Emotional Orgasm

  • I haven’t been writing for quite a while now, – I confess; and you reply promptly asking: why?

I linger for a minute in doubt: should, or shouldn’t I answer, and then declare: because words can no longer find the way back to me. After we both sit in silence, because between us all is answered, all is clear.

  • Maybe this is the case between literature and me? Maybe all is answered? – I ask you searching for tobacco.
  • Doubt it, – you don’t brag.
  • I can no longer write about rela/… – I keck impulsively, – /…tionships, only from a thought of it my body goes numb, my stomach feels sick and all I ever eaten comes back, leaving a revolting taste in my mouth.
  • Why is that? – sometimes it feels like you’re not listening, only intervene stimulating my emotional clitoris until I reach the climax.
  • Why? – I repeat, somewhat trying to assimilate with the question, in order to avoid a sham response. Even though I justified it a thousand times before in my head, even though I mentioned it a dozen times in random conversations.

I say nothing and you stay silent too. I smile. You ask for a bill.

  • This is exactly why! – I state and motion my hand like a conductor closing a piece.
  • Pardon? – you give me a puzzled look.
  • Why did you ask for a bill? I still have some wine left.
  • I thought we are leaving.
  • Someone should definitely write a book about the primitively of men…
  • /… it would be more like a booklet of two to three pages.
  • Exactly, – I nod in agreement.

I invested enough effort analysing female and male relation, also male and male relation, as well as female plus female and all cases were more or less the same: if it is not going to be you, there will be somebody else. Men are still in domination, because women (still) find it hard to separate from emotion. Right atmosphere, right timing, a couple of (untruthful) confessions and they can not help but wonder how the future together would look like. Sometimes it’s enough to slip in a trickily question or rather a hint, something like: so there is no chance of us taking a bath together? And you just leave it right there. Somewhere amongst all the planning the feeling that this probably will not work out hits in, but hope is a tight little black dress of the twenty first century. Once you figure this entire relationships thing out in addition to the overall knowledge that you are not immortal – the being becomes rather eerie and all looks vacuous. Online dating, pornography and loneliness all what’s left there for you to enjoy. A black hole opens up inside and you are craze trying to fill it in stuffing your-self with junk, smoking away, popping tablets, fucking your brains out, consuming waste, looking for at least a tiny thrill taking on extreme sport, looking for God in places… He no longer exists. Too much noise. Too much information. Too many desires. Too much choice. Too much freedom.

  • Here you go, – a waiter with Cindy Crawford mole above his upper lip breaks off the chain of thoughts.

You stretch out a fifty pounds note and without waiting for a change head straight to a cloakroom. While you’re away Cindy takes my hand turns the palm up and tattoos his phone number on my wrist. I smile at him, the way I smiled at you, just a couple of minutes ago. If you learn to separate emotions, you’re left with a body; a temporary beautiful thing that everyone desires to posses. There are plenty of fine things around and they all are easily accessible. Everyone needs to be relished; everyone needs to regain their slipping self-esteem. Mass production. Romance is dead. There is no space for romance. We’re too busy creating ideal profiles to please everyone, to make them like us.

  • Sometimes I do miss a human, – I open up sliding my hands into coat pockets, – Look around, it looks like everyone is posing for a selfie.

And sometimes, I get a feeling that you’re the one, who could fill up the void inside. And once, I’m whole, we could start working on your cracks.

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