One kiss from me and you’ll be overjoyed and overawed

For a month-and-a-half, PF and I have been emailing regularly. He is a Professor and is very gifted with the written word, but sometimes he infuriates me with his completely impersonal but really, really lengthy responses. I know he loves nothing more than to write and write. He does it in academics and he does it in pop songs and he does it in emails. But trying to read between all those sentences is frustrating. What is he feeling? Does he fancy me? Does he like me as a friend? Does he think I’m smart? Am I interesting enough for him? How incredibly insecure of me. But then again, I read and reread the emails I write to him, and check a thesaurus for new and interesting adjectives. What am I doing?

I regret not speaking to him more when we had four days together at the music festival in June. I had my eye on him from the very start of it. After he performed, I remember walking past him leaning rather dramatically outside the restroom, waiting for the door to open. He is very tall and so brings a striking element to visualizations. As mentioned in my previous entry about him, it wasn’t until the last night when I finally spoke to him and I was completely and utterly charmed. I still hold onto the way he looked at me, with such kindness and warmth in his eyes, though the feeling in that memory has faded slightly.

And now we have been emailing regularly but what are we saying? I think sometimes I am just propping up his ego, though it’s not as obvious as that. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, he lives by himself, and – as a Professor – he’s not teaching this summer. He’s alone a lot. He responds to my emails quickly but with such long treatises, the length and substance of which I’ve never received before. I often find them interesting, other times infuriating, but mostly intriguing.

Still, there are occasional nods to sex, romance, and attraction in his words. And it is one of those from yesterday that’s set me off. Many years ago, he broke his collarbone by falling off his bike. He said:

That is about the end of the story, save that my collarbone has been visibly disjointed ever since for anyone who cares to look (I remember the guitarist I was in a band with at the time, already a father of two teenagers, speculating that this would make me attractive to girls: not only fanciful at best, not to say false, this theory, but probably even more immediately flawed by the fact that no-one can see my collarbone most of the time)…

The eroticism that inspired in me, he may never know. Ever since last night, my heart has been flipping up into my throat the way it does when lusty, blushing desire rushes through me in hopes of turning a fantasy into reality. I’m seeing PF in a week or two, hopefully more than once, and with some time alone god willing. I know that I am going to be fixated on his collarbone, the glimpses I may get.

I fantasize about the night growing later, more drinks being consumed, us in a crowded room. Everyone moves around us but we are in slow motion. We talk and laugh and stare at one another, careful not to draw curious attention to ourselves. I cannot help but stare at his collarbone peaking out from the rim of his shirt, desperate to touch it with my fingers and mouth. He fixes his gaze on me, knowing what I want to do. Sitting close to him, I reach over and trace his collarbone slowly with my fingers until I find the slight bend where it was once broken. The feeling of warm honey races through my veins and I desperately want to run my tongue along his break (much like Vellini rushes into the room to lick the blood off the suitor she had her husband shoot in The Last Mistress). His eyes are locked to mine and it’s like we are fully enjoined with just my fingers and his neck.

Slowly but steadily I get up to go outside, around the corner, anywhere away from this crowd. He follows but a minute behind me. We find a small space between buildings and he bends down and grabs my face and kisses me. How I long to fight with his wonderfully protruding nose. His whole elegant body envelopes me and I not only taste his lips but finally trace a path down his neck and lick his clavicle in long lashes.

The Boys of Summer No. 4

Then there was BP. I had had casual, online, and mail (mail!) contact with him over the past few years. He’s involved in our scene quite a bit and puts heartfelt things together, lovingly sending me free copies of hand-touched pieces. I had just received a wonderful package from him about a week prior to our meeting. I couldn’t wait to thank him in person. Somehow, I had his visual image confused with someone else and when I met him in person I couldn’t quite fix that mix-up in my mind for a whole night. But fix it I did eventually and I came to admire him even more and carry a romantic fondness for him.

He is quite a bit older than the majority of our group of friends, and active people in this scene. His hair is completely grey, though it’s still quite thick and lustrous. His skin may be dry and lined, but he smiles a lot, almost as much as his eyes do. His eyes are a watery blue. Not watery as in bearing itchy tears, but pale, shining blue like a pure ocean. He is just taller than me and gives the most incredible warm hugs.

