Lovers

She always knows exactly when the cab driver is going to turn left after the intersection. Her watch shows the same time, like any other evenings when she comes to his place. The last nine months. The cab driver stops exactly in front of the address she indicates. She always rings the bell of the building at around 20:00, sometimes 20:05, sometimes 20:10. The weather could be good or bad, rainy or blue sky, she always arrives at his place around that time. She never needs to ring the bell when she reaches the 3rd floor. He always leaves the door open. The TV is most of the time turned on when she enters the apartment. Most of the time he is there, waiting for her. He has his usual smile. He always greets her in a joyful way.

Winter has arrived the last two weeks, yet, his skin still gets this color of honey. He only lives in this city in the North a few days a week. The rest of the time, he is living in the South where the sun never stops shining. He must have spent his weekends under the sun or out there by the beach, or somewhere near the coast. He told her that he has recently bought a small fisherman boat. That would explain his all-year round tanned golden skin.

After all those months, she is still surprised she finds him each time that gorgeous. She is almost scared to become that superficial because she always finds him too handsome and that would be the only reason making her come to his place or liking him. His beauty, she takes it as a ray of sun, a snowflake, or even sometimes her own breathe. His features, his skin, his eyes. Once beautiful, always beautiful. That is what people say. A face that has lived the pleasure, the dreams and the impetuosity. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever been hurt or vulnerable?” It is hard to tell. He is standing there, right across the kitchen, joking about his talent of cooking a unique tomato sauce. He is smiling to her. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever hurt someone with this smile?” It is hard to tell. Maybe at some point, in his past, there have been some left scars for him and for others.

The questions she asks are not relevant or important. Every time they enjoy each other until exhaustion. Spontaneous physical passion. Kissing him is like licking a thousand flavor of ice cream all in one, trying to detect which flavor is the best. Each kiss, sweet and deep with his soft tongue, tastes like a small piece of roasted peach, having its own soul. It is like he knows that the only way to reach her is to kiss her.

The windows with no curtain, the lights from inside the apart show the shadows of them slowly taking off their clothes, guessing the steady desire of making love. They hold each other close, and never stop kissing. Their hands looking for their naked skin under the clothes, the skin that vibrates with each caress. There is a raging fire spreading through the room but also a controlled ardor to prolong the moment. They know they cannot leave until they finish consuming the heat inside them. Fire has sealed off all windows, leaving them only one thing to do: make love madly. This magical craziness of desiring someone so strong, the need of flesh so savage and so primitive. At least that is what she feels each time. There is always a moment when she loses consciousness of time and space, where am I? Am I on earth? Or in heaven? But there is always also a moment when she stops thinking and only focusing on her five senses, allowing her to fully feel each movement of his hips when he is inside her.

She starts to call him “the best” lately. He has become the best lover she has ever had. Lately, he puts on Bach when they make love. When she comes, several times each time they are together, she remembers exactly with which piece of Bach, which melodies, which instruments. Each time it is divine. Having an orgasm with him, with Bach music in the background, is self-redemption. That is what she knows and feels. When he is inside her, she feels like she has never made love before. She feels new and fresh. When he comes, his pleasure is intense. When they finish, it is not finished. The abnormal magical pleasures they feed each other turn other pleasures into some normal, insignificant ones. The red wine, the dish of pasta with his unique tomato sauce, a soccer game shown on television or a movie he chose but never gets to watch until the end.

Yet, they are different types, she guesses. He seems full of energy and ambition. Young, he would surely see the world as a scented fruit waiting to be eaten, as the world certainly has been opened up to him and his beauty easily. She is a nerd and, for her, life is something rational, like a cake with layers of cream, organized and sweet but predictable. She has learned with him not to ask lots of questions or to think too much. She always knows that most of men do not like women who think and ask too much questions. There is no frustration to not asking questions. On the contrary, it is a way to preserve mystery after having shared that fire of physical passion. She believes their differences increase their mutual attraction. They have developed a certain intimacy, not the physical one only, but also some closeness. It is quite unavoidable once they share a regular physical intimacy. But not asking too many questions keep them from falling in love. Because falling in love is letting go and they never really let go. The reasons behind it are multiple. One of them is that it is not easy to fall in love. It demands availability, willingness and there are not so many ways to fall in love but there are many ways to avoid it. But there might be one drop or two of loves or affection in there, when they are together, enough to feed, let’s say a bird or a plant. Who knows? And this does not mean that they do not care for each other. She cares about him and she believes he knows that without her formulating it. Should he ever need her if his close ones are not right beside him, he could always call her. After all those months, he might know that already.

