Love and Lust Spring Eternal

 

The obligatory intro: The world is full of erotic stories written by men for men.  Their point of view, well, is a bit different than women’s. Few women write erotica, in part I think there is a stigma attached to being overly sexually charged. And women tend not to find certain recreational activities as exciting the way men do. There are a few exceptions in this world. I am, by far, not someone who lives and abides by the “rules”, whatever they might be.

So this is a very sexually explicit piece written by a woman for women and men. All events are fictionalized – of course, please read the disclaimer above.

I take a cab to his place. The place smells nice, sandalwood candle, he tells me.

He comes downstairs and opens the door. I notice how beautiful he is. I love looking at him. He's medium height slim built very fit super gorgeous. He wears his glasses to tone down his good looks. He smells good. He's dressed to ten. He claims that he rarely is on Facebook, but he is dressed well, the way I like a man to be dressed in - in beautiful tailored suits, and lately I've been talking about how men should dress in suits on Facebook. He is breathtakingly beautiful in his suit. I wonder if he dressed this way for me, or for others. I suspect he did it in part because of me. Because it makes me feel good to think that way.

He takes out his penis for me to suck on. I love it, he binds me so tight behind. My hands are tied by his white nautical rope. I am unable to move my arms. I suck on him. Then I know it's time. I started to lick more gently, allowing him to release himself. I lick the side of his erect, hard, beautiful penis.

I feel a drizzle. He starts to pee on me. Then the liquid becomes more frequent, it was raining. Warm liquid running through my hair, and my face, my lips, my body is soaking wet. I open my mouth, to catch some. I love how it feels. I love how it tastes. I love his liquid, now mine. I'm naked, my large breasts and nipples exposed.

He spanks me, hard, my butt cheeks exposed. Red, hurting. As he spanks me he asks me what porn I've been watching. I tell him the classic German porn. I tell him that I miss him. He wants me to kiss him, he kisses me and calls me "my love", he tells me that he's crazy about me, repeatedly, over and over again. I tell him that I need to see him, more often. He says OK that's something he needs to change. He wants to see me more often too. He fucks me from behind, he turns me and fucks me again while my legs are up in the air. He goes down on me, eats my pussy, licks my asshole, bites my giant nipples and plays with my large breasts. And he holds me tight. He kisses me. He fucks me. He holds his cum until he can't hold it anymore. He comes inside of me. He tells me to kiss him more. I gently run my hand through his curly wavy hair.

I know when he asks me to kiss me he needs me. He says that he's crazy about me, again. "Baby I'm crazy about you." "my love" he calls me. I tell him that I feel the same way. I ask why it feels even better now than before. He tells me that because we get to know one another's body. I think it's because I feel secure and comfortable in my relationship with him. I want him like no other.

He says that's because we belong to one another. He says that we make a perfect couple. "We belong", he says. I think he means it when he calls me his love. I can stand to love him. I feel his passion. He smiles. He touches me. He says that this new me, this drug-less me, is an expressive one. He likes this me. He wants me to be his, his slut, his whore. He wants me to wear clothes like a prostitute when he takes me out. This is the kind of kinks I love. I wear Bebe's super tight super short dress with legs hanging out. I like to be his whore. A call girl. I will wear Betsy Johnson's six inch red fuck-me shoes with spikes and lace on the side, and black fishnet stockings, my boobs will be hanging out slightly and my hair will be messy. I shall have him to take me to a fancy restaurant, order dishes served in delicate plates, he feeds me while plays with my bare naked pussy under the table casually. No one will notice. He whispers into my ears, telling me all the dirty things he wants to do to me after dinner. He will stuff his cock into every hole, my mouth, my pussy and my ass. I will listen, nodding my head demurely and obediently. I will agree to whatever he wants me to do. Because I'm his paid whore, this call girl.

He wants to see me come. He wants to make me come now that I'm off my drugs. I tell him that I masturbate and come all the time.

He films me masturbating, my pussy is wetter than wet. I am covered in his warm wetness. I love how he smells on me. I love this watersport, I love being peed on by him. I love the way he drains himself onto me.

I am a crazy girl. I've always been this way with him.

He collapses after he comes. He holds me tight.

We rest. We shower. We talk. I blow dry my hair. He brings a new blue toothbrush for me. I brush my teeth. I have long, straight, wavy hair that cover my face. Without make up. He says that I look cute. I smile, I am in a tee, one with zipper on the back. I look like a school girl, with breast peeking through soft peachy fabric.  I tip toe and kiss him some more. He likes it.

I ask him what is the wildest sex he's ever had. He says what we have is the wildest sex he's had. I ask him if he's had sex with two women. He says not but we will. I say indeed we will.

He needs to leave to see his son. I kiss him more. I demand to see him more. Some sort of regularity, so that I can see him and look forward to being with him.

He tells me seeing me is good. He does not want anything else to change, but to see me more.

I don't tell him I love him. I am not sure if it's love or lust. But I know I need to be with him. I tell him that I belong to him. I feel home when I'm with him. I need him. I need him more than he knows. He disagrees. He says he needs me too.

I trust him. implicitly. I simply want to be with him. I tell him that I want him for sex. He says that he wants me for sex too. We need each other for sex. But like anything else, it always starts somewhere. We are not just some machines. He likes me outside of bedroom. He likes me for other activities. He likes me for the full me.

I get dressed, in suits, in button down shirt like a man. He says that I look like Annie Hall. "You look cute, in a man's dress shirt." He finds me cute in everything I wear. I'm in the investment banking world. I don't always dress in a slutty outfit. Only when I go out with him, only when I see him.

I live in a world with contrasting images. I have a very conservative side and a very wild side. I go to work everyday in high heels and Italian suits. Hair tight back. Behind closed doors, I want to be tied up, spanked hard, and be peed on by my lover, I want to suck his cock, When I close my eyes, I dream of his cock. I then go home and be a good mother, a wife and a daughter. 

He has his own firm. He does well for himself I am certain. He maintains a persona that is no different than mine. We are both conservative, hard working professionals. Have done well for ourselves. Established. Not worried about money, future, retirement. We worry about our needs being met. Our unique, sexual needs. We find one another and our worlds are complete.

He drops me off at the BART. He says "Enjoy the train ride home". I talk, I joke, I smile, he looks at me every opportunity he gets, he smiles. He is the friendliest and most affectionate person I know. I tell him "no definitions OK"? I tell him that I like what I have with him. "When I go to bed, I think about your cock." I tell him. He smiles. He likes this carefree woman. I think he always likes a woman who is laid back.

I tell him when I get back to my house, I will masturbate again. I will be thinking about our watersport episode, and how he eats my pussy, and how his strong and erect cock tastes like in my mouth.

I will, remember, how he murmurs "my love" and "I'm crazy about you." But this I don't tell him.

I am crazy about him. I may love him. In my own way. But I know myself, I don't like definitions or terminology. I know what I know. I know that I want to be with him, till the end of the world. 

My butt cheeks are on fire. I feel belonged. I am home, finally.


Love and lust spring eternal.

The contrary dynamics - Notes and Lyrics

One thing that some people know (husband knows, for instance, is to never ever tell me what to do - therefore 11 years of marriage, no confrontations, no arguments & no conflicts) and others don't (you know who you are), is that I HATE to be told what to do.

