Contos 23

Ciclo S - The tie

When we went for a drink I already had sex images inside my mind, but I kept pushing them away. After all, I had to stop smiling: my life was still miserable.
I kept looking at this guy while pretending not to care and I didn’t know what he was thinking. He was there with his captivating smile and his trendy look, his € 2000 suit and € 500 shoes. And his tie, my gosh, his terrific tie. Anyway, we were just a bunch of career people on a happy hour. Booze.
I couldn’t stop looking at his tie, while in the meantime I glanced at his eyes, his look, his exquisite smile. And, my mandatory requirement, his beautiful hands with those fashionable rings that could either mean he was married or just nothing at all. But then, while we talked cheerily about fashion, he mentioned he had to buy something for a girl. It seemed like she was his partner. It’s all the same and I didn’t care. I still wanted to look at him and enjoy the fact that, at least in a few hours from now, I would be making up this story about us.
Fortunately, our hotels were nearby. He acted according to the dandy gentleman that he looked like. He took me to my hotel, no matter his was closer. With that sweet touch of alcohol still running trough my veins, I didn’t even care a lot when I asked him to join me for a last drink at the hotel’s bar. Inconsequently.
I would love to be inconsequent. That would make me so free, but these existentialism roots attaching me to life just do not let it be. Even slightly drunk, as he was as well, I still knew all this. But I sort of admired him, I didn’t cherish him, so, last drink or no drink at all would mean so little.
So… While one drink led to another, I started my non-alcoholic booze. He kept drinking his Porto wine. That special one that he requested with, I don’t know how many years, with that fruity I don’t know what flavour. The last guy I had sex with drank beer and beer is not a fashionable drink. But Porto wine, that’s fun, even for people who don’t like it. He looked even hotter drinking it.
Anyway. He was my favourite dandy. My hot, fucking hot, dandy. Should I tell him I kind of need to get laid? Having sex with him would make me feel better. I sort of have these self-confidence issues and now I feel like shit, so sleeping with a guy like him – my favourite dandy –, would be really good. I could even smile again. Let me just think about it. But while we talked about designer shoes and hippy night clubs in Paris , my brain kept doing what it always does. It kept thinking. And I kept trying to push my thoughts away.
He was self-constrained, respectful but sassy. It was too much to figure out. And a polite no after inviting him to my room wouldn’t make next two meeting days less unbearable. It always sucks to be rejected. Even if for a drunk one night stand. But if he kept laughing like a theatre actor with that very well positioned voice, I would have a hard time restraining myself. And he did accept my drink. It is a pity the hotel is not my home, I could argue that I wanted him to see my kitsch side: all the paintings hanged on my walls were bought from street guys. Most of them were a bargain bought from street artists who won’t ever have a nice life. I love artists that won’t ever have a nice life. Have I told you that? I might tell you now.
Suddenly I used the most famous pick-up line. Do you want to come upstairs? Of course he said he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. There was this girl – his wife –and his kids. He simply couldn’t. But he didn’t seem convinced, so I tried again. What could happen now, will never happen. There will be no guilt, no restraints, nothing. Whatever may happen upstairs will be self-destroyed in less than 5 seconds. Not even MI gadgets are that effective. Booze was making me determined. My room is 405. I am going up now. You will be welcomed if you want to follow me. I’ll wait for you for 5 minutes. And tomorrow, whether you’ll meet me at my room or not, everything will be the same. We’ll be the same two people as today going to the same meeting. Just that. And then I smiled, I said goodbye and I left. I didn’t look back.
I knew he wouldn’t come.

I needed a cold shower.
I went back to my room, took my clothes off and while I looked at my beautiful “La perla” lingerie in the mirror I started feeling the alcohol running off my body. Damn. I had even chosen my underwear appropriately.
I read for a while before I got my bath ready. I had to cool off.
And then surprisingly enough someone knocked at my room door. I freaked. The idea that it could be him no longer seemed so appealing now my make-up was cleansed, my clothes were off and my room was a mess. Though it could not be him. I dressed a robe, assembled a few things under the bed, turned off the water and I finally opened the door. I was shivering. I saw only his back, covered by his long black coat and then his face, turning back at me.
Next second our tongues were inside each others’ mouths and we could hardly breathe. He suddenly stopped to apologise for taking almost half an hour before deciding to come up. It didn’t really mater. I shut him up by kissing him and he held me in his lap due to our height difference. No matter so thin, he did seem strong: he held me up high kissing my neck, my chest, for quite a while. My robe was half open and my glittering bra was shining with the dimming light and that was when he told me
Beautiful la perla lingerie. I knew you had an exquisite taste.
Had he known that no one I loved had ever cared for my lingerie, he would have said it before. But he did say it without knowing it.
I decided to lie down on the bed, open my robe and let him look at my really beautiful lingerie. And it was great. For a while I could only hope that he wouldn’t have silk underwear. But after I saw he didn’t, with those Calvin Klein perfect tight boxers, all what happened was really great sex.
When I was about to come, this non-orgasmic quiver went rapidly through my body. When I came I made no sound, as before, I controlled my muscles and I would bet he couldn’t have known I came. I like to keep my orgasms private.
That night I went back to my good old days and we had sex twice. When there was nothing else to talk about and we were too exhausted to have sex again, I asked him whether he wanted to leave. He claimed it was too warm inside and just freezing cold outside. I agreed. And we slept together. I liked when he held me, when he embraced my body with his and it got so comfortable. When he did this and immediately fell asleep, my back on his chest, my ass on his penis, my eyes were a dam of tears. But I left none of these to be shed.
I could not sleep.

