"Allure" chronicles a true story. No names are used to avoid any possibility of identifying the participants and causing hurt where no hurt has been intended. The story unfolds simply, but the complexity builds beyond the moments enjoyed. What the future brings come as uncertain as each moment the man and the woman enjoyed. A slice of life cannot be altered, cannot be reduced to body parts, for the parts become merely a means to an end--if an end can ever occur.
A Journey Properly Begun
He carves space for them in the swirling dissonance of his other life. The things that quantify this house--the decor a fragile personality has arranged, the kitchen his other life claims for herself, the bedroom a wife defends with spiteful threats of death--exist mostly as background noise for the red-haired woman who arrives with certainty.
It must be here she comes, for few other possibilities exist for them. His car would be too awkward. Her van would be too noticeable. Renting a motel to use for only ninety minutes would seem too seedy. And they certainly cannot be whole within the structure of her other life--too many people, too many responsibilities, too many ways to be discovered.
In his house, they have little to fear. The raging tempest of his life has withdrawn. Unable to cope with the intensity of her own accusations, unable to detect any clues to confirm her suspicions, unable to shake the thoughts of his betrayal, the wife retreats into self-absorbing anxiety. In the solitude of her absence, he creates the reality of her self-fulfilling prophecy.
To invite this new woman risks little. For her to accept risks little. He does not know his neighbors; she knows no one living nearby. Night has fallen deeply dark over them. Still, when she arrives, she parks her van around the corner and walks wary until inside the safety of his solitude. Only after he locks and bolts and chains the door do they acknowledge the sense of each other with a warm kiss of greeting and a passionate embrace of auras and the building of the arousal over what they know will occur without hesitancy.
She drops her purse on the nearby chair. The jeans she wears mold tight around her and the boots she prefers give her height so they can see blue eyes to hazel eyes as they kiss. She wanders tranquil into his space. She claims it as she had the bedroom that first morning between them. Nothing from her other life can intrude in this place. Nothing from his life can intrude either, but he keeps the windows sharply covered and, to avoid telltale shadows wavering lustful on the drapes, he turns off the lights until only the bold blue glow of the stereo clock cloaks them softly.
Some might say this man and this woman retreat from fear they will be caught; others might believe they merely lock the world out so they might enjoy each other in solitude. Some truth exists in both thoughts or maybe no truth exists. If anything must be explained about their choice of place, let it be that this man and this woman see this darkened setting as sanctuary, as something only they create, as a realm in which the passion growing between them can flow without fear, as the arena in which their auras mingle as they sit close on the sofa, words tumbling forth in this dimness, words warmed with wine and cognac and nearness.
The words do not matter, only the outcome they portend. Bonds form even if they do not understand. Tentacles entwine in intricate patterns they do not yet see. Lust reigns--it must--but it becomes a pathway along which they rush without looking, the pathway friends and lovers alike take, and, occasionally, a path those destined to love might take.
Friends exist mostly in sober dawn. The brightness of day brings light too revealing. Touches then must come casually, embraces merely greeting, fingers brushing in accident, postures wishing to entwine held painfully erect. The way of the world dictates how friends interact.
As lovers, friends walk strangely dreamlike landscapes, touches soft as silk, colors bold as brass, smells pungent as ripened earth. Visions blur. Senses sharpen. Feelings mingle. Lovers blend the friendship into physical contact because it comes so naturally and night provides a sense of the hidden and the forbidden, even if they feel neither describes them. Yet, he would gladly bring what they enjoy in solitude into daylight and would not mind if others understand the implications of their touches, the closeness of their auras, the headiness of their words. They might yet careen more fully down that path, but to do so would be as a couple and, from that, love would grow.
Two people integrating the feel of pleasure into their friendship do not look beyond the intensity of the moment, do not wonder what exists tomorrow, or next week, or next year. The lust emanating from each blinds them to all but the present. They revel in the presence of each other and in the moment to be shared and the orgasms that will surely follow.