If you tell me something, my first instinct is to reject your opinion. Even though several months, years, or a few hours later I may derive at the same conclusion.

The latest is that I finally agree with you that I should meditate instead of medicate, I just did not like to hear it from you, I need to find out through the most excruciating detox exercise - but you know, you were right, I was wrong, and I have a broken body to show for. I'm sorry for not have listened earlier.

There are a few very rare exceptions - under certain circumstances, with the right set of preconditions, I shall choose to give up control, utterly and completely; I shall be vulnerable and submissive; I won't question you, I won't challenge you, I will be completely at your mercy - and that is very liberating in its own right.

That contrary dynamics governs my world.

Harmony is achieved when both components coexist. One without another is a world incomplete.

I traverse in these two worlds freely, without a map and without a guide. I follow my heart, and my heart always leads me to you.

The Valentine’s Day Eve Story – San Francisco Story # 11

First draft, wrote and finished today. Trying to use a new style / technique which was to try to capture the mood without too much of a definition by using adjectives.  Not sure how successful I was with this attempt. This is a first conscious attempt anyway. Call it a practice run.  Also,  there were a bit of a sexually explicit write up thrown in. Clearly my inhibition has gone down a notch as I've gotten older. 
 
"If poetry and other art forms truly bring about a 'confrontation with our deepest self,' an unanticipated consequence emerges: the neutralizing of passion. In writing about love, as in the writing about grief, overpowering obsessions and emotions are more quickly understood and assimilated. Once we understand them, we are less driven to ponder them. Love letters, then, may be an antidote to love." - Opening Up The Healing Power of Expressing Emotions, James W. Pennebaker, PhD.

1. Valentine’s Day Eve – His Point of View

He had not expected this. Not at all. The way he had imagined, she’d show up, and they’d go and have dinner, and then afterwards, she’d leave because, after all it was the Valentine’s Day eve, and he had not planned all of this out, he had planned to travel the next day, he was waiting, somehow for her to initiate this, and he’s been torn, he had been absolutely devastatingly torn about this. He wanted to see her, but there was just never a right way to tell her that.

He sensed that she was pulling away. She was intellectually distancing him from getting too close to her. It was not ever an obvious move on her part, but he could sense the level of detachment.  The frequency of emails dropped significantly. She used to write, a lot, and shared her thoughts freely. She was obvious about her feelings and desires. She told him how she felt. Then she stopped. It was as if she wanted to leave this to be a purely physical thing. He thought that they had a go with something grand, but he was not sure anymore. He wanted her like no other.

He wanted to be with her, until the sun went down. Until THEIR sun went down, until the end of the day. But he did not know how to tell her this, or anything remotely similar, he had never been in a situation like such, to be involved with a woman who was married, had children, lived a full life, a life, until recently, did not involve him.

2. Valentine’s Day Eve – Her Point of View

She looked at the clock, it was 9 AM, Monday. She had not seen him for exactly 14 days. He had disappeared, again, from her life. Prior to that, one week, she saw him three days in a week, and she liked it, to be so close to him, even though she did not spend any nights with him, she saw him, did things with him, met his son, and that was more than enough. She liked those quick visits, the constant exchange of information, the closeness developed not just through sex, but through communication, interaction. She liked interactions: one that involved active components, like ping pong, you sent it to the opponent, your opponent hit the ball back to you, and it went on and on. The free flow of information exchange, the “getting-to-know-you” bits. They did not have frequent interactions.

They really did not communicate much. He was a man with few words. He rarely emailed. When he did email, he wrote short sentences. She knew though, when he did write, he meant something. He wanted her. She started to figure that part out. He needed time to recover, after each of their encounters. And then he needed her, yet she couldn’t tell. It was as if he was also somewhat shy in asking her and telling her that he wanted her. She couldn’t tell if and how much he wanted her, until he told her that night.

“Then it builds until I can’t take it anymore.”  He told her how he felt after being separated from her for sometime. He said in such a way that it lacked convincing power. It was as if he was also detached, as if he was talking about a volcano activity that occurred in the Big Island, and not his feeling towards her.

She wanted him, constantly. She wanted to be with him, incessantly. She wanted to be part of him, simply. How did she get there, she didn’t know. She visualized the integration of two of them into one. He spooned her, his hardness pressed inside of her, and his arm wrapped around her, her small hands holding his.  There was always the desire to become a constant force in his life. But she didn’t want to burn the candle out right away. She wanted to be that constant fire, constant light, without overwhelming him.  Use as needed.  Do not exceed recommended dosage.

3. His Singular, Uncomplicated Life, Complicated

He was considered good looking.  He took good care of himself. He barely ate and he exercised whenever he could.  He looked young for his age. In fact when she met him for the first time over a decade ago, she thought he was the same age as she was. He was 7 years older. She liked the age gap. She married someone who’s about his age, only slightly younger, by about 8 months. But he knew that he looked better than her spouse. He always knew that was his asset. The perfect face, the fit figure, the fashionable attire. The way he carried himself.  He was disciplined. He watched his diet, he slept 8 hours a day, and he worked hard. He maintained his physique, he maintained his work / life balance. He was always looking for something to occupy his mind with. He read, he read a lot. He went out, hang with friends, did his run, biked a lot. He was an intelligent man who had his own firm, who decided to live an uncomplicated life, a life of one.

Then he got an email from his old fling: someone whom he had not seen for sometime, someone whom he kept very loose in touch with. Someone he reached out, every few years.  He liked her. But it was not that they had anything but those few quick, spring dates, that went into the early summer, and then fizzled out, memories were blur for him. He had dated many young women then. Those were the good old days, where he was constantly approached by aggressive or non-aggressive women, he was in demand. He moved to this city in part for it. He liked his life then. It was uncomplicated. He was good at women. He liked women, and they loved him.

Then, life caught up with him. It was not that he was not interested in dating, he did date, he dated whenever he could, but he wanted someone to be there for him in a way that did not cause any stir in his emotional well being, did not affect his regular, singular life, and he wanted someone to realize his fantasies. Fantasies that he thought of often, but not something he’d bring up, because it was unconventional, kinky, perverse and spectacularly exciting.

4. Her Simple Desire, Not Simple, But Fulfilled

She thought of the possibilities of hooking up with him. The uncomplicated fun, the fling after another short-lived fling. He would just disappear afterwards. She would not be tangled up in this; she would fuck, leave, and be okay with everything. She didn’t expect any emotional component to it, she was able to handle him fourteen years ago, and she knew that she could handle him just as well today.

She asked him out this time.  She remembered the first time they met, years ago.  He had asked her out. They hooked up right away, they had sex, they had more sex, and they met up in other states, and they fucked some more.  Sex was uncomplicated with him, he did not have any emotional attachment with her; nor she him.

It would be okay this time too. She told herself.

They kissed. Not the first date, the first date, was benign. In fact she already forgot the name of the wine bar, where they met up. She had no expectations. She was assessing the situation. He too was assessing the situation. He had not seen her in that light, the fuckable light. She had not seen him in that light either.

They caught up on their first re-date.  They went to a restaurant after. He ordered food for them. He was cautious, a little on guard, and he drank wine constantly, as if he needed it to calm his nerves. She found it interesting. They talked, caught up and he went into a conversation to describe how they first met. She couldn’t remember at all, but she did remember him talking about it.

