Red Eye ๐Ÿ‘ Post # 49: No One Isย Perfect

And so a few days ago a person I have known for some time discussed certain possibilities with me:

Can two people who are confidantes and friends become playmates?

How to be specific, in such an instance? When specifics can only take shape and become manifest when they are physically explored?

Perhaps he wanted me to come up with details that would not only clarify and offer essential information, but also make him blush.

I am still considering. And I may consider till Kingdom Come. The possibilities, unfolding like a beautiful accordion. With a music of their own.

Oddly, and rather exasperatingly, what came to mind when I thought about it were images which were the opposite of hard core erotica. No inflammatory jags of sensory evocation. No revelling in a syrup sweet wash of sensual pleasure.

It was all about the tenderness!

I want to gently caress his face, and kiss his cheek and the side of his neck and his ears. (His ears are very handsome. Well shaped. I believe he is proud of them).

I want to trace his jaw with my hand. And kiss along it.

I want to suggest that he allow me to ease his weariness, and let him stretch out full length on the settee, with a slightly overstuffed cushion under his head.

I want to hold his hand and massage each finger, slowly, and then go up the length of his arms, one at a time, and then ask him to turn over, so I could go down his back with both my hands, outward from his spine to his sides, in elongated, soft, tender waves like slow-moving, strobe-lit avalanches.

I want to hear him sigh, and see him close his eyes. And gently, but with the full pressure of the tips of my fingers, I want to rub the top of his head, where the worry wrinkles are. Smoothen them out. Kiss ๐Ÿ’‹ his forehead.

He is so beautiful. I actually did not see that, at first. It took me a long time to tune into his words, and listen to him. There was so much static, in the way.

But these feelings rise slowly, and naturally, in our experience of another. And one day, one week, they rise up in my dreams. And then emerge in our words.

I stumblingly speak them to him, an unrehearsed step in a court dance: a little shy, but defiant. (We must, after all, have the courage of our desires!)

And then there is a slow teasing which starts to take place. Possibilities opening, just a little.

I see sharp interest in his countenance, and virile amusement in his glance. It is a wonderful feeling when someone openly shows how much they enjoy you. Throw their head back and laugh at your words, extend themselves on the sofa ๐Ÿ›‹ opposite you, exchange pleasantries, and ride the sequential cascades and rills of extended conversation. At ease.

The world has shifted, a little. Canโ€™t anyone else feel it?

His eyes graze me. I feel a little exposed, but I like his scrutiny.

And I tell him there are a few months in which we could consider the way it might be explored.

He sends me something to read, which he has written, on the phone. Full of explicit description. A prompt.

The truth is, the arguments, the strangenesses, and the misunderstandings and disputes have already been steered through, and the tears of rage and sadness have already been shed. I would like to balance that strife out with some solid, old gold peace.

We are on the edge of a luminous shore, not speaking much, facing a silvery sea. The waves roar soothingly a few meters away, along the length of the waterfront, and the afternoon breezes rise and languidly cool us. The sun โ˜€๏ธ starts hitting the sofas, and the heat soars and incites us to move separately to the cooler areas.

When I resettle myself, I see that he is looking at me, steadily. He has seen my face almost every day for almost the whole of this year. But now he studies it, to read my feelings, which I am valiantly trying not to fear or subdue, but which I am concerned may be too fragile to outface all the complications that may arise.

I love a particular shirt of his. I donโ€™t really know why. I donโ€™t generally care about what people wear.

I love his hands, and the way he uses them to connect with what is around him, and to balance himself. I have become aware of his hands, over the past few weeks. The shape, and the size of them.

I tell him in a voice recording in the middle of the night that I want to stay in this place, and feel all of this. Feel everything blossoming and becoming vivid, in this season of joy.

Light enters me from the seascape beyond the blinds on the edge of the verandah. It feels hot, and bright, and urgent. I grit my teeth and try to sit still.

It feels like the first day of the holidays.

I find myself smiling.