Tag Archives: Love

The point of love…

13 Jan

 

solitude

 

“The point of marriage  is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good  marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his [sic] solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

My husband often used to tell me that as well as looking into each other’s eyes, he liked us to stand side by side and look out together at the world, while experiencing it individually.

Where Rilke uses the term “marriage,” I would use the term love.

 

Dear you. Cat fight. Whatever.

12 Jan

This post belongs in the page Infidelity, and the category Adultery.

Gustave Klimt Girlfriends

Gustave Klimt. Girlfriends

 

In the first conversation we ever had you said to me, “Perhaps (insert name) is not the right man for you.”

I had, at that point, absolutely no idea what you meant. (Insert name) is your husband. Why would you suggest to me that your husband isn’t the “right man” for me?

I echoed: “(Insert name) isn’t the right man for me? I don’t know what you mean. I had a relationship with him. I don’t want another. I only want to talk to him.”

I had no desire to continue my relationship with (insert name) after you’d caught him at it, and the only thing that interested me was having a civil conversation with him during the course of which we would bid each other a civil farewell. I have this tedious and apparently unrealisable thing. I think it’s important that people who love each other take civil leave of one another when circumstances make the ongoing expression of their love untenable. I’d prefer whenever possible to leave with good will, rather than disordered and excruciating emotional anguish. Admittedly I have absolutely no experience of this kind of leaving, so I could well be an idiot for imagining a decent farewell possible under such circumstances.

I suppose it’s something like people talking about having a good death. Sadly, a having a good death seems to have become a test of moral character.  I don’t know what a good death can possibly be, unless it’s like a good farewell, done with gratitude for the life lived, sorrowful acceptance of its ending, and the courage to face the pain of farewell.

Whatever. You and I appear to have reached a painful impasse. (Insert name) could be dead for all I know, the energy of the drama has shifted entirely to you and me, fulfilling the what now appear to be prophetic dreams I had at the beginning of the relationship between (insert name) and myself. In this oft-repeated dream you and I were intensely engaged, a good deal more amicably than we are at present, while (insert name) remained a shadowy figure huddled under blankets, entirely disengaged from both of us. I could make no sense of this dream at the time, though I recognised it as significant, as are all repeated dreams.

I marvel, I absolutely marvel, at the inaccessible knowledge contained in the unconscious, and again I claim that we are as icebergs,  one tenth of us above the surface while the other nine-tenths lies below, determining our lives in a manner entirely unknown and inaccessible to us until it’s far too late.

We have a great deal in common, as you’ve pointed out. We both play the piano. We have both had to deal with adulterous husbands. We both lost our beloved dogs in the same damn week. We both love the same man. We have both been horrendously damaged by the duplicity of this man, you more than me, I admit.  And yet, in spite of these commonalities, I would like to shout at you until I can shout no more, and I strongly suspect you are of a similar mind.

I am interested in what happens between two women when they both form attachments to the same man, and he to them. In this instance the man has turned out to be something of an emotional clod, and entirely undeserving of both of us. So why, when our rage and distress ought to be squarely aimed at him, are we firing our most serious bullets at one another?

I think we are conditioned from birth to behave in these ways, to see one another as rivals even for the attentions of a clod, as long as the clod is male. I hate this. I had no idea it existed within me. If anyone had told me I would one day be entrapped in a cat fight such as this has turned out to be, I would never have believed them. You have aggravated me beyond reason, and I, apparently, you. Women torn asunder by a man. We are living in a cliché. Somebody help us.

On being irresistible

31 Dec

Perhaps I’m contrary and ungrateful but I never felt good about being told by a lover  “You are irresistible.” I’d much rather he or she said something like  “I can’t resist you” and in that utterance, joyfully assumed the burden of supernatural compulsion instead of burdening me with it.