She wanted to be kissed, was all.

He dropped her off and said goodbye. She remembered thinking. He did not kiss me. I had no chemistry with him. I wanted this, but what was this?

The next date, they went to a museum, and they saw something that they liked, it was not the artwork, it was the two of them. He picked her up, and he looked at her in those six-inch heels. He watched how she walked in them. He wanted to take them off, and have her legs wrapped around his neck, and he’d enter her that way, deep penetration, she’d lie there, looking at him, with her brown eyes, waiting, anticipating for his next move.  She saw him looking at her heels. The way a man who wanted to bed a woman would. She understood instinctually, that there was chemistry after all.  She wondered what it would be like, to wrap her legs around his neck, so that he could enter her. She also thought it might be nice if she could turn her back on him, so that he could enter from behind. She enjoyed being fucked from behind, the most. She parked that thought, as she caught him stealing a glance of her six-inch heels.

“Let me drive you back.” He offered. Instead of dropping her back at the BART, he offered to drive her back to her house.

“OK." She was surprised.

As they entered the parking garage, and into his car, he leaned over and kissed her, on her lips. She did not object, but she was not turned on in a way that she should either. He had never courted her before. It was all purely physical. The kiss, felt hurried, and forced, as if he was trying to test the water, to see if she resisted.

For her, it needed to be emotional, psychological and physiological. She needed constant emotional connection, it did not need to be lengthy emails, but she needed a man who could communicate, to instant message her, to say hello to her, to stay on her mind. She thought she had that person, until that person, went insane on her. She suspected that person was in the end, too upset that she couldn’t be his, his alone. He didn’t like sharing.  There was never a chance this could have happen with him. She thought. He never wanted me that way anyway. He wanted me for sex, for sex only.  If at all.

He drove quickly and as they entered into her city, he offered to take her to his boat, to check it out, since it’s docked right there.

She entered the gate and onto the boat.

He started to take off her clothes.

They kissed. They fell onto the seats. He took her to the back of the boat. He started to undress her. She kissed him back and begged not to have sex.

“Not tonight. No sex, OK?” she said, she was half naked. He removed her panties, and rubbed himself against her.

“OK, baby, whatever you say.” He rubbed his hardness against her warm puddle. She couldn’t help but thinking this was all wrong. I had not expected this.

“Please don’t. I don’t want to have sex, not yet, not now.”

“OK, that’s alright. We don’t have to have sex.” He responded. And with that, he entered her. Just as she expected, he was hard, strong, and deep. She let out a sigh. This was unexpected, but it felt right.  She was wet as a puddle. She was melting,  winter had thawed over and spring was arriving.

“I wish there were some ropes to tie me up with.” Without even thinking or processing her thoughts, she blurred it out. He got up to look for ropes; you’d think that in a boat, this would be an easy feat, but no such a thing. He saw a flicker in her eyes.

He knew that he had met his match.  He took mental notes. He wanted to know how far he might able to take this non-relationship out for a spin.

“Be mine, my sex-slave. I want to be your only outlet.” He demanded.

“Yes. I will be yours and yours only.”  She demurred.

That was nearly five months ago. And they’ve gone further than he had expected.

5. The Experimentation of Watersport

He pulled her up.

“Sit up baby.” He had pulled her up from the floor, they had been fucking on the floor, he had drunk a glass of wine before she showed up, and she tasted it in his mouth, the aroma of white wine.  Now she could taste it in the warm wetness that was drenching her face, her hair, and her body. She took it all in. She found it to be incredibly liberating. He had let it go in its entirety. She felt it on her tummy, dripping down, warm, aromatic, then dripping into her pussy, her eye liner had been smeared all over her face, she felt wet, aroused, liberated, and slightly dirty. The way any sex slave would and might feel if the master had demanded such game.

She liked it. He stuffed his cock in her mouth.  She could still taste the last drops of wetness. She liked how it tasted, she sucked on it, hungrily. She wanted his cock, the erect yet depleted cock, she sat on the floor, sucked on it, drenched in wetness, in his wetness. She smelled like him. She was his dirty little girl. She was his, very much his, in every possible way. She could do that all night, that being the sucking part. Sitting there, her crotch on the floor, now collecting his wetness, combined with her own wetness, it was intoxicatingly sweet.

This was exactly how every woman should be fucked, she thought to herself. Completely letting go, let the man to give everything he could give to her, she would take it all in, for that was the ultimate high, to belong to someone, to exchange every fluid that one could exchange, in her case, to receive; in his case, to give. It was a new high.

They move their action to the bed. He fucked her hard, she came. He came. They collapsed in each other’s arms. They rest. She was feeling sticky.

He said “let’s shower”.

6. The Shower

The shower stall was spacious. It had two showerheads. He always let her take the one inside. She liked hot hot water, he liked lukewarm water.  She stood under the hot steamy water, hands sticking out. He poured shampoo onto her palm. She scrubbed her hair, her sticky, damp hair. 

“Conditioner please.” She asked.  He squeezed the bottle; she received the creamy conditioner and rubbed it into her hair.

The water rinsed it all away.

“May I have some more?” She asked politely, as if she was asking him to fuck her some more.

“Sure”. He gave her some more, squeezing the bottle, and this time when she received it and she rubbed both hands together, before slathering it onto her hair. The water was rinsing the shampoo and conditioner all away, the foam on the tub slowly forming, creamy, like something else she felt earlier, when he came inside of her.  The room was quiet. She did not speak. He did not like to talk afterwards. She had nothing to say anyway. They did not exchange lengthy conversations. 

At that moment, when she watched the foam forming, he walked closer to her, away from his showerhead, into her steamy hot water territory.

"The water is too hot." He said.

"For you, maybe. Not me.” She said.

They didn’t talk all that much to each other. Their exchanges were often cloaked in a non-verbal communication way. 

She felt that he understood her subliminally. He adored her, effervescent but unsure of himself, in some ways; in other ways, obstinately and resolutely, he carved a small piece of his life, and allowed her in.

Their encounter was exciting always, but sometimes it glowed sadness. 

“You are shy sometimes, but you are not shy. That’s strange. Interesting.” He would remark. She couldn’t tell if his tone was dismissive or genuine. She never appeared to be shy with others; it was the vulnerability seeping through. She hated that part of her, the part she tried to hide by embracing brazenness with gusto.

But he liked that part of her. The shy part of her. He just never told her.

She felt that should the circumstance be different, they’d still be the way they were today.

Part of the intensity came from desperate longing, resulted from distance and circumstance; part of the passion, came from the despair lingered over unfilled desires.

He could never really have her. Nor could she him. Such dynamics ran at the core of their relationship.

He was holding a black soap bar, he started to wash her body, he washed her as if her body belonged to him, he washed it carefully, thoroughly, as if he was washing his car, his pet, his child, or himself, as if she was an extension of him. She let him. She watched him carefully, as if she was supervising him, as if she had doubts of his ability to do a thorough job. But she did want him to wash her clean. That was the way she remembered at the end of the movie, Secretary, except that she was not in a tub, and he was not outside of the tub, they instead stood in a shower enclosure together, spacious shower enclosure for this part of the city neighborhood, a shower enclosure perfect for the two of them, creamy earthy peachy walls against white décor, simple, sparse, bathroom, one she’d been in for a few times, one she used on occasion, when she stayed overnight, when she had to get ready in the morning. One she shared with him.

