nearly lost it
There was one moment when I almost lost it. In some seedy motel. The day before Christmas. Years ago, early in college. I still don’t have any idea what came over me. Lust, obviously. But driven by what? How could anyone be driven to such drastic measures during the holidays? I almost lost it. Almost being the operative word. Some stranger in the dark whose face I can no longer recall. There are only scant traces of his body. Love would have made it easier to recall. But instead, I listened to my body, how it needed the pressure of someone else’s hands, the rough handling, the mercurial nature of the mind upon the set-up of intimacy. Was it intimacy? No. I said no. I was able to say no but only after the inconsistencies of foreplay. I could not give myself to a nameless, faceless man. I could not forgive myself if I did. I hadn’t planned on remorse. Nor guilt. Nor a disease. I would not have been proud of the arrangement – cheap motel, cheap bed sheets, the day before Christmas, a scattering of kisses on the neck, the nape, the nipples. No, not on the lips. Reserved for someone else. Someone better. Someone worth my own bedroom. Someone worth remembering, because that is how it all ends in the evening – a memory of the day, an examination of the hours, the vague trickle of the seconds, and the sudden flicker of hope for a tomorrow with real love. With someone where the future meant knowing what life would not let you have.