When, in the morning after, he was getting ready to go back to his hotel before going to the meeting, he didn’t put his tie on. And I felt so much like asking him to do so. But I couldn’t. That would give me in. And great sex should not be screwed just because I miss you putting on your tie in the morning and your body embracing mine at night.

January, 2009

Contos 22

Ciclo S - Bitter Sweet

Deixei-te escrito num papel perdido. Ideias soltas, emaranhadas de movimentos esperados. Mas não te queria esquecer nessa página escondida.

Quero lembrar-me agora do olhar intenso que me retirou a fleuma e me fez sentir culpada.
It’s a bitter sweet symphony when you talk. A tua dicção clara e elaborada faz entrar nos meus ouvidos as palavras que dizes como um canto perigoso de sereias. Uma canção encantada para serpentes, que me faz levantar com excitação contida.
Mas mesmo quando calado: a tua postura elegante, de casaco apertado e perna traçada numa posição confiante. Mesmo o teu corpo magro, aparentemente pouco forte, demonstra uma decisão evidente: definição.
It is a bitter sweet symphony. Quando fecho os olhos para te retirar do meu visor mental, mas onde sem te ver te encontro alojado nos meus desejos; construo-te mentalmente a partir de pontos ligados a linhas de cor. E, no entanto, os objectivos saem mais frustrados do que o possível: se não te vejo, crio-te à imagem da minha idealização.
It is bitter sweet. As imagens sensuais que transporto de ti. Imagens nuas, de provocação, inquietas, que me destabilizam mais do que deviam. Movimentos. Indecentes. Contagiantes. Explosivos. Acções. Penetrantes. Quentes. Reais.

Bitter… sex.

a

[Maio de 2008]

Contos 18

Ciclo S - Mãos

Há qualquer coisa de errado com aquelas mãos. Talvez as unhas. Talvez só uma ligeira falta de elegância. E, no entanto. Aquelas mãos, na minha mente, tocam-me com luxúria. E eu gosto da sensação. As minhas terminações nervosas sentem com intensidade, a minha pele contrai-se e o meu corpo finge uma calma que já não tem. Mas que eu quero ter.
Mas, as mãos. Eu falava das mãos. Estão longe de serem perfeitas. Aquelas mãos, e, todavia, esqueço-me, às vezes, que trazem uma cara, um corpo, uma pessoa agarrada. Por momentos, só as mãos existem. Momentos que se prolongam mais do que se possa imaginar. É que os dedos passam a linha do meu nariz, tocam levemente a pele, descem, puxam o meu lábio inferior e deixam a minha boca exposta, os meus dentes visíveis. E é difícil fingir aquela indiferença quando os dentes estão expostos.
Mas, as mãos. Era (só) das mãos que eu falava. E dizia que a distância que as separa do arquétipo das mãos ideais é muita. Serão as nozes dos dedos que as estragam? Fecho os olhos enquanto uma das mãos me agarra o pescoço. Só uma das mãos, mas envolve todo o meu pescoço. Os meus olhos estão fechados porque mesmo que vissem, não conseguiriam ver as mãos. Que me percorrem, cada vez mais rápido, o peito, os abdominais. São essas mãos que me levantam as costas do chão e calcorreiam todos os espaços de pele disponíveis.
Mas, as mãos. As mãos de que eu queria falar. Aquelas que não são as mais bonitas. Aquelas que me tocam a pele, aquelas que me agarram o corpo. É dessas mãos que eu falo. As que sobem as minhas pernas sem indecisão, as que me pressionam a carne, os ossos. As que me excitam, agora.
Não sei com quem estou na cama. No chão. Mas tenho a certeza das mãos que me tocam.

[Outubro de 2007]

Contos 17

Ciclo S - Moving bodies of pleasure

It could have been that accent. You know, after all, Jude Law is not so irresistible because he is terribly handsome; he is irresistible because he has that lovely British accent. And the smile, of course. That naughty smile.

In particular.

So, it could have been the accent. Not that it matters right now. My back is bending of pleasure as two very decided hands hold my hips to restrain my movements. So, it might have been the accent, but the Jude Law naughty smile helped a lot. Either way, that smile is now smiling to a funny part of my anatomy.

In particular.

Two people who just did not give a damn. Two people searching for some strong feelings; already trying some strong sensations. At least, that is what my hands insistently clasping the sheets seem to indicate. So, it might have been the accent, but the way his pen sounded touching the paper sheets, syncopated, also played a role. People claim pheromones, chemicals, do the work for you, but they do not know the British accent, they do not know that plain attraction comes from much more complex things like accents and smiles and “doesn’t give a damn looks”.