It would be unfair to say it is just lust between them. To enjoy the sex with someone that much and the way they do, there must be more than just lust. The way she kisses him, it is like to show him how important he is in the world. The way she receives him inside her, it is like to acknowledge that he is creative and has such an imaginative mind. Look at the buildings he built, making love to him is like embracing those creations. You cannot make love with that kind of passion unless you soak up the other person’s thoughts, mind and dreams at the same time. Lying there on his bed, like a lizard basking in the sun, she can feel life in all the shades and tones. Each story of each person, once being someone’s lover is a fairytale, a variation of mental and physical unique experience. Self-discovery, experimental kissing, self-examination, orgasmic introspection; that is what it is, every single week, when they get a chance to see each other. There will be no boredom, there will be no routine as they have to re-invent themselves each time. Even the red wine tastes differently each time. The pasta sauce with another touch each time. The intensity of the kisses varies. The songs sung by their bodies sound differently each time. Without being sentimental, and even being in the distance, the differences are felt very profoundly.

The sublimation of the sexual desires is part of the beauty and the delight of the story, allowing them to go apart, living their lives separately after that. There is no sorrow but only longing until the next time they meet, that is totally salutary for them and the hopes that their desires will not expire too soon.

Sex is sex and love is not just love

Yesterday I talked about sex. Talking about sex is quite fun. Let’s do it again today. (no, still not kidding)

Sex is…

A very very important thing – as equally important as love – in our lives.

(okay I can hear some protests.)

But then like I just said. Sex is sex. Important. No more no less than some others things in our lives. Like many other things, it is good to have. It is even fabulous to have. Like many other things, it is fine not to have too.

(okay some more protests on the way.)

Talking about sex is much more difficult than talking about love. Because sex is sex. Simple. Sex is instinct, natural, even animal. It is there inside of us, the needs. In a natural way. The thought of sex or the non-thought of sex is the same. Like eating, like drinking, you do it, you have it. As a basic need and instinct. No need to hide. No need to get rid of. Rarely the thought of it is useful. Just like we don’t THINK about eating unless we start to feel hungry, we don’t THINK about drinking unless we are thirsty. Sex is that.

And because of that, sex is as important as love but never as powerful as love.

(now I am back to love. Can’t help myself.)

Love is powerful because it is both a construction of the mind and at the same time something that we cannot control. The combination of something which could be totally a product of our mind and also something irresistible coming directly from our heart, amplified by our senses. Love is both, this crazy feeling yet totally possible to explain with rational thoughts (that is when we say: I love him because of this, because of that). Sex does not have that power. Sex blows our mind in that moment, is exquisite in the moment, but the effect is immediate  and primary, and the after-effect does not last long. While love is exquisite for a long while, we can be happy for a long moment, feel great and embrace the world with confidence for a long moment with love. Love makes us feel good physically and intellectually. Love makes us miserable when we lose it, when we don’t have it. We are all looking for love, or some kind of love in our lives. To a certain extent. Rarely we feel deeply miserable having no sex. Rarely we need to chase for sex (yes, maybe for some people but not for the majority).

That is why sex is never as powerful as love. And that is also why sex with love, sex with the person with whom we are in love is indeniably the best. Because it is the greatest combination of everything. Feelings, senses. Everything has its place and a wonderful one.

That is why any mental construction combined with sex could either make it worse and great. That is why “thinking” during sex could be a disaster. How many of us (especially women) think during sex and suddenly don’t feel like going on with it? Just the start of a thought about the partner (he is this, that, I don’t fully like him anymore) during the act could stop right away all desires and the heat of the moment.

That is why memories of sex with the loved one are always the best. Languishing in memories, daydreaming about the night before, feeling the sex inside of us, being one with the loved person, thinking about his/her body, his/her skin, his/her caress, his/her kiss. Best of the best. Every sight, every feeling, the scenery, everything comes back. In its unique beauty. Especially when we are in love.

Sex is sex. And love is not just love. Because it is always the last thing we keep very preciously in our mind. In order to fully enjoy every minute of our deep animal instincts: sex.

