of her dress and the deep, dark irises of her eyes shine in different colours. Her hair smells like vanilla. Her body feels like home. We shed skin and leave a wrinkled puddle of her blue and my black on the white floor, a tangled mess of clumsy giggles, ripped buttons and delightful connotations. Blue gave way to pale gold, shapes of basic humanity, a journey from tiptoed feet to fuzzy neck hair, via routes of elegant, uncomplicated exposure. A land that is ours, and ours alone.

Her fingertips, soft, pink buttons, and nails in blue, slide over my bare hips and chest. My lips sample her ear, palms sample the curve of her spine. Nothing else, just that, heartbeat after heartbeat. I marvel in this newfound glory, the first such sight and sensation I can recall, but still so familiar. There is no need, no urgency to rush. A little closer, a fraction yet, and her pink nipples dance on my chest, back and forth, over and over. They push a little harder on the inhale, almost lose contact on the exhale. I match my breathing to hers, and lean in yet a little bit, pull her waist closer and feel the exquisite warmth of a body shivering in pleasure. Softness of skin, tenderness of light caresses, her hair tickling my shoulder and a face serenely leaned against my neck.

We step, we stumble, we fumble, we fall into a sea of white linen, land heavily, bodies ground tight together. And I roll, lock her to my gravity and grab her hands in mine, pull them up, up, up… Arms above her head, legs by instinct parted, she lays below me, breathing, writhing slowly for that wanton friction between us. I hush her to tranquillity, and together we listen to the murmur of the city outside. Footsteps, laughter, wind and distant traffic all blend into a reminder that we are just two in the world, that it rushes on, oblivious to us, so that we can rush on, oblivious to it. I look into her eyes, taste her breath inches away and wonder… There is a world, a life that is mine, just out of reach. But do I want it? How can it possibly be any better than this pocket existence, a blissful ignorance of nothing but an exotic city backdrop, a white room and my soft, sparkling, soulful saviour?

She senses my hesitation and loving warmth becomes wistful fire in her eyes. She knows, oh yes, she knows. She has been there before. She loves me, she knows me, how I think, how I reason.

"Oh no, you don't," she laughs. "You follow my lead. I need you back, damn it. Stubborn man."

She is right. Of course she is. I have to trust, and I will do whatever she wants of me.

I nod. "What…what do I do?"

"You're tired, you need sleep. That's when you stray, that's when you lose focus and let go of yourself. Just sleep, dream, and you'll be sorted out in the morning."

"I'm not sleepy."

"Oh, but you will be," she says, a giggle barely concealed. "I know just the right way."

Her hands squeeze mine and her thighs slide up along my hips, calves around my back, a heel playfully glides over my ass. A laugh playfully glides over her lips, before that minimal gap between us once again is bridged, and she sucks on my tongue with the vigour of greed. I untangle and slide, savour and descend. Her lips taste of coffee, her neck taste of perfume. Her breasts, just skin, a raw, warm, honest fragrance of body. Further down a gentle trace of salt and the thinnest sheen of sweat mix with my saliva. And something else... sharper… musk? My own cologne imposed on her skin? All is eventually drowned out by a sweet and sharp taste between soft thighs, and I lick my way in to the centre. She tries to talk, to whisper, to shout, to encourage, but verbal yields to vocal and vocal finally yields to kinetics and a hand on my neck urging me down, in, deeper, deeper…

A shudder, a muffled shout, two hands from above and a bucking crotch from below fuses me to her and her pleasure peak. An overwhelming taste, a mind-bending sensation and an empowering revelation. I reach up and place a hand on her chest to feel her hyperventilation dance in its very own pace. Her hands let go, and I lift my glittering lips, heave myself up and let them fall back on her mouth again. She swirls her essence on her tongue and look at me with glazed eyes.

"Hey you," she murmurs. "That was not what I meant."

"I know, but I couldn't help myself. I'll never do it again, I swear," I say with a straight face.

She burst out laughing. "I didn't say that!"

