Torn Shapes of Desire Page 2

  this surreal moment

  when nothing matters

  except this act

  this strange act of sex

  of love, of total selfless giving

  of yourself

  to my need

  And you suck me

  succinctly

  exquisitely

  hungrily

  up and down...

  o0o

  I have so many more fantasies, but I am afraid. Afraid of letting go, afraid of being the real me, and offending you with the real me, instead of this facade that I march behind in my normal daily life. No one else who knows me would think that I wrote the above.

  Can I come see you this summer? School will be over in a few weeks and plane tickets aren’t that expensive.

  —Matthew

  o0o

  I’m blushing, and crying, and excited all at once. The crotch of my jeans is uncomfortably tight, and the person sitting next to me just glanced at the screen, and glanced quickly away.

  To have a stranger offer all this... is exciting. And frightening. But even more exciting, I think.

  If you wouldn’t mind my roommate and her boyfriend coming along at first (we can always ditch them later)... then yes. YES.

  Come to Chicago. Come touch me, come taste me, buy me roses and don’t be upset if they fall in the street while I’m kissing you. Let me shred your clothing, and your back — I will sharpen my nails and paint them gold for you.

  I’ve been so very lonely.

  —Jinsong

  o0o

  I want to ask you to promise something... but I won’t. You don’t seem to like promises.

  Instead, I’ll tell you what I hope.

  I hope that I am who you think I am... and you are who I think you are.

  I hope that we like each other... that we become friends.

  I hope that the summer heat will help us drop inhibitions.

  I hope that we have sex on the quads.

  I hope you like the way I taste.

  and...

  I even hope that maybe this might last a little longer than a summer fling. That maybe you could learn to care for me. I think I’m already learning to care for you. (enough. I’m afraid I’ve already gotten too sentimental for your tastes. I’m afraid.)

  I bought the tickets today. I’ll be there in two weeks.

  —Matthew

  o0o

  Oh, I don’t know how to say this. Once again, Matthew, I’m without words.

  I’m sorry. What an empty, useless phrase. However true it may be.

  My boyfriend and I got back together last night. Whether this is wise, I don’t know... but I do know that now it would be impossible for me to see you. Or to touch you. Honestly, I didn’t even want to write this... funny how much cowardice hides inside.

  You’re a sweet, wonderful guy. I’m sure if you keep looking, you’ll find somebody less fucked–up than I am.

  Thank you for holding me up when I was drowning.

  Don’t write back, please.

  —Jinsong

  Memory Tears upon Close Examination

  You see, I did not want

  to take refuge in

  simple description:

  yellow–gold hair

  glass–blue eyes

  and palm–filling breasts.

  I treasured instead

  the crease down her belly;

  the snake–curve of her back;

  her almost–silence as we slid

  together, that betraying gasp

  muffled against sodden skin...

  and oh

  god,

  I have already forgotten the rest.

  Season of Marriage

  She was dizzy with the smoke. The traditional wedding had lasted almost three hours, and the heat and oil fumes from the ever–present lamps had combined to make Raji feel slightly queasy. And the chanting. It went on and on and on in Sanskrit incomprehensible to a girl who’d grown up with a New England accent. She was suddenly homesick — for America, for Connecticut, for forests and hills and snow and people you didn’t have to watch every word around for fear of treading on some custom you didn’t understand. Despite the cold and pain that had driven her to this wedding in the baking heat of New Delhi, Connecticut was home. And it was much, much too late to go back. She was married. The wedding reception was ending now, and it would soon be time to leave with this kind–seeming stranger, to go to the house of his mother (whom Raji already despised), to go to his bed. And all her American casualness about sex, the casualness and experience she had counted on to see her through this ordeal, suddenly was meaningless. She was scared. Why, oh why had she agreed to this?

  The answer to that was easy. Because she hadn’t cared anymore. After she’d found out about Jim and that other girl; after all the broken promises and shattered dreams, it just didn’t seem to matter. The heat and incense combined to bring on a wave of brutally clear memory.

  o0o

  They’d just collapsed, Jim on top of her, as he always insisted. He was crushing her with his weight... not fat of course, but muscle was even heavier. Raji managed to roll to the side, and then turned to gaze adoringly into his eyes, still amazed that this gorgeous man would really want her.