She remembered being asked to hold his cock while he did his business, the last time. Standing up, she held him, she found it erotic, completely natural. Then she asked if he could do something for her. She did the asking by sending him videos, specific kind of videos. She knew that he would not judge. She knew he’d go there with her, as he did with the rest of the games they played.  She initiated some suggestions, and mostly he just went there naturally. When he slapped her, hard, leaving marks on her butt cheeks, when she screamed because of the pain she had to endure, it was exactly the kind of euphoria she had been looking for all her life and was afraid of asking.  And he did, more so than she expected him to go, drenching wet, make up smeared, face and mouth filled with his wetness.

And she loved every moment of it.  She wanted more of this. Then she wanted to do certain things with him. He wanted to have anal sex with her.  She tried it once with him, and it was painful. But she’s been watching porn at his absence. She wanted that, that was the ultimate go to place, for him and for her. She wanted to do everything that he wanted, thought of, or not thought of. She belonged to him. She showed him, and he understood. He could take her anywhere he wanted her to go. She would be following.

“You are mine.” He said to her.

“I AM yours, and yours only.” She replied.  She knew, life would go on, circumstance would change. But one thing was for sure, she belonged to him, body and soul. He understood that, she knew he did. It was an understanding that required no words.

7. The Obligatory Valentine’s Day Chocolate Truffles

She asked him to button her dress. Her silky black dress. He obliged. He handed her a box of heart shaped chocolate truffles in a bow tie.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” He said. He almost looked nervous.

She was feeling bad.

“I have nothing for you.” She said.

“You’ve given me plenty.” He replied.

She kissed him, adoringly, gently. They were almost a normal couple. If he chose to be with her, if she chose to leave her family to be with him, they’d almost look cute together, normal, cute, and conventional. No one would need to know, what they liked behind closed doors.

8. A Reverse Date

He took her out for a date. A reverse date, a date that occurred after sex had taken place. He liked that more. They couldn’t go on a normal date, he got too agitated. They tried it once. They left the theatre 10 minutes into it.  When he needed her, he needed her right away. It was always that urgent. She knew that about him. He wanted her the way fish needed water. She knew that about him. It was how she felt when she was with him.   Simple logic applied in this relationship. Nothing was new. Everything had its order in this universe. They were each other’s release valves.

The Belgium restaurant he liked was closed on Mondays.

They ended up in a small Italian restaurant, the one that was open. The weather was getting chillier, and the streetlights were dimmed. It felt wintery all of sudden. The warmth from the shower had been replaced by the freezing air, it started to drizzle.

Conversation with him was not as easy as she thought it would be.

“I have nothing to say to you.” She declared.

He looked almost hurt, he raised his eyebrows and lowered his glasses, and was looking at her in a funny way, trying to interpret what she meant by that.

“Before I saw you, I had so much that I wanted to say to you. But then I am with you, I don’t know what to say, where to start.” She confessed.

The truth was, she had felt so much, yet nothing would come out right.  She longed for him and got anxious, she hit a wall and bounced back. He caught her when she was on her way up, to feel like herself again.

He tried to carry on the conversation by telling her a story.

She laughed. He made her at ease again. She knew that he cared about her. He may not say much. But he always wanted to make her happy. she could feel it in her gut.

“I could stand to see you more. Like once a week.” She said. This was true.

“After seeing you and after you leave, I get anxious, and then the feeling gradually tapers off, after I don’t see you for a while, I don’t get as anxious.” That was the essence of what she wanted to tell him.

“I am the opposite. It gradually builds up as time goes on. Until I can’t take it anymore.” He told her.

They were the most communicative couple in the world.

“Perhaps we should meet in the middle, like trying to see each other once a week.” He offered.

“That’s aspirational.” She looked out the window. She would like to believe him but she knew it would be difficult, more him than her. He had a chaotic and unpredictable schedule.  She suspected that there were days he could have seen her. But he did not ask her.  She wondered if their intensity over their interaction was based on the lack of predictability. Neither one of them wanted to really change it, it brought the two of them closer. The non-communication communication.  The lack of ability to convey how they truly feel prolonged the desire of wanting each other.

But the underlying theme remained constant. While they have not changed the dynamics, she instinctively knew that she was right about them being in sync this time.

She knew that he knew she belonged to him. They had nothing but time to write their story.

9. The Vision of Future

They retired to his apartment after dinner.

Walking up the marble stairs, he said, “It was nice. Our nooner. But we all have to work during the day. When we retire, we can fuck in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Then we take a nap and eat dinner at 4:30 PM.”  She responded.

The future, while unknown, he had planned to have her in it. He told her once, in that hotel that he had asked her to stay with him in, “We’d be fucking in our fifties.” She believed him the first time. She planned to have him in hers as well.

She read it somewhere - "At the end of day, we just wanted to have someone to hold our hands when we die. No one wanted to die alone."

She wanted to be that person, whose hand he was holding, when he was dying.

All is well in the land of my imaginary conflict

All is well in the land of my imaginary conflict.

More on that later.

Suffice to say - Valentine's Day is overrated. But lovely, because he was present in my life.

There are lots of demand from various people of me, my time, my life.

I shall keep on and keep on.

He's gone anyway. I like the aspect of him being gone. I like having him telling me that he was gone. I don't mind sharing. I just wanted honesty.

Honesty is not an easy endeavor for many, as it turned out.

I shall be fine. We all will be fine.

Here was what was really interesting, which for sure I'd use it in my materials.

"Did you sleep well? Did you dream? What did you dream about?" B asked.
"I dreamed about my book."
"You remembered? That means that you didn't sleep well." B responded.

I didn't tell him the truth. See I told you, honesty is not the easiest thing to achieve.

During his conference call, early in the morning, I drifted back to sleep.

I dreamed of him coming into the bedroom, and told me that he wanted to fuck again. We just fucked.  While I was surprised, I was happy to oblige.

He kissed me. He entered me. then he said, "I love you."

At that precise moment. I woke up. It was 7:15 AM.

 I have not quite figured out the significance of that dream.

Did I wake up because I was happy to hear him saying that? I would have imagined that subconsciously I would have stayed in that dream longer had it been the case.

That leaves the other assumption.

I was afraid of him falling in love with me.

He and I both chose words carefully.

"I love fucking you."
"I love being with you."

It's always an action followed by the magic or dreaded word "love".

I'm a romantic in heart. But I'm a die hard cynic on the surface.

I am convinced - soul mates don't exist, love, in the pure sense of love, does not exist.

Then part of the non-existent me, occasionally would come out to play. That's when my head gets all screwed up.

I told him that I don't mind sharing him with others. He thought that I meant men. I meant other women.

Once I let go of jealousy, possessiveness, I am light as a feather. I accept him for who he is.

That feeling is actually quite transcendent, if you ask me.

Try it sometimes. It will do you good. If you are a girl like me!

A letter - Delivery, not intended

Forgive me but I have a lot on my mind.

I am not a game player, never was, and never will be.