I kiss her nose and wink at her. My hand plays on autopilot with her wet folds, and I'm ready, aligned for a perfect union. Gravity does the rest, and I enter her fast, deep and hard. This is what she wants, exactly the path she has chosen for me. I can see it in the beacons flaring behind her pupils, I can hear it in her gasp, an almost inarticulate "Yes!". The heat, the wonderful resolute grip on my shaft, the sense of being so close, so connected, drowns out every concern, every distraction, every conscious thought. This is right, I am home, safe, happy, loved. The event horizon ends on the edges of a linen sheet, population, two.

In our cocoon, there are no more boundaries, and the pale skinned, dark haired lotus below me unfolds, spreads herself for the taking, lets me race at my own pace towards release. Her hands cling to linen, her lids close, her head tilts back and her back arches to serve her full figure to my will. And I push, pull, push, claim her for my own selfish needs, feast on her surrender, thrust deeper harder and faster until all sense of moderation disappears. I crash into her in animalistic frenzy, lick her sweet skin, bite her tender flesh, grip, squeeze, suck and thrust until a red hot explosion races through my body and I splash her womb with the ultimate, white evidence of my desires.

I moan out of breath, shudder in the aftermath of the eruption, circle her waist and lift her upright. My spent and diminishing erection slide out of her as she cradles my face in her breasts, lets me nurse on her hardened buds like a child. Teeth grazing by the tips, and she shivers, teeth nudging, nibbling, biting down gently around, and she moans, leans forward, pushes me off, chiding, smiling, teasing. She tilts me back, and I fall, my head outside the bed. A white wall and a shelf with porcelain figurines hang upside down in the middle of my vision. A turtle, a cheetah, a centaur, an angel. My angel has her own plans, her private ambitions and devices, now revealed in a curious tongue licking the remains of semen and sweetness off me, sending lust ripples radiating. Her tongue swivel the exposed head, and I can barely keep still from the sharp jolts of sensation. Then a warmth, a new incredible embrace. She sinks down, lips wrapped close, tongue a soft cushion, teeth gently grazing. Second by second, breath by breath, she swallows me whole. I forget the outside, that probe inside of her mouth is my whole horizon. And in her care, I ignite the afterburner and grow ready once again.

Does she know me so well, more tuned to my body than I am? A well expected response to a neatly calculated call? Her motions and intentions deliver the answer. Her hands seek mine, and pull me from my exile outside the perimeter of our linen sheet kingdom. Upright she slide along my torso, guide me back inside the warmth between her legs and take control. I am a mere passenger, a tourist in her wonderland, and I hold on for all I'm worth. She gyrates, squeezes, milks and writhes me to the edge of threshold, then slows the flood to a trickle, a mere tender embrace to cool me off. Oh yes, she knows me all right. One, twice, thrice she brings me nerve-wrenchingly close to release, close to tears, close to hysteria, and I know that it will not be my body that crosses that line first, but my mind. She can do this forever, and I suspect behind pulse roaring ears and blurred vision that she just might. So eventually I snap, throw my brains back and throw my angel down for a remorseless assault, a hammer blow rutting until we both roar in ecstasy of a common orgasm.

"Mmm," she moans, minutes later, in my ear. "That was good."

"Yes. But I'm still not sleepy."

A warm laugh. "Patience, love. I'm not done with you. Not by a long shot."

Recharge, unload, rest, rave. We follow a rhythm of exhaustion to end station, rest silent in each other's arms, then thrashing sheets and throwing vowels at the roof. Again and again. A little more tired each time, a little more bruised. Final redemption is on the way, the gateway to my past, but I don't want to let go, want to hold on to this primal dance as long as my limbs carry me. Recharge, unload, unwind, explode.

The sun is lower now. The shadows of surrounding houses, blocking its rays from illuminating the pale yellow curtains, is my only indicator of passing time. But hours must have passed. My limbs are exhausted beyond control and by brain screams from release from consciousness' vice. I sink from her embrace into a trembling heap, so spent, so sated, so incredibly close to sleep. I long now to surrender to dreams, voices that will tell me everything, unlock my riddle and bring me back. Her soft arms cradle my head and her body rocks mine further and further down. The last thing I hear before I drift into the welcoming darkness is a voice, her voice, in an arcane minor melody.