It would also be much more honest if things went wrong and my lover said “I now can/must resist you because my wife caught me, or I found someone else, or I’ve changed my mind” or whatever event provoked a change in his or her assessment of the situation. Instead of undermining my sense of myself with their change of heart, the responsibility then properly rests with the one whose desires, for whatever reason, have shifted.

I’ve never in my life found anyone to be irresistible. I’ve been overwhelmed by desire, overwhelmed by love, overwhelmed by seriously significant stupidity, but overwhelmed by my own sensations, the agent of my own downfall, not a victim subjected to another’s supernatural powers. In the end this matters, this sense that if I am drowning in love and desire, however recklessly, I am doing my own drowning the other isn’t bewitching me into it.

This may seem like unimportant hair-splitting carping, but it’s actually about taking responsibility, and empowerment. The statement “You are irresistible” gives the other all the power, and denies me the opportunity to take responsibility for my own actions. “I can’t resist you” takes all responsibility, and taking honest responsibility always empowers. The inability to resist is not in itself a negative thing. Denying it as part of one’s character might well be.

And there is something endearing about a human being who can admit an inability to resist as an aspect of his or her own self, rather than it being the fault of an irresistible other.

For women, being thought irresistible has caused and continues to cause us no end of grief, abuse, and in some instances, death. If we are credited with supernatural powers, we will also be made to pay for them. Excessive restrictions are placed on our freedoms in an effort to contain and control our perceived potentially uncontrollable natures. Those who abuse us may be leniently viewed in the light of our magically seductive powers. At its crudest, the irresistibility narrative says wearing short skirts will make men rape us, and there is a continuum from there. Telling a woman she’s irresistible is always an abdication of responsibility. You can’t resist her. It’s your thing, not hers. Own it.

End of rant.

Happy New Year.

 

irresistible

 

 

 

The Erotic II

11 Dec

auguste-rodin

 

(This post is part of the longer story Infidelity at the top of the home page.)

 

“The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, and plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information…” Audre Lorde

“As often as not, it seems to be assumed that man has his being independently of his passions. I affirm, on the other hand, that we must never imagine existence except in terms of these passions…” Georges Bataille

∫ 

 Oh, Jen, your breasts are talking to my cock. Make them shoosh for a while, I have to do stuff.

I desire your breasts so much. My mouth and my hands yearn for them.

I woke up picturing holding your breast on the palm of my hand and feeling its weight.

I love that we can express any desire at all and know that the other will share it. So extraordinary.

Oh, love. We are so in tune with one another.

There are so many things I’ve only done or talked about doing with you…it all adds to the richness of us, to have so many firsts. My love.

 

She wants to feel the weight of him on her. She wants him to hold her down with his body on hers. I will be too heavy, he tells her, but she doesn’t think so, what she thinks is that for years she has been waiting for the body that will hold her in place and it is his. Finally, he lays himself naked the length of her, propped on his elbows to spare her his weight. She says no, all of you, all of you on all of me, and he gently lowers himself, his chest against her breasts, his belly on hers, his cock hard against her mound. Keep your legs closed, he tells her, don’t let me in yet. His thighs rest on her thighs. She raises her arms and lays them either side of her head. She lifts her pelvis to his. He grabs her wrists and holds them. He breathes softly into her open mouth his face so near his features are indistinguishable, his eyes holding hers in their close gaze. Don’t come, he whispers into her mouth. You mustn’t come. His gentle breath in her mouth is almost too much, she feels desire overwhelm her and struggles to keep it in check. Then she feels the tip of his tongue stroke hers. Hold still, he breathes. Don’t move.

 

Sex is a deep search to uncover everything that is hidden. She shows him what he wants to see. She takes him where he wants to go. She lies on their bed, her legs slightly bent and open. She takes the outer folds of her sex in her fingers and holds open her secret place. He gazes upon her. Then he looks at her face. His gaze travels between her cunt and her face. He shakes his head in amazement and disbelief. You doing this, he says, it feels like the most natural thing in the world that you should lie here like this and show her to me, how can it seem so natural? I don’t know, she tells him. They are now sharing the intense gaze they’ve perfected. I don’t know how I am doing this. I only know I want to. Do you like her? Oh, god, he groans. Oh god, she is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen! She is pink, and glistening, and plump, oh god, she is everything I imagined she would be.