I know that you have blocked the content of Facebook so that I can't see. I know that you deleted my posting to your wall. I asked for the ground rule. You brushed it off. I don't know why but I suspect there are reasons behind it. I think you might be worried about me knowing where you are about, snoop around your friends or make too many comments. I think you might want to keep me as a secret, and that you might find my liaison with you a contradiction to your otherwise single swinging image, or you might be worried that those friends you talked about me with, would have any reaction to me commenting on your post. Or simply, you may be hiding other things you don't want me to know about.

Whatever the reason may be, I know that I can understand and I am an adult, I just need you to be forthcoming with me. I don't like to be treated like an infant and be brushed off.

There is a reason that I am attracted to you. I find that you are open, honest, and trustworthy. I'm sexually compatible with you.  You are or were attracted to me.  I am not going to dwell on it, but I do need to know that if we were to continue, whatever this is, we have an open dialogue and I'm a big girl, I can handle the truth.

If your interest in me is purely sexual, at your convenience, state so. I don't need an explanation, a made up reason. If you are seeing other people. State so. We will use protection. I like ground rules - i.e. weekend is for your son, your friends, your social stuff, I should take no part in it; week days we could see each other, for sex, and you would need to arrange it so that it suits your schedule; on occasion, you may want to "play" and invite me over to stay. These are ground rules I'm happy to explore them with you. I have a rational side of me. In my writing, my character may fall in love with her counterpart, in reality, I'm tough and I can stop feeling if I know it's not reciprocated. I am a realist in reality.

We were friends, platonically. I can go back there, and we can be each other's running partners, or someone we could call on to have dinner / drink with, or to go out. As I started out this exploration with you, I told you that I was very interested in establishing human connections, connecting with other people, friends. I didn't expect sex, or good sex for that matter.  Each friend / person satisfies a need in our lives, forcing someone to fit into one category that is not intended for that person, is useless.

I have been very accommodating, because sex has been great. I think it's easy to fall in love. Because that's the simple part. In my writing, you may detect that I was going there. But in reality, I can assure you that I would never put you or myself in awkward position.

I write this so that others could read and digest this and perhaps take a lesson here and there. I don't intend for you to read it. I had a writer who said that upon reading the Ethan and Olivia story, he felt that the characters would have a chance of making it. He does not understand why they won't. I replied by saying - because I write like it is a reality. I don't dream for a happy ending. Because it won't come.

In my writing, I don't see utopia either. I have found that whatever we think we want to have, when we have it, it's not what we want; or we never really get to have it. Who you are to me is who you present yourself to me. In a real relationship, we'd have more contact.  You never call. You never email. You disappear into thin air. You never introduce me to your friends. You talk about me to others and they say that I'm a "sweet deal". I know that your intention of me, is sexual. I wish that you just tell me that. Again, I can handle it. I like ground rules.

I turn off my romantic side, I can pursue friendship. One which demands nothing from you, not emotional attachment, not exclusivity. I am just as happy to arrange for a booty call as I would be spending a night with you. I'm OK with the concept of having you as a secret lover or be open about our relationship to other people. I also can be just a friend. A platonic friend. My passion is reserved for those who are worthy of my love and my attention. My lust is therefore reserved for those other situations. Situations which involve you, I suspect.  I would never confront you. I write. I write these thoughts down. So that if you stumble onto it, you know how I really feel.

I am a big girl. I cry (because I did, at some point, fall for you. I wanted to be with you at almost any cost), I then move on, I don't dwell on things. I find the silver lining. I continue down the path of seeking truth, romance, love, lust and in the end, trust. Trust which you couldn't render. Trust I gave you, which you had squandered carelessly.  I am therefore, sad, I've been crying. I think the saddest part of it, is somehow, against all advisories, I trusted you. Silly, that word of "trust", carry so much weight, and yet so easily be rendered obsolete. I sometimes wonder if you know the truth from lies, I wonder if you are a habitual liar, and can't keep your story straight. I wonder if I'm one of many women you bed. I don't care, but I don't like to be lied to. I much rather treat a man as a friend if I can't trust him as a lover. I can switch off my lust, and turn on my rational side. It is a switch that I am used to turn on and off. That has always been my strength. Perhaps to my peril, to my detriment.

I've found that perhaps the universal truth is, one does not change. One never changes. Dynamics does not change. I refer what I wrote about you nearly fourteen years ago. I suspect that you are a worse version than before, yet the naive, passionate, only-see-the-good-of-you me, thought that I was wrong. But perhaps as a hunter, back then, I was more in tune with the reality, and quicker to sniff out the good vs. bad. It is therefore a shock, for me to declare how important you are in my life, just merely a week ago, to discover everything is likely a mirage, built on quick sand, and I'm therefore sinking. I sink to the abyss. I cry on the way down. For I had harbored nothing but untainted affection for you. For I have never thought anything negative about you, accommodated you, accepted your changeable ways, and I did all this because I thought that I could trust you. Ah, the word "trust", the feeling of trust. Once gone, never to return again. I will resurface like phoenix, I promise you that.

I will always be cordial, affectionate, loving, and I will always be the person you prefer to see. There is no time for any of this. I cared about you once, I cared about you twice. I am fooled, both times. It's not your fault, you are who you are. It's my own fault. I trusted you. I should know better.

I shall wait, wait for you to stumble onto this, wait for your reaction or lack thereof, and I go from there. I'm ready to say goodbye. 

Unconventional Relationship - Olivia and Ethan - San Francisco Story # 10

Feb 1, 2012: As I'm continuing with my novel writing, I took a break and wrote something different.  In this piece, I was projecting, I imagined this world where a fragile woman who put on a strong exterior and braves the world in search for that perfect love, the perfect ending, but that ending shall not come for her, nor the love. Was having a discussion with someone. They asked why every piece seemed so sad. I suppose it was the world my characters lived in.  A trap of a sort. The sun would not shine where my characters lived. In their darkest moments, they sought refuge from each other. I would like to give them a happy ending. If real life could cooperate.


I. Sunrise

“Look, the sun is rising.” Olivia raised her arms and pointed forward while turning her head to Ethan. The beach was soft and sandy, and the bay was calm. One would never have guessed that it was January in Northern California. It was unseasonably warm for this time of the year.

Taking a short break from the jog along the beach trail, Olivia and Ethan were walking on the wet and seaweed-smelling beach, hand in hand.

The sun was rising just above the eastern island. The beach was deserted – it was just after 7 AM. Ethan was secretively enjoying this moment. He was wide-awake and feeling energized. He had never been to this side of the island. His sailboat was docked on the west end so this was a brand new experience, to see this calm beach, to be with Olivia, at last, in this town that he had frequented, because of his sailboat, and because of his prior relationship with another woman who lived here, but never with Olivia, the girl he had dated years and years ago.

Olivia smelled the mixture of sex, perfume and sweat. She was awake, sort of, or at least as awake as she could ever be at this ungodly hour. She was not a morning person, but runner’s high gave her the endorphins she needed to carry on a semi coherent conversation with Ethan. Plus, they had just had a quickie before the run, and sex, always got her into a good mood.

Her mascara was smeared all over, but she was oblivious to that. Olivia knew instinctively, regardless how their liaison might end, as in tomorrow, or down the road, or if it would not end at all, as in, their affair would last indefinitely; they’d have this sunrise to look back on. Regardless how terrible her memory had been, she would remember this.   How poetic then, to see sunrise with Ethan, when her prior liaisons and she only saw sunset.

