(“You seem illiterate to all my emotions
I stand corrected…how well you read…” --PM Dawn)
People ask why all the time…why I stay…why I don’t leave…why
I’m content to hide in a shadow that some say is larger than life. They’re
skeptical, scrutinizing our relationship with a critic’s eye, detached and
aloof and discerning as though we were a painting on a gallery wall.
I understand, on the most basic of levels. They want to know. They see the exhaustion in his face and the sadness in his eyes, and they wonder how I can stand to pick up the pieces. They listen to my voice as I hear his whispers from hundreds of miles away, and they know that the weight grows heavier with time. They feel the anticipation in the air just before he arrives, or the tension in the evening when we go to a club and there are too many bodies, too many people around. They want to know. They need a reason. They feel, on some level, they’ve earned it.
But maybe…maybe I don’t need a reason. Maybe there isn’t some grand explanation that I can declare with sweeping grandeur. Maybe it’s something as simple as the brush of his lips against my neck…or the smile in his eyes when he whispers words of forever.
Maybe it’s the soft sound of question that escapes his lips when I get up at night for a glass of water, and the needy arms outstretched eagerly to greet me when I return. Maybe it’s the slow thud of his heart against my back, the warm whisper of his breath against my ear…the echo of his erotic cries as our bodies merge slowly, teasingly, so hot it scorches the very breath in my lungs.
Perhaps it’s the bright fire that burns when he’s truly angry, the clench in his jaw and the strength in his stance and the determination in eyes that see through everyone. Maybe it’s the knowledge that the very same body will melt and relax and liquefy slowly under a gentle, tender touch…or it might be the soft sigh that escapes parted lips when he thanks me, softly, for caring. For strength. For anchoring him when his soul is adrift…and the unflinching knowledge that he provides that same security, unfailingly, to me.
I’ve put just as much thought into what it isn’t…what is nice but not necessary, a jewel in a crown equally beautiful unadorned. It isn’t returning to an elaborate mansion with marble bathrooms and amenities that challenge even the most grandiose dreamer. It isn’t a white box with a purple satin ribbon on a plush bed fitted with sheets of Egyptian cotton, or the silky confection contained inside…a soft cloud of material that feels like heaven against the skin but screams of sin in the sharp gaze of a mirror. I’d be far more pleased by a single shuddering breath drawn from his lips when his eyes fall upon mine…or the quiet click that shatters the silence when he swallows against a throat too thick with desire.
It isn’t the flashbulbs or the hotels or the private lounges accessible only to the very rich and the very famous. I’d settle for a Polaroid snapped in
It isn’t knowing who he is…a superstar, a deity to millions who worship blindly at fame’s altar. It’s knowing who he isn’t...a narcissist, an abuser, a man who prioritizes his pleasure at the price of another’s pain. It’s looking at that face in the mirror…and seeing the man who hides beneath, burdened by thousand of vicious lies, all painted by a public proclaiming to adore him.
It’s confidence sparking in a scared little boy, a smile through sadness so pure it aches…it’s a body that deserves to be worshipped but chooses to defer in order to give…to share ecstasy instead of seizing it…to accept an offer instead enforcing demands.
It is his smile, his tears, his laughter and pain, dizzying highs and desperate lows…the alchemy of love with the surety of logic. It is one plus one and abracadabra, chemistry with a backdrop of the finest art…the heart and the head and my soul and his body…rooted in reality but dependent on a dream.
That is my reason.
That is why.
And that is enough.
© 2002 ~A