They don’t touch. They call it their fierceness, this desire they have to be in one another, this desire that transcends the physical, this desire of which physical expression is only one small part. He calls it their “psychic sex,” a merging of energies that doesn’t require his cock in her cunt, but is at its strongest when their tongues meet, and their eyes. They discovered it by accident, in a situation where fucking was impossible, and it is their favourite thing, the thing that binds them irrevocably, that is particularly theirs, that they can have even when separated by thousands of kilometres.

She learns how to feel his absent hips nestled between her thighs; she learns how to move her cunt as if around him, and when he takes out his cock it is her hand that holds him, even though a vast distance physically separates them. Once, after they have been interrupted by some domestic matter in his household, he writes: this psychic sex is so strong that my cocked twitched for ages and my balls ached, just as if we had been physically interrupted. What is this love we’ve made together?

I don’t know, she tells him. I don’t know.

Neither of them knows where the fierceness might take them when they are physically together. He writes of how he wants her to use him, to take everything she wants from him, he won’t stop her and when he’s exhausted, she must take even more. They agree that in no other parts of their lives do they desire fierceness, only in this mutual intimacy do they want to break through their learned limitations, the abstract restrictions of taboo, the pointless inhibitions life has instilled in both of them.

Your nipples are beautifully designed for my mouth. And somehow my cock seems to have been made for your cunt. Am desperate for your body. Every part of it. Every part. Does that frighten you?

Yes, she tells him. But being afraid doesn’t stop me. With you, I will go anywhere.

Aaaaaaah. I will tell you what to do? You will obey me?

Yes, she says. I will.

 

 

“The very word erotic comes from the Greek word eros, the personification of love in all its aspects – born of Chaos, and personifying creative power and harmony. When I speak of the erotic, then, I speak of it as an assertion of the lifeforce of women…  Our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives. And this is a grave responsibility, projected from within each of us, not to settle for the convenient, the shoddy, the conventionally expected, nor the merely safe.” Audre Lorde

The Erotic

6 Dec

Gustav KlimtThis post is one of the pieces in the ongoing page Infidelity at the top of the home page, and the category Adultery

 

“The whole business of eroticism is to strike to the inmost core of the living being, so that the heart stands still. In essence, the domain of eroticism is the domain of violence, of violation… The whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators as they are in their normal lives…Eroticism always entails a breaking down of established patterns, the patterns, I repeat, of the regulated social order… ” Georges Bataille

 

Without discussing it they decide that for the few hours they have together their mouths and their tongues will be all that will meet. He waits, holding himself away from her, allowing only their eyes to engage. A vibrant energy emerges from their joined, concentrated gaze. It shimmers and sways between them, a third party. As they stare, not touching, the force they’ve brought into being intensifies. What is this, he breathes. What is this? Their mutual gaze does not falter. It is the both the creator and disseminator of the energy. She lets his presence enter into her, and sees that he has allowed hers to enter into him. There is no resistance. There is only surrender and acceptance.

She knows now that when he said they are perfectly matched he knew better than her what complex intensity was growing between them. Their silent communication is perfection. There are no barriers of fear or guilt. Their hearts are at their work, naked and unprotected, and they make no effort to conceal them.

He is her perfect partner. She is his. In their lives before each other they have never known such a thing. It is fierce. It is frightening. She does not know where it will take them, and neither does he.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They are in each other all along.”*

 

He writes:

Of course I don’t want to leave you, how could I? Have been so sad all day, thinking I’d been so stupid I’d lost you. Are we ok again, love?

