He was eager, as always. Nothing had changed. Fingers fumbling and curious about this present he had opened many times before, but now for the first time, again, after well over a decade. Like an impatient child on Christmas morning, he wanted to rush and break open the boxes to find whether Santa had delivered all that was on his wish list – for indeed, he had been a good boy. The glint in his eye, the heat in his touch; how could she remain unmoved. While he talked, she thought, her mind racing back and forth, madly leafing through the chapters and then pages and then paragraphs of her life, which had so unfolded to bring her right here into this hotel room, in this bed, in between these sheets, once crisp, now crumpled underneath them, while his hands explored the inches – Seattle.
How long had it been, the touch of a man, not any man, but this man, and could she possibly say she was a virgin again? At 42, hardly, yet she once had been, with this very same man – some long time ago in a spot not so far away from where they now lie, in another room, in another bed, between another set of once crisp, then crumpled sheets with her writhing, blushing clumsy body – 1980.
She can hear him now. In and out of the past she drifts, until his touch cajoles her into the present they occupy. He wants her – that's obvious and she him, by now. She lets go of her cool exterior, disrobing mind, body and soul, succumbing to her desire to touch him. She guides his hand. He lets out an unnerving cry, as memories rush back into his mind too, the young woman he once knew with the same body response; she is as wet as an 18-year-old kissed for the very first time. And he – hard.
The rest is a big blur of attacking the sheets and the flesh, each reaching into the other's innards, yanking the want, greedily grabbing an old memory, holding it for a few seconds and letting it go only to reach for another morsel to marvel at. Gone are her inhibitions and morbid thoughts, chased away is the frosty cloak with which she had insulated her soul in recent years. Delicious gluttony – drunken bodies, sober souls – making history. Her mind is now racing a million miles a minute. Can she even hear him above the beseeching of her body – as it lands back on planet earth and dares to feel – once again – a man, this man. She has been loved, many times, that's for sure – yet this is different – it is like coming home. Her heart in her throat, threatens to race her to the little death – le petit mort. There is no turning back.
He insists that she take the lead, but how can she? She is now mere putty, barely able to move. He is lying beside her, staring at her, talking rapidly in English – of all things. And she has a mental chuckle, that of all the lovers she has had, he is the one privileged to share the Persian version of her libido and yet he takes solace in an acquired tongue – oh, the irony. As he rattles on, she, ferociously, translates in her head as her arousal mutiplies. He won't stop talking, repeating over and over again what he is going to do to her and yet, cruel as he has decided to become at this very point in time, he won't do it. He is holding back and she hates and loves him that very moment for making her want him so. The boundaries blur as her mind turns into mush, flushing itself of any thought other than this moment, now, this body, this feeling.
She pulls him over herself and they are still, for just a brief moment, to acknowledge what is about to take place. He rubs against her and it feels to her like standing atop a giant waterfall over which she is about to slide. Cruel, callous and calculated – the price of love, he wants her to beg for it. Voraciouly she tears his soul apart, eyes wide open, staring, no shame in this now. He enters her, first gently, and then hopelessly fiercely.
So, the two become one, if only for a brief moment, stealing their destiny from the world outside and willing it to be right here, right now, another unspoken pledge made between the two of them. This is theirs to keep. The gods are jealous.
The waves come, first a gentle whisper in her ear, she can feel the heat start building up around her neck, spread down her torso while her limbs shudder aflame. She moans. He holds her right there, as if from instinct or experience or both, he knows where to keep her teetering on the razor's edge before the inevitable plunge. The humming in her ear, the convulsions that are building up inside and his voice together form a mass chorus cheering her on to dive. She is a goner. As every cell in her body implodes and screams, she reaches out for him lest she be lost in the abyss. Her mind plays the final stanza to nirvana as the waves crescendo all over her flesh, finally coming to a joyous rendezvous in between her legs. She soars.