Intangibility

Although it may sound otherwise, this is fictional. It has my voice, and some elements may have been real, but in its entirety, this piece was a difficult vision to flesh out. Initially, I wanted to communicate how it felt like, having sex with someone you've just met. But, as with most things, it became slightly different from what I'd planned as the words began unfolding from my mind and onto the keyboard. Be that as it may, the weight of words lacking which I'd felt as I was writing it was still the same as when I started it. I would ask to be forgiven for these inadequacies.

This was triggered by a song, Hain't It Funny. My deepest gratitude to kd lang for singing such an intensely sad, unexpectedly ironic song.

"Made love last night --
wasn't good, wasn't bad.
Intimate strangers
made meek and sad."

Hain't It Funny, kd lang

"You know, my mother wakes up at four," he whispered as he nuzzled my hair. I checked my watch. 1:15 AM. Plenty more time for snuggling. "I'll leave before then. I won't fall asleep," I whispered back. He held me tighter and pressed his face to my hair. I felt him take a deep breath, his chest rising at the effort. I rested my palm on its warm surface. Closing my eyes, I imagined seeing the rush of air filling every crevice in his lungs. He exhaled, and all the air rushed back out, diffusing into the amber glow of his room. It was silent and involuntary, but a peaceful thing to witness, his breathing. Like Earth revolving around the sun, or gravity holding one down to the ground. Being with him felt safe. Being with him felt sure.

o O o
I talk like we've been lovers for a long time, but we'd only just met. A couple of hours ago, as a matter of fact. We met online, through a chatroom. I felt like looking for company, he wanted a hook-up. We exchanged details and photos, and agreed to meet at a fast food near our place. It was a quick, clean transaction, if one could call it that.

I was there first, as it was a mere three-minute walk from my house. I got a soda and sat near a window with a clear view of the door to see who's coming in and leaving. I rested my head on the cool glass wall and watched the view outside. It was almost midnight but the city was still bustling with movement. It felt unnerving to think I could be one of these people moving around -- another sheep in the herd, another cog in the machine -- that is, until evening comes and I become someone entirely different. I looked at my hands. By day these fingers are designing websites, coding scripts, and writing reports and proposals. All endeavors geared towards the betterment of mankind, if one prefers to see it that way. A seemingly outstanding individual. One harmless drone in the vastly hollow field of existence. But midnight, and these hands are doing something else. I feel like a super hero assassin. Or a monster.

About ten minutes into my reverie, I saw him enter. He was wearing a grey sweater on a white shirt, jeans, and he had a red cap on just like he said he would. He took out his mobile phone, but I called out his name before he could dial. He smiled as he walked over to where I was seated. "Hey," he said. I studied him without hiding it. He was doing the same to me, anyway. He has a pleasant face, easy to look at. Although if one would see him on the streets, he might look like just another pedestrian. He had a sleepy look in his eyes, almost feigning disinterest, but the childish smirk on his lips belied his expression. In all, he had the kind of face I found attractive -- casual, but smart. I offered him a sip from my soda. He shook his head no. A heartbeat, and then he said, "Let's go." I stood as he did and we left the restaurant, saying nothing else until we got to his house.

o O o
"Is that your real name?" he asked as he took off his sweater. I sat on the edge of the bed and started untying my shoelaces. I nodded and asked him the same thing. He smiled and said, "No." I chuckled. "That's good," I murmured, avoiding his eyes, "easier to pretend." I felt him move, pinning me with his weight gently on the bed, planting a kiss on my lips. Fuck if he heard. And before I knew it, every breath became a memory.

o O o
It might seem impossible, having a real memory of an encounter being unreal at the same time. I can feel him, his solid form lying beside me, touch every inch of skin, every pore, taste every glimmer of sweat on his neck. We talk, and I hear him, just as he listens when I talk. His scent -- that of dusk and closed rooms -- fills the air. All these things are real enough for me, and I will remember them when this is over. But memories are tricky in a way that they are not simply remembering things one has touched, seen, or heard. Memories are made up of the intangible as well. What did it mean when he kissed me on the lips? His smile when I told him, "Go slow" -- did it mean, "I won't hurt you"? When he pulled me closer to him afterwards, did he mean to say, "Be with me"? This space between us, intangible and without form, does it have something real my mind can count on to remember? It breaks my heart to know the answer but not acknowledge it. To be drawn into a false sense of intemperance his presence infuses into me. Like Earth revolving around the sun, like gravity? No, I tell myself. I am not safe, and I am not sure.

o O o
I feel his form stir from beside me. My hand reaches to touch his hand. He is becoming hard again, and so am I. All at once, the errant thoughts in my mind become meaningless, and all that matters is what I can touch, see, and hear. "You can't fuck brains," someone once said. And tomorrow, when I go to work, none of this will be real. His name will mean nothing to me, and I will mean nothing to him. And the shadow of his taste left clinging to my skin will be an illusion desire conjured from my waking fantasies. I will once again be a drone, a sheep, a cog in the silently hollow and subtly malevolent machine of existence.

That is, until another night.