Let’s talk about sex

“In the world we live in, what we know and what we don’t know are like Siamese twins, inseparable, existing in a state of confusion.” (Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

I always talk about love. Today let’s change. Let’s talk about sex. Rough sex. Just kidding. No, no kidding.

A few days ago, I went for lunch at a sushi place, where sushi was displayed on a rail like a train rail, you pick what you like to eat. I was sitting there, waiting for my lemongrass tea and was about to choose my first sushi, when suddenly a young man, sitting next to me started to say hello. I said hello back. He was less than thirty years old with a student style look. I could see that he wanted to start a conversation and not just stop at a hello. It was okay with me to chat a bit. Small talk first for ten minutes. Usual stuff. He looked trustworthy and kind. Like I said, like a student. He could be my student. Then suddenly he asked: “Could I tell you something quite delicate? I just feel the need to tell this to someone I don’t know.” I was like, okay, shoot! “What do you think about sadomasochistic practices?” I looked at him. Quite surprised. “Where are you going from now, young man” I asked myself. I answered: “Never thought about that until today. You bring up the subject so you want to tell me something. Please continue”. As a criminologist with a very brief education of profiling, I was interested to hear more. Of course. Sociologically speaking, it could be an interesting observation. Also because he was kind of sincere and he did not look like he wanted from me anything else than just an ear to listen to him. So the whole story was about he could only get excited with SM practices. Normal sex never turned him on. And he knew that since the age of 24. He had a girlfriend who did not know anything about it. And he could never reveal that to her. He did not suffer about it. Just some guilt he could feel sometimes when he had to satisfy his needs somewhere else.

He said he wanted to tell me his secret because we would never see each other again, and behind my serious appearance with eyeglasses and all, he somehow thought that I could have some dark secrets too.  The conversation was not about me so I did not answer him. We said goodbye and I wished him a great day and always a good sex life. It happened to me a few times already that people confide to me some secrets. Probably because I look really serious.

I thought about that encounter for a few days. It is always strange for me that some people totally need to live in a kind of fantasy to spice up their sex lives. I am so far from that. I have no idea of how that could feel. But I just think even though when one thinks he is free while putting a mask, wearing leather clothes, whipping his partner, how free is he really in that moment? His freedom of wanting to live that fantasy, being another person, playing another role, going through with his fantasies, is all that really liberating? Of course, the excitement is real, is fabulous, I can understand and concur. But is he still kept prisoner in his own fantasy and sex scenarios? New scenarios need to be invented each time, and finally it would be all about the scenarios, the fantasies, the accessories and not about the partner, anymore.

I don’t really know. I just ask questions and think about it. I don’t have any judgments, whatsoever. I don’t know which sensation one could have before, during and after a SM session. Totally an unknown world for me.

But it leads me now to share a small story about fantasies. I once had an affair with a man who was all about fantasies and scenarios. It was a very short affair as we spent more time arguing about me not having any fantasy or desires for fantasies and about him who was too much into it. I remember I commuted sometimes to see him, after a long day of work and he asked me to come to his place, dressing like a nurse. I remember that time, I texted him and said: “No, no way! I come back from 10 hours of work, do you think I would go to a shop now and buy a nurse dress??!!”  I remember I cancelled that date. Another time was about “you let the door open in the night, I will come, you don’t know when and I will be like a stranger”. I was like “come on, drop it, I will know that it was you and really it does nothing to me”.  Yes, it was a short affair.

And yes, maybe because I am a scientist with a rational brain. I am never turned on with scenarios. Wearing no clothes but only sexy lingerie under your coat. Going to a bar. Meeting your partner/husband/boyfriend and pretending not to know him, then hitting on him like a stranger. No, not for me. My only explanation for that is maybe because I have a poor imagination and I am a down-to-earth scientist.

But to end this long post, do you know what really turns me on?

His eyes turn me on. The expression in his eyes when he looks at me. The way he talks to people in front of me. The way he carries humanity in him. That turns me on. So badly. His mails turn me on. His songs turn me on. Our talks about movies, love, life turn me on. The way he laughs, the way he talks, the way he feels free, his witty spirit. Yes, all of that.

My fantasy, yes, it has a name. I just found it. My fantasy is called “HIM”.