28 Dec 2017
The Fine Line
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5 minute read
The weight of the air suffocated him.
His chest rising and falling, the gasping in his ears and drops of sweat running from his face were all physical manifestations of a reality that his mind reached for in the dim room that seemed a million miles from his here and now.
A room within the basement of his apartment block for residents, in a corner blue gym mats stacked neatly offering a contrast with the green floor of this room. He’d locked the door from the inside, stripping to his shorts and hitting a countdown on his phone that he had thrown to one side before he began.
The feel of his bare feet on the floor felt good. He’d always liked being grounded. Despite everything spinning in his life, these were the constants that always helped and he hoped for something to slow things down now.
Pose, lunge, reach, stretch, strain … the physical movements of his body felt good after so much time incapacitated by what had occurred the night before. He had lay on the bed, uncovered enjoying the feel of her scent on his body, on the sheets, on the pillow she had lay on.
Growing cold as the morning went on passing from consciousness to sleep and back again to be awoken to a reality he hadn’t wanted.
His body warmed, his mind became hushed and calmed by this practice that he had repeated over and over.
His body providing the resistance, the sound of his own efforts shut off from the world in this room.
As he paused for breath flashes appeared on the bare walls.
Her presence within a room and how she drew attention despite not wanting any.
How effortless she held herself, how she walked away from him, her jeans perfectly holding her body and her back visible in the vest she’d worn.
Her hair and how it fell as she threw her head back and brought her gaze back to his.
“I don’t want this” he’d said.
“I can’t carry this weight” he’d said.
“Fuck it” he’d said.
An image of him slamming her against the door of his apartments and kissing her, their tongues and lips discovering each other as their hands raced along the lines of their bodies.
An image of her hands on his belt, feverishly trying to unbuckle and unbutton him as they walked backwards into the dimly lit room.
An image of her falling back on the bed, laughing as he reached to kiss her and release her from her bra.
An image of him above her, easing himself inside her. The look on her face, biting on her lip, her hands on his forearms urging him and her eyes …. lust ? wanton desire ? fear ?
As he threw his body attempting to flush his mind he uttered ‘fuck it’ over and over. The urge to strike out to purge his mind of the images and feelings racing through, to switch the mental pain for the physical consumed him …. this weight … ‘don’t talk, don’t feel, don’t touch’, his elbow buried itself into the gym matts and it felt good to strike something, to let the physical contact focus his thoughts on something outside. Standing now his leg rose and his heel slammed into the mats. The sounds echoed around this room now, over and over …..
The sound of her now …
Her moaning as he kissed her neck and grinded himself deep within her body.
“I want you, I want this” she’d said holding his head and looking deep within him.
Without blinking they’d stared locked like this as he moved sensually in and out of her body. The sound of her laughter as her hands squeezed his bum, pulling and holding him inside her.
Her gasping as he lay on her, her groaning as he’d nibbled on her ear and pulsed himself against her deepest skin.
Her head thrashing on the pillow as his tempo increased, rotating his hips and feeding her the touches she desired.
The feeling of the floor now, his fingers spread as he pressed and lifted himself, the sweat rolling from his body to the floor. How many ? it didn’t matter, he just didn’t want to feel anything else. His body straining, his muscles moving in time with his breath now. He felt it begin to flow and it became easier, slowed in motion as if in fluid.
She had dragged her nails down his back as her body flushed with pleasure covered him within, warm, pulsing fluid surrounding him, flooding down his shaft as she sat above him. His hips still pumping hard into her, he never stopped as they both climaxed. Her body felt on fire around him, her eyes closed and her head thrown back offering all of her to him and this moment they shared.
He lay now, gasping for breath, body glistening with sweat on this floor, in the basement that was dimly lit by shafts of natural light from small windows at one end of the room. She’d cuddled into his warm body the night before. It had felt familiar and in many ways welcome but those words she’d said … he never wanted to hear another person say them to him. It had felt like a blade along his arm and she’d felt his body react. Dressing, tears and apologies and then silence.
The body speaks when there are no words left and she’d felt every syllable.
There is a fine line between fun, play, intimacy and the ability to connect.
Like taking your seat on a flight and leaving before the plane leaves the runway, physically being with another is easy - everyone is doing it. Being fearless to feel, to engage intimately with another, to show ones true self to a lover standing fearless in the face of that storm and welcoming it with open arms ripping ones flesh in offering to the primal.
That line is a tricky one to cross. There is no going back, there is no boatman across that river. His body and mind can't continue to escape from the dark side of those adventures. Alone, he closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling. Grounded by what he knew would always be.