Finally he opened up. Told me everything about his childhood, about his sister Maria, about his despot father, about his first cigarette, about bull fights, about his first love and a guy, whom he fucked in college, about Segovia, architectural studies, about his first fight, about his first year in London and that he had to escort to survive, about elder women who’s pussies he had to lick, about constructors role at Harrods, about trips to Europe and etc.
… about his fear to commit and that he might consider to commit to me.
I listened and sank in his eyes, I dived in, reaching for surface, kicking my feet, trying to catch a breath, but the panic took over and I was going down. If not the sudden change of the topic, that’s where I would be found, by no one else, but his optician. He would ask: so do I need glasses or no? She would shake her head slightly and would reply: everything seems alright, but one thing, there is a women in the bottom of your eye. He would sigh and say: she’s over-jazzed.
There is nothing in common between Julio and my-self apart from bed and only on weekends. I got used to being alone and I can no longer handle the other. I simply see my-self when looking at the other. If the image is more defined – it is more pleasant to look at the other – I pose if in front of a mirror. The existence of the other is bearable if the certain other is some sort of professional and I require one’s assistance, e.g. sales assistant, hairdresser, baker, tailor, shoemaker, family doctor, vet and etc. Maybe also priest, actor, opera singer, musician, dancer and similar, those who lift the spirit up, amongst them – Julio.
A man like this is a wild dog and it should not be held on leash. His love for life spreads around. He is independent, spontaneous, a real gentleman, he is sharp, charismatic, he can get it up and his penis is of a decent size and he has nothing against easting pussy.
- I liked your text: do you do dates, or is it only one night stands? – he quotes a text I once sent.
- Do you do dates?
- … – and why does he need to ruin everything?
- I think you should go.
From here only one way – straight to heartbreak hotel. I am in love with love, he is in love with love, all of us are: Coffee Lovers, Meat Lovers pub, Loving Hut, One Love Carribean restaurant, Love magazine, I want to know what love is by Foreigner, Take on me by A-ha, Love Actually, Regular Lovers, True Romanc, Kiss in St Petersburg by Leonid Afremov, Taj Mahal, Boldt Castel on Heart Island, advertising agency Love, Love doesn’t need many ingredients, nor do we – Häagen-Dazs, j’adore dior and so on.
And then love is not good enough, like a partner, because she is not an underaged teen fucked in her ass by the math teacher, because she didn‘t do the homework, because he is not a masseur pleasuring his client with his tongue, because she is not a bored houswife waiting for a plumber to come…
It‘s like you wanna (make) love, but something is missing.
- Why don‘t you wanna try? – he asks me standing in a corridor lit by a red light like a prostitute.
- Because I know that sooner or later we will grow tired of it. We are spoiled by the knowledge, that there is more than just us.
- But sometimes it‘s reassuring to know that someone is waiting for you somewhere – did he read Anna Gavalda collection of short stories?
- Alright alright, I‘ll wait, now – run… – I urge him as if he was a lost puppy.
Let him run about. He will anyway, or wish he could and pee around from stress.
The only thing that matters that after all he finds his way back home.