Here’s a new adventure for you to read. It’s very short

I hold out my hands to you. You tie rope around my wrists and then my ankles. I lie on the bed and you bind my wrists to its head, pulling so that my arms are full stretched upwards and then you bind my ankles to the bed’s end. I am completely helpless.

You put a blindfold on me, so I can’t see what you’re doing. Then I tell you you can do absolutely anything you want to any part of my body for as long as you like. You put a gag on me as I finish speaking.

You proceed.

 

He is enchanted by her body. As well, he is delighted by her enchantment with his. She writes of her love of his cock, sweetly at rest in his red-gold nest. Her touch on him, he tells her, is  consummately gentle, her fingertips soft with love. He wants to nourish her from his cock while he is nourished from her breasts. In this way they will nurture each other, love will in a circular motion proceed from one to the other, pleasure begetting pleasure, her joy birthing his, his delight birthing hers.

She tells him what comes from him does not make mess, as he has worried for so long. She tells him she desires his juices on every part of her, her breasts, her belly, her hands, her mouth. He writes, oh, how I love how you love my body, my cock, my semen. How I love that. Do you know how much I love how you love me?

After he’s gone and she’s alone in their bed she writes, I have wrapped myself in our stained sheets. In the night I woke and felt you leaking from me, down the inside of my thigh. You know now that what comes from you is only lovely, don’t you? And he replies, yes, you have taught me. You have given me that. Me inside you, on our sheets, on your thigh, your marvellous delight in me. You have given me that.

He writes:

You want me to mark you. I bite your shoulder and neck, and you rake my back with your nails, leaving red trails. I slide down so I can suck your nipples hard enough to leave the marks of my teeth, while you stretch up and bite my neck, and bruise me with your sucking. I want us to walk down the street, each one secretly marked by the other, glowing, hurting, aching, exhausted, bruised from our mutual pleasure. Marked. My sweet. Oh god, I want you. I know I have no right, but I want you to be only for me. No one else. Only for me. 

“The stirrings within us have their own fearful excesses; the excesses show which way these stirrings would take us...eroticism, unlike simple sexual activity, is a psychological quest…eroticism is assenting to life even in death.” Bataille

*Rumi

How to say I lub you

21 Nov

If you want to read these posts in order start at the last one in the category Adultery titled: Certain Dark Things. Or “Infidelity” at the top of the home page.

Lub you

Speech Acts: verbal assurances and promises which seem not only to refer to a speaking relationship but constitute a moral bond between speakers.  Judith Butler

 

 The three-year-old sat on her lap and said he was going to teach her how to say “I lub you” without using her words. He pointed to his eyes. He folded his small hands across his heart. He took one hand from his heart and held it palm up towards her. See, he said. Now do it to me. She pointed to her eyes. She folded her hands across her heart. And then she handed him her heart in the palms of her hands. Do it again, he said. Lub me again. Pease.

Her lover has said I love you more times than she could ever count. Oh, Lordy yes I love you, he says if she needs reassurance. Sometimes he writes ditto when she tells him she loves him, but he stopped that when she told him it wasn’t very appealing. Instead he wrote, and I you. I adore you, she wrote and he always replied, and I you. Every bit of me loves every bit of you, she told him. Aaaah, he sighed. And I you. You know I love you, he says. I told you. She has to explain to him that although she knows, she likes to hear it because they aren’t physically together and can’t show their love. They have to say it. Ah, he says. I see what you mean. Sometimes she thinks he is a little slow in these matters. Though willing.

Her husband told her he loved her about ten times a day. And every single time it had meaning. How did he manage that, she wonders.

I love you is a speech act. It constitutes a moral bond between speakers.

 

 It is September. She’s in the pool. It takes perhaps fifteen minutes of swimming laps before she feels completely at one with the water. This is why she does it, for the sensation of pushing effortlessly through aquamarine liquid velvet. Lifting her head to see the thick bush surrounding the pool, the blue sky streaked with high white cloud. The weightlessness and grace of the human body in the foreign, watery element. The aquamarine is her birthstone. She has a ring she can no longer find, a pale blue gem with a small diamond either side of it, set in white gold.