Memories were often created in those rare, unexpected, spontaneous moments. Not something planned, or forced upon.  Memories required reflection, and Olivia reflected hard on this moment, for she knew it was one of those non-repeatable moments. Even if they saw sunrise again, it would not be the same. This was the first time. And you always remembered your first time.

She wondered if there was a deeper meaning to all of this. Sunrise was just as symbolic as sunset. One could imagine sunrise was the start of something grandeur, something hopefully, eternal, like her relationship with Ethan, whereas sunset could be interpreted as the inevitable ending of something, tragic or not. So could whatever Olivia and Ethan have, symbolized something more? Those were the private thoughts of Olivia, which she kept to herself.

II. Push and Pull

At that precise moment, Olivia instinctively wanted to hold Ethan’s hand. Olivia had always been a person who was a bit of touchy-feeling. She enjoyed intense hugs, kisses on the cheeks, the whole nine yards. She would prefer to exercise the French greeting customs but she was too shy to practice it with anyone.  She was therefore, content with holding Ethan’s hand.  Ethan was more reserved.  Raised in the Midwest by his Nordic parents, he was subdued, proper, and not that affectionate in public. Olivia fantasized about doing it in public, for instance, and as she was holding Ethan’s hand, she developed the sudden urge to guide Ethan to that cove just a few steps away, where few could spot them, there in the open, she wanted to go down on Ethan, even though they just had sex. However, she knew Ethan would not have wanted that.  So she kept this particular thought to herself also.

Ethan also fantasized about doing different things to Olivia, things that he couldn’t even put down on his emails to her. Things he would not say, but he’d just do. In most of his fantasies, he had imagined to keep Olivia, all to himself, and did whatever he wanted to do to her, whenever he wanted, but only within the confines of his bedroom.

Such was the push and pull of Olivia and Ethan’s relationship.  It showed, even in the handholding business. While Olivia wanted to continue holding Ethan’s hand, Ethan was trying to break free of the hold. He started to talk with his hands. By the virtual of gesturing, Ethan let go of the small hand that was holding his own, all the while leaving Olivia wonder if she overdid it, whatever this was: this walking-on-the-beach- while-holding hands-in-public-business.

It promised to be a warm and sunny day.

III. The Unconventional Relationship

When Olivia reluctantly agreed for Ethan to come and meet her up for a run, by the beach, on an early Sunday morning, she was not really thinking. She just wanted to see Ethan, and she loved to run. Seeing Ethan and running seemed like the perfect combination. She left out the fact that he would be coming to her house, on an early Sunday morning, where her husband Jason was away on a business trip, or the fact that it was way earlier than her normal wake up schedule. Olivia was a night owl, and Ethan was an early bird. They were polar opposite when it came to sleep schedule, but they were otherwise two peas in the same pod.

It was an unusual week. Olivia had wanted to spend an evening with Ethan, that did not happen because Ethan had his son that week, and when he was on child duty, he stayed at his son’s place, aka, not his own place. Olivia never really questioned the arrangement, whether Ethan slept in the same bed as the child’s mother, or what type of relationship Ethan had with the child’s mother. This was San Francisco, co-parenting was a popular method to raise children for those women over forty and “single”. She knew that Ethan was a father, he fathered a child with a woman whom he dated, but he was not intending to marry her, or anyone for that matter. Ethan would never get married, or thought that he’d be a father. So when the woman was pregnant, they reached an agreement of a sort where he would be present in the child’s life as the child’s father. And Ethan had become a good father.  He spent nights at the child’s house, and he supported the child financially, it was as if he went through a divorce with the child’s mother, yet, strangely enough, better than the outcome of most divorces, he and the child’s mother could live under the same roof, in a civil manner, and he could take care of the child, form a relationship with the mother, and still date others. Others, at the moment, as it turned out, was Olivia, a married woman with children of her own.

Such was the unconventional relationship Olivia and Ethan formed. A story that, under normal circumstance, would have been an outlier, would lead to terrible ending that hurt everyone involved.

But in this case, both Olivia and Ethan reached the same conclusion or illusion, depending on how you would look at it, that their relationship could possibly last, even grow over time, and that they would be happy, living in this customized life tailored for just the two of them.

IV. Ethan and Olivia

When she first extended her hand to Ethan, he said, “Wow, your hands are still cold. We have been running. You are still cold.”

“No, I actually feel alright, but my hands are often cold.” Olivia explained, while enjoying a moment where her hand was being held by Ethan, being warmed up as they spoke.

Minute before, they had been jogging on the paved beach trail.  Ethan wore a black fleece running shirt and jogger’s pants, also black, and suitably, he donned a black hat. He looked quite severe. Olivia thought to herself.  She secretively wished that he wore brighter colors more often, it would have been more festive, more European, and it would compliment his light but turning gray hair and his green eyes better than black, the non reflective non color.  

Ethan used to have blond hair, now in his mid 40s, his hair had become darker and was turning gray. He was about 5’10”, good looking and in shape. He could pass for being in his late 30s. Olivia thought to herself. He just needed to get his hair highlighted and keep his face clean shaven, maybe a bit more rigorous beauty routine that involved a periodic injection of Botox to get rid of his wrinkles around his eyes. He was otherwise the definition of a “pretty boy”. Olivia enjoyed his physique, and how well he looked.

Ironically, Olivia wore black also, but she was convinced she pulled off black better than Ethan did.  She’s 5’2”, petite, with medium length dark brown hair with golden highlights. Her jet black hair days were long over ever since she discovered a few gray and stray hair in the mirror.  She saw her hairdresser and demanded that she was to be made over. “No more grays please”. She pleaded. They turned her into an edgy looking Asian woman. Some friends and colleagues thought that she ought to work in downtown New York, edgy and pretty, where all edgy and pretty women belonged.

She was never edgy, but she considered herself pretty once. Her lighter hair with golden highlights suited her pale skin better, as it turned out. She looked softer, and more approachable. In fact, the reaction was immediate. People would approach her even if they didn’t know her. They seemed to want to talk to her and they smiled at her often. She realized for the first time, how you looked changed people’s perception, and therefore your self-image, in this case, the self-image was improved.

Olivia had large almond shaped brown eyes, arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a curvy body. Born to a northern Chinese father and a southern Chinese mother, her facial structure was distinctively northern and her body type was southern. In her native country of China, where she grew up, she was always considered pretty, but not because of her facial structure, but because of her pale, whiter than white skin tone. She had very light complexion and that was enough for her to be the subject of envy. But in United States, Olivia did not feel the same advantage. She was pale just like the rest of the white Americans. She wanted to be tanned, have olive skin like her daughter did, but she was not successful. She got sun burned. So in her late 30s, she learned to always put sunscreen on and wear hats when she’s outside. A mother of two, some of her friends felt that she behaved still like a girl, an unmarried girl who bore no children. She looked like a girl without children, or married, she laughed out loud, got excited over teen books, and she was always so animated. She took a great deal of pride in her exercise routine. She worked out daily. She hired a personal trainer; a young 24-year-old lesbian who flirted with her regularly while kicked her ass in sessions.

