“Mmm, LOVE ice-cream,” you said with an audible European accent that you weren’t even trying to hide.
Quite the opposite: I bet it has worked to your advantage so far, because you don’t throw yourself against your need to control, to plan, to over think, to predict every moment before it happens — over, and over, and over again. In our company of two, there is already one person who has done that idiotically throughout her youth; and frankly, it’s one person too many.
No, sir! You are one to live in the moment. Honestly.
And you do it with such swagger — never for the sake of exhibitionism or selfish gratification; never for the sake of better opinions or for the sake of having to impress. You dwell in consequences of your easy charm. You watch your life happen and unfold, delivering its opportunities to the the tips of your impeccably polished shoes, like the wet tongue of a tidal wave.
Because where you come from, time moves differently: It never matters more than one’s sensibility, and it definitely does not dare to contradict one’s pursuit of pleasures. And so tonight, you took your time: warming up my curiosity with your easy, manly smiles and just a couple of caresses along my arms with the flat surfaces of your nails. The entire night, your gender training revealed itself in my open doors, extended hands, offered-up shoulders; and your gentle guidance of my high-heeled footstep over ditches and uneven pavements. It is your second nature — to be a gentleman. To be a man — is your first.
“We have a saying about a true — how you say it? — ‘gentleman’,” you told me earlier in the night. “Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”
Naturally, you would walk me down to my car after midnight; and with you, I wouldn’t even argue. I wouldn’t feel an urge to defend my independence or flaunt my financial capabilities: It’s not in your — how you say it? — “gentle” nature to undermine my life choices anyway. So, I didn’t have to test or forewarn, with you. That evening, you were my man alright, and it was somehow (finally!) also perfectly alright for me — to be your woman.
So, why — when you began to devour your chocolate ice-cream sandwich, after calling my elevator — did you suddenly resemble a young boy on a summer day spent on a river bank with other sunburnt rascals? As I watched you, a thought flashed:
It was more of a memory, really. A memory of a young man — utterly adored — who could wrestle my body or mind into submission with his weight or a single flex of his arm muscles; but when the battle was over, I would walk out of his bedroom to find him armed with a fork and a focus, dissecting a sweet I had made for him a few hours prior:
“Mmm, V. So good!” he would always say with his mouth full and a blue-eyed gaze of someone caught in the midst of his defiant joy. “Have some!”
I never would. Instead: I would adore.
Or the sound of another, who could kindly cradle me to sleep; then slip out into the kitchen and lick spoonfuls of honey and peanut butter, chugging them down with cold milk. If I heard his commotions in my sleep, I would smile, always — I would adore! — then, toss myself headfirst into heavier dreams. In the morning, he would be back in his manhood, older than me; and I would wonder if I had dreamt it all up, about someone like our son.
And yet another — tougher, stronger, always in control: If he ever rested in my bed at an hour when the August heat finally gave it a rest, I would bring him platters of chilled watermelon and frozen berries; and while he lapped-up, and feasted, and moaned — the same way he had done with my body — I would rub his heavy head on my lap. And, while he slowly landed: Oh, how I would adore!
When the elevator arrived, quicker than it would throughout the day when delayed by other mortals, naturally, you held its door open with one arm, while the other continued to maneuver the quickly melting sandwich around your mouth. You would bite and nibble, lick the corners of your lips. I leaned against the cold rail and chuckled, finding myself in the midst of my easily accessible, habitual adoration. The gaze you shot me was somewhat of a warning:
“Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”
By the time there was nothing left in your hand but a wrapper, we had arrived at my destination. I peeled my behind off the rail and made my way to the doors, anticipating, as always, their opening.
“Where are you going?” you said, with a tease and an effortless control.
Quickly you examined the wrapper in your hand for any last bits, crumpled it up, tossed it into the corner; and before I could manufacture a scold or an excuse, you pressed me back into the rail with the now free hand — while pushing every button on the control panel with the other. I laughed. You smiled that easy, manly smile again, moved in on me, looked-up for cameras — and began to maneuver my lips around your mouth.
At first, I kept my eyes open, looking out for an accidental mortal every time the doors slid quietly in their grooves. But you didn’t bother: You bit and nibbled, licked the corners of your lips — and of mine. You dwelled in consequences of your easy charm, now backing them up with skills. With your eyes on me, you’d push more buttons; and I would laugh — again! — into the collar seams of your impeccably white t-shirt.
And by the third time we arrived to the eighteenth floor, I closed my eyes and pushed your back against the control panel…
You tasted like chocolate.