As she swims she thinks of her lover, he has written to her that morning telling her he has begun the process of encouraging his wife to go away on trips without him. They usually do everything together, he’s told her, like everyone else they know. His wife is reluctant, he says, and he has faced much opposition, but he needs this to happen so that it will not seem strange to the family when he wants to go away alone to be with his lover. What a pity the timing doesn’t work for his lover, they could have spent the days his wife is absent together without fear of arousing suspicion, but it was such short notice, and she has already arranged to be with her family and their babies.

“This was a sudden thing,” he writes. “It only happened at all because I strongly encouraged it over opposition and great reluctance, thinking that it was a first step to establishing the idea of doing things alone. At least,” he writes, “we can have phone calls at nice and unusual times like early morning and bedtime, while my wife is gone.”

He has recently persuaded her to be sexual with him on the phone. She’s not at all sure about it. It’s exciting at the time but when the call ends she feels an aching loneliness and a sense of having done something she didn’t really want to do. Not long after they’ve begun this experiment she stops it. It would be different, she tells him, if they were living together and separated for a while and the phone was an interim measure. But they are separate most of the time. Being separated from the man she loves more than she is with him is an entirely new experience. She is used to being a wife.

He can feel her, he tells her. It is her hand holding his cock, not his. Her hand stroking his nipples, her finger tracing the ridge between his balls. She is his first thought when he wakes, he tells her, his last before he falls asleep, and when he wakes in the night she is there.

You say you’ve gone away from me but I can feel you, feel you when you breathe…

As she swims she thinks two things. She thinks how glad she is that he wants to be with her so badly he will instigate long-term plans to change the whole pattern of his married life. The other thing she thinks is how manipulative he must be to be able to convince his wife it will be good for her to go away without him, when his real motive is to re-educate her so he can take time away to be with his mistress. She allows the first thought to push the second off the edge of an escarpment, into a bottomless abyss.

 

 Once she knew a man who taught her to use all her senses from her heart. She learned to see with her heart, feel, taste, smell, and hear with her heart. It’s not always safe, he warned her. There are circumstances in which the heart ought to be left out of things. While she can tell if a situation is obviously not one she wants to experience so fully, she’s not very good at judging the more subtle scenes.

When she first met her lover her heart was feeding all her senses, and she thought nothing of it. The sight of him leaning against the wall waiting for her, the shape of his body, the height of him, the pull of him, were all noted by senses rich with her heart’s energy. Long before she knew anything with her mind, her heart and all her senses whispered, I lub you. She handed him her heart in the palm of her hands, and she didn’t even know she’d done it. A moral bond. I lub you.

 

 For months, a year, and for more months, she protects him. She does without most of what she would really like to have, in order to protect him. She has no idea why she has entered into this agreement to protect him. Sometimes, she loses patience and threatens to tell his wife. She knows she never will. He knows she never will. He trusts her absolutely to protect him. She gives him the great gift of absolute trust in her. Because I love you is a moral bond.

 

 She tucks the three-year-old into his bed. Giddy, he says, that’s what he calls her, Giddy, will you sleep in my bed for a little while? He scoots over to make room. She lies down, and curves her body around his. In moments he’s asleep. She lies with him for a long time, listening to the night birds, watching the full moon rise over the mountains, hoping his small, strong body can help her heal herself. In her worst moments, when she wakes into terror, she thinks of her lover and then she thinks of this little boy. He has her smile. He has her scowl. He has their hearts in the palm of his hand. Lub me again, Giddy, he says. Pease.

Remember that words, the right and true words, have the power of deeds. Raymond Carver.

