Four years seem like a long time…

I’ve been doing things lately. Different things. Some of them exciting or intense, like going out into the mountains in bad weather or starting an affair with a married woman in spite of knowing better; but also more mundane things like catching up on paperwork, reading books and blogs, as well as writing back to old friends.

I had decided to only have friendships with married women because of all the inherent complications that usually ensue if you go further. Sarah has been married for nine years and we met four years ago in work related activities. Hers husband is a jerk and I am in all probability an even bigger jerk, it made sense. We knew something was happening back then but nothing happened in the end since we were very much aware of the inappropriateness of it all. We were both also workaholics that took pride in sleep deprivation and skipping meals. It is also true that back then I was madly in love with Helena and was preparing the ill fated expedition to Guyana, which of course made me solidly faithful to her. Sarah is romantic in an intense and almost existential way, explaining attitudes and actions through what she feels to be love; which is why she found my perceived renouncement to job, predictable income and prestige to go after Helena to be such an admirable action.  I no longer believe in love as a driving force in my life.

Anyhow, while coming out of The Blueberries cafe last week we ran into each other. A coffee appointment was made for a day later. She’s working independently now. A week later I asked her to skip her morning obligations and go moto-riding with me to the countryside. She accepted last minute and we had a good time together. We then rode very fast to get back into the city for her to make it in time to a lunch appointment. She liked that. She texted a week later and asked what I was doing and I answered, “Waiting for you to come over.”  I gave her my address. She came by and I answered the door in a T-shirt and white judo-gi pants.  She understood we weren’t going out and we both stood there looking at each other for a long minute. I pushed her against the wall and kissed her. That’s how that got started. All along I knew it would be trouble but I feel no remorse, four years of wanting someone is a long time. She’s a very fragile woman, strong and delicate; I can feel the weight of her emotions surrounding me when we make love, I can feel them when she tightly closes her arms around my back, as if she was afraid of being swept away by them.

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Clemence Smiled.

The dramatics of final farewells no longer hold uncertainty.  What should not be said is left unsaid, what needs to be done is done, actions linger more than words and awkwardness is avoided.  The feeling is not pleasant but there is a sense of liberation as well as comfort when I get back from the airport, turn the key,  go in, put some music on, and sit on the sofa; satisfied  that my apartment is once again my own.

This time there was something different, and it had to do with conversations I had with Clemence.  In a sense, they were not conversations; it was one long conversation with different chapters and acts interrupted by walks, eating, sleeping, sex, motorcycle rides and movie watching but always returning to itself and continuing. Sometimes with better insight, sometimes with  exasperation.

Her words have stayed. I found them when I came back and felt the weight of unanswered questions.   We knew we would not have much time together.  We knew we had to drive everything hard into the ground and burn it all up. Crash it. Break it.  So that is what we did.

Clemence was different. I am still in touch with Barbora, as well as with Ilse, even if it is  in an odd “so, are you still alive?” sort of way, and of course with Helena we have a promise that will be kept.  With Clemence no postcards will be sent, no Facebook searches or invites to be carried out, no polite happy birthdays needed or expected. She is gone.

She was not fast, nor slow; her mind moved like that of older women I’ve known, with the unavoidable weight of unadorned certainty.  When she made a comment she did not expect approval or dissent, she expected an answer on which to build and move forward.   Sometimes it got too intense, so we would have sex to shut each other up and stop having to think. it was good sex.

She smoked.  She did so calmly or nervously, depending on her mood, always apologetically like most young smokers do now; not having known a time when smoking was not frowned upon.   Clemence, smoking in bed, said to me, “you have sex to avoid forming an emotional bond with women, you treat your body and ours as objects”.

I let her smoke in bed because I can remember how good it felt, and because it was like if we were a couple in an old movie.  I let her inhale and then said, “yes, I treat bodies as objects, however precious, that’s what they are, but apart from being afraid of emotional bonding I like sex because it feels good”.   “You’re a sex addict”. “Do you think so?”. “I am sure”.

The words linger and the question of the part sex plays in my life remains.  I do not agree with Clemence.  I do not use sex to avoid emotional bonds with women, if I did that, I wouldn’t write or think about them. I like women. I enjoy being with them and getting to know them, and after having sex I discover great things.  I learn about their lives and past, their families and past loves, their heartbreaks and of their courage and victories.   I admire women.  Having sex with them is the one true way I have found to express this to them.

Have I lied, cajoled, tricked and gone out of my way to get a woman into bed? Yes, or course. Unless one is in love, and unless that love is reciprocated, I know of no other way to go do it.   Do I regret this? No.  Has it been consensual? Yes. Has it been the result of responsible and informed mutual consent with prior agreement of stipulated limitations and expectations in a rational adult way? No.   Am I an emotionally immature selfish asshole unwilling to compromise beyond my limited capacity for empathy and sharing? Probably, but I try to be self conscious of this and not let it get out of hand.