We talked so much over the weekend. He is utterly easy to talk to and get along with. He has a lot to say and much to brag about, being a part of a fiercely iconic music scene some twenty years ago and currently in a much loved band. But brag he does not. He speaks carefully and directly to you, and then asks thoughtful questions of you. It is impossible to overstate how attractive this is.

He only recently put his thoughts together on the long weekend we all spent together. All of us were taken with his words but me especially so. He mentioned me three times on three things I remember distinctly, him making me out as a beautiful, interesting, multi-faceted person. He made my insides burn with desire and appreciation. I hope to let him know more when I’m near him next month.

The Boys of Summer No. 3

CR is from a South American country and resides in our country’s biggest Latino paradise. I missed out on meeting him when I was in his sizzling city in March as we had just casually started introductions online. A shame because when I met him at this festival, I was smitten.

Tall – very tall – slender, caramel colored skin, thick black hair and thick black spectacle frames to match, the classiest of t-shirts advertising his favorite bands, and spanking new white converse trainers. He came bearing gifts, too. He gave me a brilliant seven inch from his amazing record label. I swooned.

I spoke with him here and there over the weekend. Honestly, it was sometimes difficult to hold a conversation with him as his accent is so thick. But I kept going for it because his sense of humor and unparalleled confidence was insane. He has worked with so many bands and even if he hadn’t put their single out, they all seemed to know one another. Set lists were dedicated to him. Gifts were bestowed upon him.

He was always chewing gum. He always stood head and shoulders above everyone else in the tightly-knit crowds. He always had a tote bag of records and other goodies with him. He always had facts and opinions to readily offer in the sweetest way. I ached.

If my life circumstances do not change, I will be seeing him in September. We’ve been exchanging emails about this and both seem to be equally thrilled about the prospect. My fantasies have been raging like wildfires through me since this has come to light. I’ve no idea what he would be up for but I hope it will be adventurous and true.

The Boys of Summer No. 2

I didn’t know EP would be there. I knew of him because he is an integral part of our community. We live in different countries but I had once been in the same room as him before when I attended a 3-night event he put on. I remembered him differently. Not one to truly catch my eye.

As soon as I met up with my group of friends Thursday night, he was there. We shook hands and I blushed. He had black, wavy close-cropped hair and piercing ocean-colored eyes. He was fit and looked like he worked out, unlike a lot of his peers in his age range.

Over that night I could feel his gaze on me. I returned it. The next day we all met up again and I loved listening to him speak. He had an unusual accent and he spoke slowly. I savored every word.

I felt his attraction to me and I hope he felt mine. The second night he noted my dress and pointed out how I stood out and he appreciated the effort I made amongst a bunch of sometimes average, sometimes grubby kids. Another time he commented on how sweaty he was (it was sizzling hot over those four days; and the venues provided very little respite). I told him we were all sweaty and probably a bit stinky. He said he bet I wasn’t.

He backed off a little bit when my partner joined us halfway through the weekend. I wonder if EP thought differently of me when he thought I may have been single. I’m sure he did. It’s always heartbreaking when you see someone look at you differently, interact with you differently. I want to say: please don’t stop.

The last night he said something to me that took me aback. It was true, but it was not something I say of myself, something I believe in, nor something I ever say out loud. I downed two drinks quickly after that. A flush flowed over me the rest of the evening and when we said goodbye he kissed me on the cheek and gave me an all-enveloping full-body hug. We fit like puzzle pieces. I did not want to let go.

The Boys of Summer No. 1

A dry spring it’s been but come June and the heat is on. I go away for a long weekend and meet a cadre of gorgeous people, many of whom I want to devour. I will detail each of them over a few posts.

PF is a gorgeous singer-songwriter who is always writing or recording a song or collaborating on some musical project. His talent is endless. But he is no stereotypical slacker musician, working nights at the local diner. Oh no. He is a professor. A professor of literature! A true academic and only in his mid-30s. And he is a carrier of the accent I have swooned over for half my life.