Betrayal

18 Nov

There was a message for her when she arrived home from her swim. The sea that day was Caribbean blue with indigo blooms. It reminded her of Isla Mujeres, off the coast of the Yucatán Peninsula. Before she met him she was a woman who travelled alone to Mexico even though her oncologist advised against it, a woman who took the ferry to Isla Mujeres without having booked accommodation in advance, a woman who when she arrived at the island of women strolled through the hot midday streets looking for a place she might stay and found one, as she knew she would, an apartment above a shop that sold beaten tin images of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and postcards of women who fought with the Zapatistas. She had a life before him. A big, rich beautiful life, full of the love of her family and its babies, and her husband before he was stricken with illness.

Hey, lovely lady.
Hey, my love. I’ve been swimming in the sea.
Have you showered?
Not yet.
Good. I want to lick the salt from all your secret places. I want to taste your salty juices. I want my tongue in you. I want you to come on my lips… 

 

Early in their relationship he said, we mustn’t make comparisons. He surprised her. She didn’t want to know anything about his sexual life before her, and had no intention of sharing hers. It would be odious, she agreed, to compare.

But then he wanted them to have their list of “firsts.” And it didn’t occur to her immediately that anything either of them claimed as a first revealed some of their history. When she realised this, she felt guilty. Her ill husband would never again be her lover but still she felt guilty, that she was betraying him, that she was perhaps indicating he had not been satisfactory, which was far from the truth. She wrote to her lover, saying that she had not meant to imply that her sexual life with her husband had been lacking or unsatisfactory because that would be dishonest, and he replied that he understood.

Likewise, when he told her he had not experienced this or that, she knew his history and wondered how he could reveal such things while still in his marriage, even if they no longer shared a bed and sexual intimacy. Her inside voice set up a minor clamour. Don’t trust him, it said, look how he is betraying his wife, don’t be so foolish as to think he wouldn’t betray you too. She knows he will. She has written to him, you will leave me if your wife finds out, won’t you, and he replies, you can’t know that. You can’t know that. His reply feels like both a rebuke, and an appeal that she not make assumptions about how he will behave.

Then he tells her he is working out how they can be together, he’s making a concrete plan he’s doing all the financials and she is startled, and says, you are thinking like this? I’m not thinking like this. I haven’t even considered this. She doesn’t know him, she hasn’t even spent a night with him, this isn’t like any other relationship she’s had when people have time to know one another, to fall asleep and wake up together, they haven’t done that and she’s not ready to leave her life for him and besides, her husband is still breathing and there is no way on this earth she will throw in her lot with another man as long as there’s breath in her husband’s body.

He is with his wife as he works out the financials and plans a new life with his lover, and his wife is with him, in complete ignorance of the future he envisages without her. How, she wonders, is it possible to plan a new life with another woman when you haven’t made any mention of it to your wife? What will he do? Walk out one day? Leave a note? She imagines doing the same thing when she lived with her husband, when he was well. She imagines an abyss separating them that never existed in reality, but would have to be there for her to secretly plan to leave him for somebody else.

Again and again it will come between the lovers, the difference between her knowledge of marriage and his. She thinks they would not do well together, that she would expect the intimacy that is marriage to her, and he would expect the distance that is apparently marriage to him. He tells her that he is not allowed to close his study door when he works because that hurts his wife’s feelings, and she marvels that he cannot close his study door but he can plan a new life with another woman, won’t that hurt his wife’s feelings? She asks him how he works if he can’t close out distraction and interruption. He says he’s learned to work around it. When she works she needs solitude it was the same for her husband, they always closed their doors. Would you object to me closing the door when I wanted to work, she asks him, and he laughs and tells her of course he wouldn’t, but she is unconvinced.

There’s a cause and effect, she thinks, between the distance in his marriage that allows him to plan a new life under his wife’s unsuspecting nose, and the fact that he can’t hurt her feelings by closing his study door. I have no privacy, he tells her, only in my thoughts. I will always have my secret thoughts, he says. She tries to imagine what it would be to live without privacy, and knows she would go mad.