I told Clemence that I had a blog.  This blog. The Aradic Sismic.  That the header had a painting of a woman that was smoking.  “Ah. It is destiny maybe then? Destiny knew we would meet. That is nice. What do you write about on this blog?”   “Thoughts and pieces of my life I don’t want to forget”.

I told her that it had surprised me to find the amount of bloggers who were writers in different stages of development, all learning and writing, developing what they call “their craft”.   I told her of a blogger called Matt Williams who wrote interesting stuff and had commented once that I could write about the things that have happened in my life, and how, some days ago I commented on a post of his declaring that since I was not a writer myself my opinion should be taken as that of a layman, but that from that day on the idea of learning to write in a more methodical manner had began to grow in me.

“So you want to become a writer?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very hard to be a good one.”

“I don’t think I really want to be a good one, I suspect that takes talent I don’t have, I just want to be a real one, whatever that means”.

“Then you will need to make sacrifices and commitments, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you may need a strong woman too.”

“I like strong women.”

“In English?”

“Probably in Spanish, I don’t trust my English to do what I want.”

“I wish you luck. If I ever see a book with your name as author, I will buy it, I promise”.

“Ok.”, I smiled.  Clemence can barely speak Spanish.

“Let’s watch a movie”.

“Which one?”

“Hanna. I like her. She’s brave.”

“I like you. You’re brave.”

She smiled.

Clemence. Belmondo. Bronson.

Clemence is French. When saying her name, the second “e” is meant to sound like an “a”.  I enjoy spending time with her.  During the weekend we watched an old Jean Paul Belmondo movie.   Belmondo is a tough guy, but also a funny one, running around Paris karate-chopping, punching and kicking  at long haired seventies villains; cracking witticisms all along while he does it. Clemence feels a little embarrassed by Mr. Belmondo and explains to me that he is not to be taken as a parameter of what French cinema has to offer.  I smile and ask her who she thinks would win a fight between Belmondo and Bronson.  She looks up, thinks and then says, “That is not possible, Belmondo and Bronson would never fight each other, they are both good guys, yes?”, and looks at me as if she’d just had to explain something to a not very bright child.   She knows her Seventies tough guys:  Bronson, Belmondo, McQueen, Eastwood, Marvin, Coburn and even a few I can’t place.  Her father would watch these movies every other weekend with Clemence and her sisters when he was still studying and her mother had a weekend shift. Her father is 55, fifteen years older than I am.   We both have the same profession although not the same area of specialty. She tells me it is strange to find similar attitudes, opinions and verbal mannerisms in two persons who are so different, so she asks to know my opinion on it.  I tell her the psychoanalytical implications of this are better left unexamined for our own sake.  She opens her eyes wide in mock shock and then smiles.

Clemence has seen many things, good and bad, has lived in Nepal and India, traveled through Africa and laughs with innocence.  She does not believe in religion.   She asks personal questions with a very serious expression on her eyes; listening then, no matter how long the answer is, with intent attention.   When I asked, she told me the story of her tattoos, two small ones on her wrists.  I listened without interrupting.   When she was done, I nodded, we both fell silent for a while and then I asked her if she wanted more tea. She drinks tea. Darjeeling.     I drink expresso, black and with no sugar or cream, just like her father.  She is falling in love with me and I with her, we know it, but we’re also both cowards when it comes to love; she will run out and I won’t go after her, we’ll both then tell our respective friends that it just wasn’t meant to be.  And now that I think about it, this post is the beginning of our goodbye.

Pale lager, pulled pork,a family lunch, thoughts on Barbora and Clemence

It’s Sunday and we had pulled pork and coleslaw with the family.   It had been a long time since I’d had beer with lunch, having opted most of the time for wine.   Sun all around.   It was good and we felt it that way.  Clemence has left and Barbora won’t come back.  I’ve been thinking about her lately, her smooth strong temper, the expression in her eyes when she wanted us to make love, the terrible blondness of her yellow hair entwined through my fingers.   The first times, in the amber light of my bedroom, I got flashbacks of Ilse and had to avoid saying her name.   Any way, Clemence will be back in a week or ten days, I am intrigued by that flash of madness that crosses her green eyes for a second or two when we speak. I can almost guess how she’ll be, her moves, her hair, her parting lips… but I can never be sure.   I will have to wait and see.

Dream Number 1

I’m in a passage.

The walls are black, made of what resembles onyx.

I walk forth, into a dark hall which feels vast, I’m naked and there’s a tight collar around my neck with a leather leash attached to it.   Holding the leash is a tall slender woman whose face I can’t make out.  She orders me to move further into the hall and I see two shoulder height clean platforms made of stone forming a type of endless aisle that extends into the darkness.  On the platforms there are golden thrones and on the thrones nude women sit and look down at me with indifference. I am ordered to advance and stand before the nearest one, I look at her feet, she puts one forth and I am to kiss it, then she does the same with the other one.  She smiles and I move on to the next and repeat the procedure with a similar result but notice the smoothness and warmth of her feet as I kiss them.

On the third or forth woman I try to touch her feet with my hands but feel the leash yanked back, I suddenly understand that I am supposed to be looking for someone, for a specific woman whose feet I might have kissed before and who I am to recognize, and at the same time all this is supposed to be a privilege for me, an exception made.