He is a rare bird, PF. Outgoing, affable, prodigiously talented, relatively young, stable, humble, and kind. I saw him about for four days. The first night I saw him perform my heart beat fast for him. He moved amongst my friends and acquaintances over the next few days but I just did not know what to say to him. He has big beautiful eyes. He is really quite tall. I smiled shyly as I passed him a number of times.

The last night, the night of tears and hugs and goodbyes, I finally got my chance. He’d ingested a number of drinks and was talking animatedly from early in the evening. Later on, he was talking with some new friends of mine and I sidled over. The conversation he was having with a male fan is too complicated - though hilarious - to explain here. I got in at some point. I was across from him. And then I moved beside him.

He looked at me with the kindest, most soulful eyes. His head sort of dipped down and his chest and shoulders turned completely towards me as I told him that I really liked his latest single (and I do!). I am trying desperately not to forget the way he looked at me. If ever a camera were needed to capture a moment it was then. It was with such warmth how he looked at me. I wanted to take his face in my hands and kiss his smooth forehead.

I returned his gaze and had a short, but heart-pounding conversation with him. The exchange was even, and the interest was mutual. I could have stayed there with him all night, maybe leaving hand in hand and wandering the sticky summer streets together. If I was free, I would have. He is free and in the days after our meeting he has emailed me many clever words that make my heart race. It is probably unhealthy to get my hopes up at all.

There’s not a thing that I can save from all those wasted, wasted days

Just two weeks ago I was in a gloriously warm climate for a few days. Eighty-degrees F plus, warm breezes, and palm trees. I was alone for a few days and hoping to share a secret kiss in the salty air.

The longer I am in my current relationship, the more my confidence buckles. I used to have affairs with no fear or problems when I traveled. I fully intended to send a cheeky wink to whomever deserved it, but I buckled.

I had the perfect opportunity, too. Four cheeky British boys were on holiday and we had taken the same money-sucking tour. It would have been dead easy for me to introduce myself and ask to get a meal or a drink with them  later in the evening. I heard them lament to an older woman how they had been failing at trying to do spring break American-style. We were even on the bus together back to the city; them right behind me. I got off the bus before they did and I never saw them again.

I spent my nights alone then; alone and early-to-bed. And much of my day time activities too. What a waste! What a complete and utter waste of time and energy. So rare are these solo jaunts of mine. And particularly in such a steamy atmosphere. I have nothing on the horizon now; nothing to look forward to. I was hoping to come back to my relationship and my place of living revitalized and saucy. Now I sit here with nothing but regret.

See, I truly believe that one regrets far more what one didn’t do than what one did.

In a second she knew: she wanted him

I live for my dreams (both daydreams and those that happen while I slumber) and for fantasies. Sometimes they are the only things that help me retain a shred of optimism.

A few weeks ago I had a very Atonement-like dream about DA and I. I was wearing a long, elegant satin gown and waiting in a darkened room that was outfitted with worn oak wood. Wood booths, wood countertops, wood wall partitions. The room was hazy with wine, smoke, and romance. I was alone at the bar with a rich glass of wine. Maybe I was waiting for someone, waiting for him, or maybe I was just looking for a scandalous liaison.

No matter because soon DA came into the room, jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a crisp, fitted tuxedo, all long lines and elegant gait. He grabbed me by the hand and off we went scurrying through hallways and door frames and stairways until we got to what looked like private telephone booths with doors that locked behind you. He took me into one of those dim, cramped booths and kissed me passionately, much like James McAvoy and Keira Knightley do in that scene where they finally unleash their passion for one another in the library.

It was a glorious, heart-pounding rush of excitement, but the dream ended too soon.

In the meantime, DA writes me teasing, knowing things like, “If there is somebody who will appreciate [this band] in the same way that I do, I believe that you could be the one” and a subject line of “What can not be, but is.” Does he realize how loaded that phrase is? And if so, did he choose it purposely? Oh oh oh, will I ever know?

Happy new year, you’re my only vice

Three years. Three years it had been since I last saw the stunningly beautiful DA. I had just about forgotten about him. Forgotten about how much desire I had for him. How easy our conversation had come. How we could talk and flirt and laugh and dance with minimal effort but with much adoration.