She talks to her friend about her marriage. You know it was very unusual, don’t you, her friend tells her. No. How could I know that? You two, the way you loved each other was extraordinary. Don’t ever expect to find anything like that again. And anyway, lots of couples live without privacy, you know.

Ugh, she says, I never want to know everything about anybody. How boring. And she remembers how she loved the ultimate unknowableness of her husband, of any human being but especially him, the impossibility of possessing him, his otherness, his alterity, the absolute not-me-ness of him. The delight when he emerged from his study or she emerged from hers, and he took her in his arms as if they’d been behind closed doors for days. Oh, you, he’d say. You.

I don’t understand him, she thinks of her lover, I don’t understand what he means by love. She struggles to grasp how he does what he does, her, his wife, the secret life, the power of his desire, if she felt like he does about someone else she could no more be in the same house as her husband than fly to the moon. She couldn’t hurt her husband like that, even when, especially when, he didn’t know the damage that was being done to him, the denial of him, of the life they’d had together. Her lover seems to be of the “what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her” school, but she’s never believed that, people know stuff, even if they don’t know they know, and it wreaks damage and havoc and they can’t understand why.

 

Bluff Beach

 

Every day while the weather held, she swam in the warm sea, usually naked unless strangers wandered onto her deserted beach. She was golden brown all over.

Send me photos of your golden breasts.
Aaaaah, he writes when she does. When I look at you the juice from my cock flows down my thigh, like it does when I hear your voice, or read what you’ve written. When you come for me, strong and long, I feel such joy that I have touched you so deeply. I want to suckle from your salty nipples, let me lick up your juices then kiss you so you taste them like the sea on my tongue. Oh Lordy, yes, I love you. You know I do.

 

When she was alone on Isla Mujeres she was happy, and occasionally lonely. She’d left her husband behind, much to his annoyance, but she knew it was essential for her to do this without him. He’d cried at the airport and she almost gave in, but her family in Mexico were expecting her so she boarded her flight and forgot about him almost immediately. She did this again when she went alone to Stockholm, and he was savage about her intending to fuck some Lars or Sven. That’s projection, she told him. You’re imposing on me what you are likely to do. I hate it when you talk psycho babble, he’d told her, and walked off. She wonders what he would think of her lover and the relationship she has with him. Apart from being insanely jealous that she had a lover at all. Fuck him if you must, he’d say, but don’t love him. I never loved anyone but you. Don’t you love anyone but me. Anyway, he’d conclude, he’ll never know you like I do. Then he’d sing something, like, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know about her.

 

The island of women is where Caribbean pirates kept their mistresses, imprisoned by the turquoise sea, unable to leave. The pirates took whichever woman they fancied at any particular time, but the women had no say in who they would lie with. When the pirates left for work, away for weeks, months at a time, the women were free to be with themselves, each other, and their children. She lay on the white sand of Isla Mujeres, her feet in the shallows where tiny striped fish nibbled her toes, and thought about the pirate women, and about love and because she has a cancer that will only ever be in remission, death. When she returned to her apartment above the shop she wrote to her husband. I’ll be home soon, she told him. Keep a candle in the window.

 

Her lover writes to her, several times a day for months and months and months. All the while his wife is there and he may not close his study door. When his wife goes out, they speak on the phone. His thigh is wet from the juice of his cock that leaks as soon as he hears her voice. They are perfectly matched and they should have met decades ago, he tells her from the house, the rooms, the home he shares with his wife.

There is one thing, and one thing she knows for certain about him. That he is capable of the most awful betrayal. Not only will he desire her, he will love her and want her in his life forever, and tell her, you are my second wife. And in spite of that love he will leave her, in the most cruel of ways, without a goodbye.

He was living a life that was unknown to his wife. Why is she shocked when he does this thing to her?

“The end is in the beginning, and yet you go on.” *

 

Isla Mujeres One

 

 

*Samuel Beckett

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