The next thing I knew, it was summertime. The warmth began to change the way we spent our time outdoors. The days were longer and the nights were hotter. And I?
I was a young man, lovelessly hopeful and silently admiring those who had someone to go home to.
Spring had gone by so fast, as if yesterday was just here.
The winter was a blur to me, as if autumn had just begun by changing the leaves on the trees in Central Park.
New York City had finally calmed down from its previous hiatus and all the “who’s-who’s” and “what’s-what” and the popular debutantes and socialites race to beaches in their Hampton summer homes or fight their spots on the Fire Island ferries.
I am not so sure how this is or how things happen.
Age stepped in and the days of being “out east” are light years away and more like a story that happened to me in another life.
I am not sure how time flies and blows passed us, like speeding cars on the expressway, unaware and uncaring about the rest of the world because to them, all lanes are the passing lane.
I see time like this too.
Remember when life was free enough not to care who came or went?
I remember . . .
In this regard, I see time is like that old rebellion of ours, driving like kamikaze youngsters who live on a mission, murdering the highways at speeds of excess, and yes, I get the thrill and the self-absorb need to feel the speed of light.
I still pedal awfully fast when I drive.
I love speed.
I admit it. So, I get it.
I get the feelings that come along when we need to be “the one!”
I understand the instant gratification that blazes through the bloodstream and rewards us enough to cast our cares into the abyss of complete abandon.
Nothing maters except the time.
The future is meant for old people.
The time was then but to me; the time was “now” and the defiance and the rebellion in our hearts was like pure virgin blood about to sacrifice purity for the seduction of flesh.
I know the wild and freeness of saying “fuck it!”
I know all about pointing my middle finger to the world, as if to defy everyone and everything, —except for you, of course, because most likely, you would be with me.
(Dreaming or awake)
I think I need this.
I think I need this feeling, which is not to say that I need to be the inconsiderate asshole on the road or young again, —but in the same breath, I think I need a dose of what it felt like to be young, or unhinged and disconnected, or to dance a close dance with the sweat of my body mixed with the scent of your perfume.
Or how about a role play?
That would be nice.
Go sit at the bar of a small and quiet place and ignore everyone.
Sit there, perhaps like you would when you were young enough to tell your responsibilities that they can go fuck themselves.
Sit there like nothing could bother you or touch you.
Sit there and be cold and cool, yet, you are blazing hot because you are sexy, like a Latin dance in the heat of the night on the beaches of Condado. Sit there with the obvious defiance that lo and behold, there will be no reason to wake up early the next morning, —unless of course, we make it to the beach and sleep in the sun.
That’s be fine.
Either way, sit at the bar with your drink on the rocks and literally everything about you is shiny, —your skin has been touched by the sun, all tanned and beautiful.
Your nails are manicured, shiny beneath the overhead lights.
Your hair is down, long, and beautiful.
Everything about you has a “come hither” appeal and yet, you look off as if no one deserves our attention.
And men try to gai your attention.
But no.
You choose not to be bothered.
You make no eye contact, and perhaps this is only so with the bartender, but only hardly, —so to get what you want, you only look enough to acknowledge the drink is on its way as you clarify your request.
I can see this in my head.
(you know?)
You’ve claimed your station and staked your flag to declare your real estate at the bar.
This is your spot and the world around you knows it.
You, wearing a black dress, which I remember well and intimately.
Your legs are perfect to me, like a sexy lullaby and an erotic story that I would love to be wrapped in for the lengthy hours that launch beyond midnight.
I can approach you at the bar, like a stranger.
I can introduce myself to you, —but I am dismissed by you because, of course, you have no time for anyone or anything because the night is about you
And I am fine with this.
I am fine with the night being about you.
I am fine with everything that goes with those rules because in the end, I am all about you, which is selfish because being all about you is more gratifying to me than you’ll ever believe..
You notice that I keep looking.
You notice my eyes study you.
You notice that my appetite is not just hungry.
I am insatiable and somehow unstoppable because no matter how you try to deny me, —whether you can say “no” to me or not; nothing is safe in the respect that my lust for you is not just hefty, it is dangerous too, —and yet, you find this danger to be undeniable and sexy.
Maybe you can’t say no to me.
At least, I hope not.
Nothing is safe.
Nothing is off limits.
No one can stop us.
No one can tell us what to do.
There’s no work to deal with the next day.
No bosses,
No bitching or complaining.
No one is waiting for us at home.
No one else is depending on us.
The moment is just us –
for us, and by us
and yes, the moment is made to be “our bitch!”
I never knew you when I needed you most.
And yes, I never dared to say these things to anyone or to any other woman before.
But I am that one who knew you before I met you and I am that one who dreamed of you before you appeared top me in real life.
I am “that one!”
I am “the one” who has thought of you during the late hours at night, looking up through the darkness and staring at my ceiling, and wondering “when will I have her?”
“When will she be mine?”
When?.
There is not a day that goes by or a night when I sleep that I am not thinking or dreaming of you.
All of the years behind us flew by and yet, the idea that I might have to wait to see you another day or week or month is worse than living in a prison in life-long isolation.
You see me at the bar . . .
You know I won’t go away
But you cannot appear to be bothered.
“Are you going to stare at me all night?”
“Maybe,” I answer.
You sip your drink.
I ask, “Are you going to ignore me all night?”
“Maybe,” you answer.
The bartenders is within range.
They hear us.
Others at the bar notice this too.
Our eyes lock.
You feel me, but yet, you do not break character.
I look at you and I move closer.
“I didn’t ask you to come closer,” you say.
“I know,” I tell you
“But if I’m going to wager, then I have to bet big and go all in!”
You ask mem “So, you’re a betting man?”
“I’ve been known to place a bet or two.”
You smile slightly.
But I can’t take it.
I don’t break character.
No, I just kiss you hard and fast.
You enjoy for a second and let out a slight moan and then push me off.
The bartenders and the others at the bar cannot believe this.
“I never said you could do that,” you say with anger.
“You never said I couldn’t either.”
I kiss you again.
This time you allow yourself to enjoy a few seconds more.
The truth of the matter is, there is a real thing called love at first sight.
I know it.
I saw it the first time I watched you come through a doorway.
Unbelievable . . .
You look at me after my last kiss.
Your face takes on an aggressive expression, as if you are ready, locked and loaded, and fit for war.
You tell me, “You know that I am going to fuck the shit out of you, right?”
“Not if I fuck the shit out of you first,” I say.
I want to dare the world and dare the light of day.
I want to break the dawn.
I want to walk the beach.
I want this and more because I am that one who has always dreamed but never dared.
So, now, I’m daring everything I have.
I’m “all in” as they say
I need this.
I need the role play
Say, like on a cruise ship maybe.
Say, like, maybe we need to make this happen.
you know?
And I will wait for this the same as I wait for you because good or bad, I want to be “the one” you choose.
I want to be the one to break down your door, and destroy the walls that you built from the heavy bricks of your past casualties.
I want this
I want you
I want everything
(my love.)
I’m sure everyone at the bar would be amazed by our little scene, —or they’d be shocked at how I snuck you away from the bar or slipped you into the bathroom for longer than we bargained for.
They’d probably say, “Did you see that?”
Let them see, I say.
besides, nothing is better than making the world jeaouls
Not even speeding down an empty highway with the top down can beat this
That is, if you ask me . . .
of course.
The Written Addiction 