On New Year’s Eve, surrounded by some of the most beautiful people, in my favorite club in the world, DA walked into the room. My heart stopped. So tall and lanky and with cheekbones that could cut paper. So striking and so gorgeous, yet so humble and quiet he is.

I gave him a big hug when all I wanted to do was smother him in kisses. I wanted to show him how much I had missed him and how I will always desire him. We danced and talked throughout the night. He stayed close to me for the entire evening. We stole moments outside away from the noise and the crowd. Lots of new things have happened in his life since we were last in contact with one another. I asked him if he was happy. He said not exactly, but that he hoped to get there soon. I sort of wished he had asked me the same. I would have said that I was at that moment.

I can’t help but fantasize about what a great partnership we would make. Yes, I have lustful thoughts about a lot of people. But my feelings for DA go well beyond lust and have sustained their strength for many years apart. I play the “what if” game. There are so many obstacles in our lives. Yet I truly hope that one day DA and I will get a chance to try each other out. And not just with a stolen kiss. I want to hold hands and walk through the romantic cobble stone streets of life together.

All I want to do is see you again; Is that too much to ask for?

After an overnight flight where everything went wrong, the only thing that kept me sane was knowing that KJ would be the one to greet me to let me into my holiday accomodation.  When I saw him walking up the street, I ran with such joy to give him a hug. He told me I looked beautiful; that I was really working the snow bunny look. We had a full afternoon of flirtatious (but fairly safe in the presence of my partner!) conversation even though I was so exhausted I could barely make sense of what was in front of me.

With only two days left in the same glorious city together, we made plans to be tourists on those days.

The next day’s plans came apart as he was ill. It was a shame as I would have had him completely and utterly to myself as my partner was waiting at our accomodation for our luggage. KJ promised to meet up the next day; his last full day in town before taking off to even further away.

That night, he emailed me to tell me that his girlfriend had banned him from heading outside on his last full day in town. I read this email and held back tears. I did not respond. The next morning, he texted me to tell me to say the same words and that he was feeling much better. I did not respond. Too many other things were going awry on my holiday. All I wanted to do was spend time with him in this most beautiful, romantic city.

Utterly heartbroken at first, my melancholy turned to disdain over my holiday. Letting somebody else make decisions for you; not doing what you want to do; sitting idly by while someone else plays boss: what a turn off.

KJ expressed sadness at not seeing me more during this trip, but vowed that we would see each other again. I’m not so sure. I have no reason to go where he lives, and he has only slightly more impetus to visit where I live. The possibility of seeing one another, particularly under such extraordinary circumstances, is quite low. And even if such a time comes again, it won’t be any time soon.

Sing and dance and enjoy the scene; the most tip-top place there’s ever been

In mere days I will be in the most romantic city in the world. It is a city of narrow winding streets that hide beautiful treasures just beyond every curve in the road. It is a city to get lost in. It is a city that you can visit innumerable times and never see it in quite the same way. It is a city to never get bored of. It is my favorite city.

And who will I be visiting this city with? My partner! And who will I see while I am there? KJ! And who is KJ there to see? His girlfriend! I am equal parts thrilled and terrified at this most convoluted of situations. What I will find most difficult is not effusing with warm desire towards and making the biggest of googly eyes at KJ. I will have to keep my hands to myself. I know that this will pierce my heart to act neutral around him, but it surely won’t hurt as much as if I have to meet his probably perfect girlfriend.

All of this drama makes me wonder if it would be better to just not see him at all. Why stir the pot when I am settling into my grey mundane life after I said goodbye to him over a month ago? But then can I count on ever seeing him again? No, I can’t. He lives in an unusual, far-away place and one I have no desire to visit again except to see his spun gold locks shine in the sun.

I also entertain fantasies of setting it off while walking across one of the most beautiful bridges in the world. Or whilst walking down a cobbled alleyway. Or over a loud pub conversation in which our group of mutual friends are all yelling at one another over the din. To say, “to hell with it!” and put my hand on his leg, to put my arm around him, to look deep into his eyes, and to let him know that I cannot let him slip through my fingers yet again.