She had what many would say a perfect life  – a great job, an equally accomplished husband with Ivy league pedigree and a very Anglo-Saxon last name, two children, one boy and one girl, both were at self-sufficient ages, bicultural and bilingual. They owned homes in other countries. They were among top 1% household, though they did not live an extravagant lifestyle, they were well positioned to retire to a warm climate place with arts and theatre. Their children went to private schools. They had planned for them to attend east coast prep schools when they were older, as in Andover/Exeter.  They lived in a large Victorian house on this island, 20 minutes away from San Francisco.

But Olivia wanted more. She fantasized about a fabulous sex life that involved kinks. When Olivia met up with Ethan, she thought Ethan was the male version of herself. He was in tune with his feelings, but distant at the same time. He analyzed situations, and discussed sex in a clinical way that Olivia found refreshing. And underneath it all, he was wild and fantastic in bed, and he was into the same kind of kinks.

For her run with Ethan, Olivia picked out her outfit the night before. It was a black Tee from Africa and Lululemon jogging pants. She also dunned a Black cap from a store in UK. Underneath her unique T-shirt was the $100 sports bra she bought not long ago. She did not wear cheap clothing or accessories when it came to exercise. As Ethan told her once, certain things that you use often, like eyeglasses or briefcase, you should calculate the cost based on a per-wear bases, it’s worth investing in those things that you used often. Ethan had worn nice eyeglasses and he had a new hand made briefcase.

Such were the conversations being held between Olivia and Ethan. Mundane and trivial, but those were the conversations.  As lovers, you didn’t have to deal with the immediate realities.

Realities were for the rest of the world they lived in. With your family, your spouse, your children and your friends, you discussed about money, economic conditions, politics, utility bills, illness, weird growth under your arm, and the latest issues in your children’ development.

But as lovers, Olivia and Ethan’s interactions were often limited.

V. The Game of Words

“You are very pretty.” Olivia told Ethan as they were walking on the beach. 

“Are you sure that you are not gay?” She asked Ethan, this was their ongoing dialogue.

Ethan found her repetitive and borderline tiring.  She questioned his sexual preference every time they met. It was as if it was a game, or she had forgotten the last conversation.

“No, I’m pretty sure of it. And, YOU know it!” Ethan would gave her the same answer, as he always did.

It WAS a game of a sort for Olivia. Ethan denied being gay, and Olivia asked him anyway each time they met.

“I’ve got you figured out.” Ethan would tease Olivia. “I think you go around and tell everyone that I’m gay.”

“No, I do not.” Olivia would deny.

“Well, maybe once upon a time. But not now.” Olivia would then change her answer.

She was pleased somehow that Ethan continued to play this silly game with her. It was juvenile, yet she had no interest in stopping this game. It was how they interacted. They teased, they made out like two teenagers. They were in their own ways, reliving their youth, but this time the stake was much higher, there were more to lose, but they did not care.

VI. Over the Years

Ethan had fine and eclectic taste. Olivia always liked him because of it. He seemed almost feminine in some ways, in a way that other women might find curious, because he lived in San Francisco. He’s always been a bit too pretty, Olivia thought, and Olivia’s mom used to tell her that she should never go out with someone who’s prettier than her. But Olivia liked that about Ethan. She was always attracted to pretty men, though she always seemed to end up with men who were more masculine, significantly taller and less neat.

Olivia contemplated of contacting Ethan for a good three months before making that move. They were once upon a time, lovers. But that status quickly faded, and they became amiable but distant friends. Ethan dated a lot of women, Olivia dated a lot of men, neither one of them seemed cared about each others’ dating status, sometimes when relationship ends, it did not have to be all dramatic. It was a peaceful transformation between Olivia and Ethan. They took strides in moving on with their lives. They stayed in contact, loosely, mostly through emails, and when Facebook became the default communication venue, they found each other and became Facebook friends.

Over the years, they exchanged nonchalant emails. They kept each other posted of their mutual friends. They had been curious of each other’s lives in a way that most people who dated but stayed friends would. They did not dwell on the past; they focused on the present and future. But somehow, Olivia felt that the sexual energy never went away with Ethan. He never got enough of her when she called it quits, the last time. Olivia had gotten married, had children. Her physique changed, her mentality changed, and her life changed. For a while, she swore off relationship, friendship, in particular with men. That “while”, lasted ten good years.

VII. Memories, Recalled

Years and years ago, Olivia had just gotten married. She met a charismatic man at a party. He was interesting, educated, intelligent and highly successful. Olivia was drawn to him, and it would appear he her. They exchanged lengthy emails over the period of two weeks, and he shared his entire life with her. For a short, almost brief moment, Olivia thought that she had lost her head, and fallen in love with this man. He was approaching their developing friendship casually, but there was that chemistry, the elusive chemistry that overturned anything else logical or rational. They went out for dinner. At a date restaurant. It was the only time during those years Olivia felt that she was cheating. She did not tell her husband about this dinner, even though they never actually touched or kissed.

The meeting was proven to be a test to her own faith in marriage, and she couldn’t go there, wherever there was. This man apparently felt the same way. They did not advance. In the middle of the dinner, Olivia looked out of the window, and there was Ethan, walking with a guy, passing by the window, the window where Olivia was facing, oblivious of Olivia, sitting there with a man who was not her husband.

That was the last known memory of Ethan for Olivia. Though Ethan would recount their last encounter much differently.

“I came to your house for a party.” Ethan recalled when the last time they had dinner with his son.

“I don’t remember that.”  Olivia denied it vehemently.

“Do you usually have some sort of Christmas party?” Ethan was being patient. He found that to deal with Olivia, one must be patient. She was excitable, and she could be very stubborn.

“Yes I did.” Olivia admitted it.

“Well, I was there, for about an hour and half. I met your friends. But I didn’t stay long.”

“I met your husband, your children, both of them.”

“Were you by yourself then?” Olivia was getting interested.

“Yes. I didn’t know anyone who was there, and I didn’t stay long. It would have been weird. To be hanging out with the girlfriend from a decade ago and her family for too long.” Ethan explained, softly, as he always did.

Olivia wrinkled her nose. She tried not to frown, it would make her developing wrinkles quicker and she’d have to get on with her Botox appointment more often.  She was vain, like Ethan, that way.

She was a little taken aback by Ethan’s description of her, “a girlfriend”. She didn’t think of Ethan as her boyfriend then. She never did. He was a boy, a friend, but not a boyfriend.

But she didn’t correct Ethan. She had solidified her status, this time, as his girlfriend. She liked that status; it felt surprisingly natural, despite her marital status.

So it must have been when Ethan saw her last. A couple of years ago.

He further validated his statement that morning.

Olivia got a text from Ethan at 6 AM that morning. “I’m taking off now.” He said. She was surprised by how early it was, but strangely she was awake. She couldn’t sleep when she knew that she’d see Ethan soon. She wanted to be with him.

Ethan had arrived just after 6:30. The porch light was still on, because it was still dark outside, and he knew exactly where she lived. Even though technically it was the first known memory to Olivia that he’s been to this house. He gave her a small kiss. All smiles.

“Good morning sleepy head.” He greeted her politely.

“Come on in.” He stepped into this house, and took off his shoes. Somehow he knew that was her house rule. She wondered if this was how he came by the last time when they had a party, he coming in, taking off his shoes, wandering about in his old girlfriend’s house.