  “You were wonderful.”

  “Uh huh.” He was still panting, but in a very sexy way, she thought.

  “Jim?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I love you.”

  There was a disconcerting pause. Before he’d always responded, “I love you, too.” Now, he said nothing, and looked almost... guilty?

  “Ummm...”

  “Yes?” she asked, eagerly.

  “I should probably tell you something. Now don’t get too upset, okay?”

  And he proceeded to tell her about Sharmila. Also Indian. Two years older. Drop–dead gorgeous with unfairly huge breasts. Who he’d been sleeping with for three weeks. His conscience had finally kicked in. Or maybe he was just bored with Raji, and this was the easiest way to make her break up with him. Which she, of course, did.

  o0o

  Looking back, she knew it was the right decision... but it had sunk her into a black fit of depression where she had let everyone else make decisions for her. She’d decided that maybe her parents were right, after all. Maybe American men really were slime. Maybe she’d be happiest with someone like herself. So she’d agreed to meet some Indian men, and the next thing she knew she was flying to India to meet this man Vivek. And he was gentle. And kind. Rich and generous; he’d bought her a pearl necklace the day after they met. And though she’d only known him for a few days her parents thought he was very suitable and his parents liked her and it was suddenly all arranged and they were asking her and she said yes.

  And now she was suddenly remembering all the sweet guys she’d grown up with and wondering where they’d gone. She was finally shaking off the depression that had lasted the four months since Jim and just knew that she’d have been happier with an American she understood rather than with this stranger from a strange land that she’d left when she was three. And it was still too late. She was married, and though she could probably get a divorce, Raji wasn’t the sort to give up on anything that easily. And it would break her mother’s heart. Her dear, scheming, conniving, thoroughly manipulative mother. Sometimes Raji couldn’t figure out whether she loved or hated her.

  Her silence was noted by Vivek, who asked her in perfect, if heavily accented English, if she felt all right. Raji nodded, then stood with him as the interminable reception finally came to a close. Her legs were trembling, she realized, as she wondered what this almost certainly virgin man would think of a very experienced American. She’d find out soon enough.

  The women took her to the bedroom and helped her undress, giving her fragments of advice in broken English as they helped her into a flowing white nightgown, incredibly demure and perfectly opaque. Raji barely heard them, caught somewhere between tears and laughter. She waited patient
ly, allowing them to dress her as they chose and lead her toward the crimson–draped bed. One woman, who Raji thought was her new sister–in–law and recently married herself, touched Raji’s shoulder before she left, pityingly. Then they were gone.

  Vivek appeared, ghost–like in the doorway, dressed in flowing white to match her. He walked toward her silently; a hunter afraid of startling some strange, wild creature he had never before seen. Raji was determined to try her best, and so smiled, slightly trembling. Vivek returned her smile with a tentative smile of his own, and, standing before her now, reached his hand up to touch her cheek. His hand was not damp and sweaty as she had somehow feared, but warm and dry, as if lit by some inner fire. He had not touched her before this, in all the days of wedding preparations during the short month since they had met. Even when placing the gold thali wedding necklace around her neck, he had taken care not to touch her. She was suddenly grateful for his gentleness, and stepping boldly towards him, stretched her slim brown arms to encircle his thick neck, surprised to find that he was shaking too. Vivek was not very handsome, but sturdily built, with hair thicker and richer than her own and deep brown eyes. Raji had thought them dull and calf–like before, but suddenly she was not so sure. There was a hint of laughter in those eyes, and a sparkle of what might possibly be intelligence. Of course, he was a doctor (nothing else would have satisfied her mother) and so couldn’t be entirely stupid. Now, with her hands locked behind his neck and her delicate body inches away from his, Raji found herself bemused, not sure what to do next, or how fast she should take this. He solved that problem for her.

  He placed his arms around her waist, gently. Tilting his head, he kissed her. She was startled, not at being kissed, but at being kissed by him, and stiffened in his arms. He raised his head questioningly.

