Journal entry, April 18, 2002:
Dear Journal: I have to write this down. I have to do something to get this out of my head. I've tried everything else. I don't know what to do. I want to forget. And yet, I never want to forget. Jessica. The name I want to say over and over again. I want to be with her. I want to stay in that place where hot summer breezes caress gauzy curtains while we stand on the verandah of some weekend hideaway naked beneath our silk robes, exploring each other's bodies with the most gentle touches. I want to feel her hands roam where mine do beneath the covers at night. Forget gentle. I want to drag my nails over her back as my teeth leave a trail of hungry bite marks from her neck to her ankles. I want to press my face to her wetness and breathe her in, drink her in, drown myself in her.
I have shied away from most every woman that has ever tried to get close to me after one relationship several years ago. It ended badly. My shying away from other women was nothing more than the wear and tear on my heart. For me, it's easy to lock my heart away from men. Women are different; especially Jessica. I don't understand how she got to me. For days after we parted company I wondered how it would feel for her to touch my bare skin. It was a chance meeting that brought us together. It was a chance friendship that has fueled my fantasies and haunted my dreams for many nights now.
We met at a company seminar in Chicago. We were seated next to one another, and during the breaks chatted over a cigarette. The attraction was instant, but there was nothing spectacular about her that could be pinpointed. It was nothing and everything. It was just the way she moved. She had this way of tilting her head that constantly beckoned you to kiss her. We lunched together, and after figuring out we each had an extra day for sightseeing before we had to return to our normal lives, she suggested that we spend the day together. After all, sightseeing was much more fun together than alone. I immediately agreed. I would have endured pretty much anything to be near her for a little while longer. I was mesmerized by her that soft hollow spot where neck meets chest. I tried hard not to stare.
Intimate, innocent touches were exchanged during the day, nothing more. We were just two friends enjoying each other's company. A hug here, a hand-holding there, an intimate closeness between two friends sharing a secret as we talked and explored the many crevices of Chicago, but the chemistry was maddening, the way it affected my brain. I wondered if she felt the same electricity, but dared not ask. Our touching was not sexual, yet it was nothing less than sensual, the way it is between two people who seem as if they have known each other an eternity. It was nothing more than that, and yet it was so very much more. She had to feel the same fire I did. I could feel it smoldering beneath her skin. Yet she never acknowledged it. But then, neither did I.
I remember being in the Oriental Institute on the UC Campus, the look of wonder on her face at the mystery of the mummies. We were on our way out after our tour, and this tiny piece of paper got caught in her hair. I reached to remove it and she smiled at me. I suddenly wanted to be taken control of by this woman. It left me utterly confused. Why? After all, when it comes to intimate relationships, I'm always the one in charge, always the one calling the shots. What was it about her that made my entire being beg to be her plaything? She was no demander of attention, no bitch personified that reeked of power and dominance. She wasn't small, yet she seemed to be made of delicate, wispy tendrils of lace and flower petals that seemed as if she could be swept away by the least wind.