I don’t remember how the dream ended or what it shifted towards…

Trios.

Sobre tríos.

Leí esta entrada y me quede pensando.

 

Respondiendo a lo que Joan se pregunta según mis términos y experiencias.     Si, creo que una persona, independientemente de si es mujer u hombre, debería probar un trío alguna vez, si es que quiere, claro.

Hay personas que no lo quieren hacer, que no les llama la atención, y aun si tuviesen la oportunidad no lo harían; y hay otras personas que lo quieren hacer, pero nunca se les presenta la oportunidad.   Debe ser un problema cuando hay una pareja en la que uno de ellos lo quiere probar pero la otra persona no.

Mi experiencia con este tema no es de las más amplias pero hay un par de experiencias y situaciones que tienen que ver con el tema.  De adolescente, me llamaba mucho la atención y sentía curiosidad por saber cómo se sentiría hacerlo con dos mujeres a la vez, las historias leídas y la pornografía de distinta intensidad me llevaban a aproximaciones de lo que sería, un mundo en el que toda mujer atractiva es bisexual en potencia y que una vez que ve a otra mujer desnuda no puede resistir el impulso de besarla y acariciarla, y por supuesto, en dichas circunstancias nada les gustaba más que un adolescente casual como yo se acercara a ellas y se uniera al enredo de piernas, brazos y labios para luego terminar ambas entregándose a mi o haciéndome sexo oral simultáneo.   No había malicia o complicaciones en la pornografía de mi adolescencia.

Luego, cuando tenia 19 años ocurrió algo que técnicamente no cumple los criterios de un trío pero se le parece, fue una especie de cuarteto en el que embriagándonos con un amigo y dos amigas surgió el tema del sexo. Decidimos hacer una competencia en la cual se vería cual de ellas lograba hacer que terminásemos antes.   La mía iba con desventaja porqué yo nunca término rápido y encima estaba con tragos.  Era una sala de familia, la casa de una de ellas, en la sala, no recuerdo donde es que los padres habían viajado, pero ambas, entre risa y comentarios, comenzaron.  Estábamos sentados  en sofás opuestos, yo tenia las botas sobre la mesa de café del centro, y ella hacia lo suyo hasta que escuchamos que su amiga hacia un sonido raro, raro, raro, apoyaba ambas manos sobre las rodillas de mi amigo y vomitaba sobre el.  La verdad es que estábamos demasiado borrachos.  Nos pusimos a reír y allí quedó esa competencia.   Después en la noche tuve sexo primero con una y luego con su amiga mientras mi amigo, irremediablemente borracho, dormía junto a ella en la cama.  Paso y ya.

Luego, cuando tenía 20 años estuve con dos amigas de la facultad. O bueno, una era de la Facultad y había cambiado de carrera, los tres borrachos, decidimos irnos a dormir.  Empecé con una y la otra nos decía cosas como que éramos unos degenerados, y que ya nos pongamos a dormir, íbamos desvistiéndonos, y cuando íbamos a la mitad la comenzamos a desvestir a ella, yo la besaba y ella le quitaba la ropa.  Quedamos los tres desnudos, no recuerdo todo muy bien, pero primero lo hacia con una y luego con la otra, y después de nuevo con la primera, turnándolas. Esa fue la única vez que ocurrió aunque volví a estar con  cada una por separado varias veces.

Tiempo después, ya teniendo tres o más años de relación con Erika, antes de casarnos, las cosas se habían vuelto repetitivas y monótonas.   No recuerdo bien como pero surgió la idea de tener un algo parecido a un trío HMH, en el cual sería ella quien sostendría relaciones con otro hombre y yo observaría.  Incluso solíamos tener largas conversaciones en las que planeábamos  donde, como y con quien lo haríamos pero nunca llegamos a concretar ninguno de los planes a pesar de algunos intentos.   En retrospectiva, creo que yo lo quería más que ella.

Más tiempo pasó, mucho más, ya me había divorciado de Erika, y con ninguna de las parejas que tuve después surgió el tema hasta que apareció  Helena. Lo chistoso es que me enteré que ella tenia la fantasía de  hacerlo con dos hombres al mismo tiempo, hacerlo todo, hasta que llegado el momento, ambos la penetrasen, uno por delante y el otro por detrás.  La famosa penetración doble de las películas y relatos de juventud.  Creo que sí lo hubiese sabido antes de que termináramos la relación y nos distanciáramos, lo hubiese hecho, incluso en este momento se me prende algo de solo pensarlo.

Así que sí, creo que es algo que todos quienes sienten interés o curiosidad por aquello debiesen probar.  En mi caso, independientemente de quien sea la mujer, creo que sería mejor con un conocido pero no un amigo.  Si es MMH, creo que sería mejor si hay algo entre ellas y se entienden, aunque no se si es la edad, el interés que me genera no es el mismo de antes, me gusta lo mío y como lo hago y creo que los tríos dispersan la intensidad.