  “Is this not customary in America?”

  “Yes, yes it is. I didn’t think it was here.”

  “We are not as ignorant as you Americans assume. We do watch movies, after all.”

  Now Raji was sure that he was laughing at her, as he leaned down to kiss her again. Despite his claims to knowledge she was fairly sure that kissing was new to him, and so responded gently to the firm pressure on her lips. They kissed chastely for long minutes, until Raji, greatly daring, opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his lips. He broke away for a moment, plainly startled, but then returned to kissing her with enthusiasm, opening his own mouth and tasting her lips, her teeth, her tongue with his own. She tilted her head backwards, hoping he would get the hint, and he did — kissing her cheek, her nose, her ear, tracing a delicate line along her cheekbone with his tongue. He went slowly, seemingly enchanted with the wonder of it all, and Raji stood still, eyes closed, feeling him touch her so gently. This was new to her — this gentleness, this seeming reverence. She had enjoyed sex with Jim, but it had always been hard and fast, a summer storm — quickly started, quickly over. Vivek was twenty–five, years older than Jim had been, but he smiled with the wonder of a child.

  Continuing to explore her chocolate skin, he slid slowly down her neck, dropping kisses like raindrops to lie wetly, quivering with her breath. Raji continued to hold still, starting to wonder how long she could act the trembling virgin... how long it would be before her impatience broke through. His kisses were abruptly stopped by the laces at the top of the gown, and he froze and locked her eyes with his. Raji slowly reached up, and almost teasingly, pulled free the tangled white ribbons and laces. Vivek undid them completely, sliding the white fabric off her creamy brown shoulders, continuing the slow kisses that had fallen like cool rain but now began to burn. Despite a ceiling fan, the room was stiflingly hot to a woman bred to New England winters, and Raji began suddenly to sway, dizzy with heat and unexpected passion. Vivek caught and held her, as the gown slid from her bare body to pool on the green–tiled floor. Cradling her against him with one arm, he pulled aside mosquito netting and drapes with the other. Picking her up, he gently deposited Raji on the bed and pulled the sheet over her. All this happened so quickly that Raji had no moment in which to become frightened again in her nakedness, and then he was undressing too, undoing the wrap of white fabric and climbing in beside her, pulling the mosquito netting closed so that they might be undisturbed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think so. Are you?”

  “Of course I am. I’m a man.”

  Laughter again, from both of them this time, which trailed away into silence. He looked suddenly vulnerable, Raji thought, as he sat there cross–legged on the wide bed. The silence grew more and more awkward until Raji finally raised herself a little on her elbows, letting the sheet fall down to bare her curving breasts and smiling, puckered her lips for a kiss. He laughed again, and suddenly he was swooping down on her in mid–laugh, slipping his broad hands around her fragile frame. Raji was startled again before she began drowning in a hail of fierce kisses and caresses. His hands explored in the lamplit dimness what he could not see, curving to fit her small breasts, each of which fit into the palms of his hands. He fumbled a little, sometimes touching her too softly, sometimes too fiercely, but always kissing so she was blinded by the rain and arching into his touch.

  Vivek slid his hands down her stomach, across her hips, gently pushing apart her trembling thighs. She stiffened suddenly, and opening her eyes wildly searched for his, until he, looking up, caught her trapped gaze.

  “Don’t be afraid.” he reassured her, though his voice was trembling.

  “I’m a doctor, it’s all right.”

  “I’m not, it’s just... there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Shhh... don’t worry.”

  Vivek smiled at the confusion in her eyes, and leaned down to kiss her. At the moment he kissed her he entered her, and Raji was suddenly so hot, so wet and ready for him that she thought she might scream. But remembering his despised mother in the next bedroom, she buried the sound in her throat and only moaned, softly, curving up to meet him as he began long, hesitant strokes, stretching through her long–neglected body, giving it the attention it so desperately wanted.

  The world blurred for Raji to a haze of cloudy netting above her, lit by the lamp glow and measured by the rhythmic movement of this man, her husband, inside her. Sometime during that long eternity it began to rain outside their window, but the thunder and lightning couldn’t begin to match the pleasure arcing through her. He began pounding faster and faster to match the storm, and came suddenly, and she was caught in a moment of purest frustration underneath him. She opened her eyes to see his concerned face above her.