In particular.

So, it might have been the accent; but perhaps I understood upfront that his hands would caress my body like this, would hold me decisively and would provoke rushes in my veins. Sensations, perhaps. Raw feelings. Unleashed without further intentions other than moving bodies of pleasure. Sex.

In particular.

I am not really certain about the signals; I only know they were right as upcoming contracting muscles shriek in silence for a non-ending pre-climax.

In particular, I know. It was that accent.

[Maio e Setembro de 2007]

Contos 16

Ciclo S - Forças de combate

Explosão. Fluxos de energia rápidos no corpo. Excitação consumada. Depois. Depois de tanto tempo de contenção. Enquanto todos sabiam o que nós não. Sabíamos? Todos tinham sentido a vibração entre nós; desequilibrávamos qualquer sala com a tensão. Um embate de forças. Compreende?
Ainda não sei quem ganhava. Só via as baixas. Quando notava, todos estavam pasmados. Não, todos estavam siderados. Só não o sabiam. E era o nosso embate – combate? – que o provocava. Gladiadores de forças invisíveis.
Os nossos toques obscenos sem contacto. As palavras inocentes cheias de sexo. Nas nossas conversas, cadeira cheirava a sexo, almoço sabia a sexo, no azul sentia-se sexo, em rádios surdos via-se sexo; todas as palavras gritavam sexo. Nós não sabíamos. Compreende?
Sabíamos o embate de forças, conhecíamos o interesse. Discutíamo-lo em silêncio, no meio de todos. Todos sabiam. Conheciam as nossas palavras, o jogo de sedução. Mas nós éramos os únicos a ter noção dos limites. Qualquer toque era proibido, tudo o que fosse mais do que a insinuação era proibido. Qualquer iniciativa impensável. Uns inocentes.
Tínhamos a fama. Nenhum proveito, para além do que retirávamos da luta, para além do que nos ensinou, para além da competição. Compreende?
Posso garantir-lhe que me ensinou imenso, fez-me desenvolver capacidades que tinha ocultas ou subdesenvolvidas. Agradeço-lhe. E no entanto começo a duvidar, começo a achar que a competição não é suficiente. Pouco.
Agora. Agora? Agora já não é suficiente. Você, compreende?

Outubro de 2006

Contos 15

Ciclo S - Liaison

Sabe, essa sua maneira de me intimidar está a esgotar a capacidade. Estou a readquirir o auto-controlo e depois de o fazer será impossível voltar a desconcentrar-me. Foi um início diferente, este que tivemos; surpreendente. Desconcertante. Mas fico contente, por despertar estas reacções, por instigar estas necessidades. E confesso, sim admito, que o acho interessante, principalmente por me afectar daquela maneira, me desconcentrar ao nível da insensatez. Mas só enquanto isso não for perceptível para outras pessoas, só enquanto eu mantiver esta inquietude sozinha dentro de mim, do meu corpo; só enquanto a minha pele a suster.
Sabe, esta situação agrada-me. Gosto que saiba que me inquieta, como gosto que saiba que eu sei que o inquieto. Gosto dos olhares de receio; a nossa indiscrição não pode ser descoberta, demasiado inverosímil para ser verdade. E gosto da auto-estima. Gosto que perceba que estamos ambos em cima de uma corda, muito longe do chão, a rede é a nossa discrição; tudo o resto é audácia.
Sabe, essa maneira de olhar para mim como se o seu sorriso fosse mentiroso, atrai-me ainda mais, porque há qualquer coisa que o trai, acho que o movimento dos olhos, o eye-smiling; só para mim. Talvez seja essa revelação, felizmente sóbria; não suportaria que se denunciasse; que me faz baixar a guarda. É só mais um, espero que saiba também, mas um que há muito não aparecia. Torna-se aborrecido quando ninguém nos afecta; um marasmo de possibilidades.
Sabe, você é a iniciativa que eu queria construir com alguém que fosse suficientemente interessante. Deve ser daqueles que cozinha o jantar indicado, escolhe o vinho certo e ainda se lembra que exposição devemos ir ver. A uma hora própria, que a sua mulher pode estar lá também. Daqueles que fala comigo de todos os interesses de que me lembre; daqueles que estaria calado se me visse escrever, há momentos que não se partilha.
Sabe, a indecência de tudo isto é-me indiferente. Somos adultos e sabê-mo-lo. Somos adultos no meio de adultos; adultos em reunião, adultos ao jantar, adultos no teatro, adultos na cama. Sabe, orgulha-me ser uma escolhida. Por si; é um elogio. Somos cúmplices durante o período suficiente e não queremos mais daí; é mais do que suficiente; não somos apaixonados, nem sequer amantes; só cúmplices. Cúmplices de afinidades.
Sabe, não interessa quando isto acabe. Esta nossa liaison é uma elegância inatingível; uma pena estar escondida…

Outubro de 2006