“Yes, I had definitely been in this house before.” Ethan said, as if it was more to himself than for Olivia to hear.

“Have you seen the remodeled master bathroom?” Olivia asked.

“No, I don’t think so.  It wasn’t done then.” Ethan answered. He was waiting.

“Come, let me show you.” Ethan did not have to wait long for the invitation.

“I’ve seen the upstairs, you know. The last time I was here.” Ethan told her.

Olivia looked back and gave Ethan a peculiar look, as she climbed the narrow but steep stairs first. She was again surprised by her lack of memory.

Ethan followed her to her bedroom. She showed him the marble tiled bathroom and he said, “That was nice.”

There he pinned her against the wall. She found her kissing him back, as if she knew this was going to happen, even though she never thought the feasibility of it. He was growing hard. She felt him.

“Just a quickie?” Ethan asked.

Olivia found herself leading Ethan to her bed. Ethan was then on top of her, clothes were off and they were intertwined. It felt natural. Having Ethan inside of her, it was what was needed, for both of them. Life was complete with each other. She needed Ethan like flower needing the sun. She needed his presence in her life, to feel alive, and more surprising than anything else, she needed Ethan to feel the calmness. He was her very own brand of Zoloft and Lamictal, which she had been prescribed to by her shrink. With Ethan’s presence, she felt loved, loving and collected. Those early days of anxiety, caused by her lack of knowledge of whether he would become a constant force or not, gone.

She knew he needed her just as much as she needed him. They were each other’s oxygen.

VIII. First Contact

Olivia remembered how she made that decision to reach out to Ethan. She was reaching back out to many people whom she had become distant with over the years. Ethan was the last on her list, for exactly what reason that it took that long for her to communicate to him, she couldn’t tell. But she knew that he was the least likely candidate to be reacquainted with.

Then one day she saw Ethan posted something on Facebook, it would appear that he was going to a place near where she was. In a moment of non-thinking, Olivia responded by saying that she was nearby. Ethan corrected her politely and let she and everyone who were his “friends” know that he was not where she thought he was. He was in fact far away from it. He explained to his other “friends”, that Olivia was in a different place. As Olivia had little interaction with Ethan over the years, she was surprised that he called her name out in his reply note. It stirred up something. It felt intimate. Few of her friends would call her by her full name. They would always call her Oli. But Ethan always called her Olivia, if he did not call her Baby, or Sweetie.

It was strange to hear from Ethan to call her by her full name. Beneath the politeness, there was that implied intimacy, and sexual undercurrent. Olivia thought that she was making all of this up in her head. But she took notes. She took a mental note to get back to Ethan one of those days, via private messaging on Facebook.

She did just that. A few weeks later. He replied immediately. The dance of emailing went back and forth for a while, until Olivia persistence paid off.

The rest, as they would say, was history.

Olivia never thought that far ahead, but four months later; she’s definitively in a relationship with Ethan, one that she had not thought through on how to move forward with. Whatever it was, she and Ethan both knew that they wanted to continue.  It would be inconceivable to find someone who was into the same kind of kinks, shared that much in common and demanded that little of each other.

IX. Unconventional Relationship, Defined

For Ethan, Olivia was the perfect woman. She was low maintenance. She wrote to him consistently, she shared her thoughts with him. She wanted him. She accommodated him. She never threw a tantrum; she very rarely got upset with him, and if she did, she did not let Ethan know. She was always, patiently waiting for him to return to her. She would not demand a marriage, which Ethan would never be able to provide; she would not even demand a traditional relationship, which Ethan could not afford. 

For Olivia, Ethan augmented her life as well. She had finally the sexual freedom that she was looking for throughout her life.  She felt cared for again.

They had toyed around a proper terminology to define themselves. A couple of weeks ago, while in bed, she asked him, "What are you to me?" He said, "I am your boyfriend." "I shall be your girlfriend then". Olivia answered back. So it was settled.  She knew that she was as close as a girlfriend would ever be to Ethan. And that was enough.

They saw each other every few weeks. He had a life outside of hers. She his.

It would be a story with no ending. Though each of them secretively wished that they would see each other more, they knew that whatever this was, it would take time to develop. They were OK with that ambiguity.

X. The Waiting Game

On the way back from the run, they lingered over a real estate office, where a number of houses were listed. Ethan told Olivia that this town reminded him of his home in the Midwest. This island was known as Iowa on the Bay. It was filled with Victorian houses and a restored art deco theatre. Ethan stopped at the real estate office's window, looking in. There was a small craftsman house. The advertisement of the house just said “Cute”. Ethan read it out loud. “Cute.” He wondered, for that split second, what it would be like to live in that house, with Olivia, till the end of the day.

Then, he tucked the thought away. He had to get back to the city to watch his son.

Olivia thought of the same thing, she thought how it would have been to live with the man she was so madly in lust with. She might be in love with.

She imagined how it would be like to wake him up with her mouth. She loved having him in her mouth. It was never the same with anyone else. She had never wanted another the same way she did with Ethan. She felt a magnetic pull, a primal force when she was with Ethan, the body ached for what the body ached. She had a vision of her being tied, bond to the bedpost, she was being ravaged, as Ethan forcefully entered her while he covered her mouth as she was about to scream for the pain that she could no longer endure. Then her vision changed, she had the other vision of Ethan caressing her, tenderly rocking her back and forth, while she sat on him, with her lips pressed hard on his, her soft hair draping over his face, and he dreamingly called her “Oh Sweetie”. Those were contrasting images of their sexual dynamics. Both had happened before, and likely to occur again.  Both were normal for them, and both were invigoratingly natural. These memories were toxic and completely addictive.

Ethan put his lips on her, kissing her gently and briefly. It was time to say good-bye.

“When can I see you again?” Olivia asked.

“As soon as I’m back.” Ethan answered in earnest.

“Will you write to me when you are on the road?” Olivia asked again.

“Of course I would.” Ethan replied.

"There is my car." Ethan walked towards it. Olivia stayed behind, she looked on, as he smiled, this time, a bit forced. She knew his mind was already onto another thing, another item on his busy Sunday agenda, one which did not include her.

"I have to go." Ethan said. Goodbyes were always like that. Olivia felt a tuck, a rush of acute physical pain, like part of her was ripped open, the part that pumped oxygen in and out, her heart. She felt physically ill. She needed to lie down all of sudden.

"Have a good day." Olivia smiled back. That was always the default answer for Olivia. She would never reveal her true self. The stake was too high, and that was really not the point. Ethan wanted to see that happy Olivia, the one who joked, laughed and was always lighthearted. Not this emotional being, who got hurt just as easily as the next woman. Olivia vowed never to be that woman, the weaker sex, the one who demanded men's attention and affection.

Olivia also knew better. Ethan would not write when he's on the road, or call. It would probably be another two weeks before Ethan resurfaced again. He had a company to run, child to care for, and trips to make.  He took break from Olivia and disappeared into thin air, as if he never existed. Such was their other dynamics.  One that involved non-communication.

It would not be the first nor the last time she’d not hear from him in between. She told herself that she was OK with it. This trip would not be an exception.

She would wait, patiently, for that next run, for that next memory to be created.

She would wait, for they had nothing, but time.