  “That didn’t work very well, did it? I’m sorry.”

  “Shhh... it’s fine. We have lots of time to practice. But there’s a couple of things I don’t understand.”

  “So ask.”

  “Well, for one, why is it still raining? I thought storms in India were short.”

  “Usually they are, but this one will last a while. It’s the beginning of monsoons, remember? It will be storming for the next three months.”

  “Oh.”

  Raji had the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her again. Vivek smiled brightly at her, rolling her towards him to rest in the crook of his arm. The storm raged more fiercely outside, churning the dirt paths to mud, soaking the very air.

  “Want to ask one of the harder questions now?”

  “There’s just one more. You know I’m not a virgin now. Do you mind?”

  She closed her eyes and clenched her fists against the answer, suddenly wanting desperately to make this gentle man happy, especially happy with her.

  “I knew from the beginning. Your mother seemed to feel I had a right to know what I was bargaining for.”

  “She told you? How could she? She didn’t even know...” Raji was caught somewhere between anger and relief.

  “You would be surprised what mothers know. Mine really isn’t so bad; she’s just not looking forward to my leaving with you.”

  “
Leaving?” Raji was now completely confused.

  “For America. Next week. Lots of work for doctors there, I hear. The problem in India is that everyone who can becomes a doctor. There aren’t enough jobs. I’ve been hoping to live in America for a long time, and I could hardly expect my beautiful American wife to be like the innocent girls of the villages here.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’m sure.”

  And suddenly Raji was free to acknowledge to herself just how much she longed for apple trees and miniskirts and rollercoasters. India had its own strange beauty, its passion and mystery, but she was an American at heart.

  Vivek touched her cheek and said, “Shall we try that again? My mother will be very upset with me if you continue to be so quiet. She will think that I have been too rough with you and that you are crying.” Raji held herself still for a moment, looking up at the face of her new husband. He was such a mass of surprises. Then suddenly she rolled over so that she was lying on top of him. Raji began kissing him wildly, ignoring his startled eyes. She stopped for a moment to tell him, “You’re about to find out just how rough American women can be...” before she returned to teasing him unmercifully, rubbing her small breasts across his hairy chest. Vivek responded with renewed passion, pulling her close, and Raji finally left behind all thoughts of mothers and matchmaking, allowing herself to go spiraling downward with her husband.

  Any sounds they made were soon drowned in the pounding of the monsoon storms.

  Meditation on Human Relations

  ...writing a sex scene at work because you just have to have an orgasm now or you’ll die and there’s nothing there to read and you can’t get off without it, so you write it while you’re rubbing your thighs together and rub the fabric of your long skirt that you’ve got shoved up under this desk where nobody can see it against your aching clit — no soft, pretty love scene, not when you’re this horny, oh no, you know you want fast sex, rough sex, the way you think you’d like it, though you’re ashamed to admit it and afraid to try it and you think you’d want someone to push you into it with him and a friend or maybe a couple at once — you might even want to try pulling a train, with your body out there and it’s theirs and yours all at once and incandescent but you get a little anxious and so embarrassed to mention it, ’cause while it’s all right nowadays for women to like sex, they’re not supposed to like sex that looks like rape and they’re not supposed to like sex that might be degrading, and they’re especially not supposed to wonder if they might actually like rape after all — it were the right kind of rape, of course, the fantasy kind where you’re so hot and dripping that nothing hurts, that nothing he/they did could damage you, not like the real kind, where usually you’re so dry that even a gentle one would hurt you and a real rapist rips you apart, and leaves you sobbing or too broken for tears. Who could do that? Maybe that’s one of the fundamental problems between men and women, because I don’t understand how you could keep taking your pleasure, despite knowing, and you must know, that you’re tearing somebody apart underneath you. And maybe even taking some of that pleasure because of what you’re doing to them. But then again, maybe it’s not a fundamental difference, because come to think of it, I know plenty of women who do that too, just not in a physical sexual kind of way. People are fucked.