Dry Cold

Tales from a lonely cannibal...

I am in the desert. I am in the Arctic Saharah of love. I see cold shimmers on the horizon, but I think it’s just more sand. I see clouds rolling over with no rain touching down. Just the darkened promise that something might break this perpetual dryness. I wish I could feel the drops of water on my face. A downpour of love. I try to tear myself away from this empty cloud but you never know when the sky will open up and so I am hypnotized. Staring at the sky. The pain of loss hovering. Because you have to look up to receive the rain. But then if it’s not there… another painful descent to earth. A collapsing inwards.

He sat at the table. Black fisherman sweater and thick blue jeans. Fresh from work with metal. He wore his shoes instead of boots so he didn’t smell of coal tar. He was a tired, handsome, pile of middle age. The worn out effect that we all get if we are lucky. The vibes were starting between us. The heat in the air. There is no leveling out with him, he is never around long enough. So, I always want as much surface area contact as possible. Body on body. I never just want to exist in proximity. I want to be close. Entangled. I want to entwine my limbs into his. Retreat into that infantile encampment. The ancient parental space that lovers want to encounter. I knelt down in front of him and lay my head on his stomach. It feels better that way. I would rather we lie down on the bed but he wont because he says he will fall asleep. He works too much. I want to go to his house and fall asleep in his bed with him but that is off the table for some reason.

And I take in the peace I get when I lay my head on his stomach. His thighs, thick with muscles. Everyone, judging me for this moment. If they could see. Why do you have to keep chasing him? It’s called a handicap. And here it is. I get to have my moment of fulfillment. I touch his penis through his pants and he smiles at me. I smile back with the devil in my eye.

‘Pretty girl…’ he says.

I am hardly a girl. I am proud of my looks but I think I am losing my vanity. I am slowly being convinced that being attractive is something that comes from the spirit and isn’t just about the flesh sitting in a particular way upon the bones. I think I am more attractive now than when I was a young woman because I have composure. I have a way of carrying myself now. I don’t look at my aging flesh as a tragic loss but a privilege. I am so lucky to be this old. With all the death around me that I have experienced. It’s been around eight people if you include Scott. I feel the privilege to be able to age. I take care of myself and I “looksmaxx” like the kids say. But I liked the 1940’s way of describing it. I am not into new age shorthand. I like the old fashioned transatlantic accent that carefully places each word. But maybe I am just used to the voices of stylized actors and the careful movements of stage performers.

We held each other, now. Me, kneeling before him because I was unsatisfied with sitting across the table. And we were quiet. We were supposed to discuss making porn, for pleasure and for profit, but neither of us seemed to have the jam for it.

We say some words to each other and he finds a lazer beam pointer on the table for my cat and examines the UV light function and proceeds to shine the light around the room explaining the physics of it to me and how different materials reflect the light differently. There was the right amount of detail to interest me. I like to hear about granular science. That is one of my fascinations. Teach me something. I love to learn. We are two really hot middle aged nerds with attachment wounds and a fetish for old music and metallic substances.

I stroke him through his jeans until he is hard and put my teeth on him through the rough denim. That’s the dick I want to film. Camera ready. He doesn’t seem to shrink from this description anymore. He seems to get high on it. I undo his pants and take him out. Warm and soft over hard hydraulics. There is something about the taste of his flesh that turns me into a cannibal. All the hunger in me comes to the surface and I consume. Scratching the itch at the back of my throat. He pushes my head down and I choke but it’s ok, he asked me if he could do that a long time ago. I don’t mind. I like the dominance. I like the race towards suffocation. But it’s not something that can get lodged in your windpipe, so it’s ok. I get horny and sit on his lap for a while. Then le tired catches up with him and he goes soft, puts it away and holds me against his chest. No grand finale today. Just a reminder of what could have been. Next time he comes I want it inside of me. White cream splattered on the cervix. Make life with me.

Time for him to go home. Empty clouds roll away. I am not ready.

‘The dog’s in the car and I have to get ready for tomorrow.’

I try to be cool but then I just can’t. I start to cry. It’s ok. He sits down and takes me on my lap like an infant. He is soothing me just like a squalling babe.

‘Shhh shhhh it’s ok.’ Rocking me, patting me. Holding me together. Cooing in my ear.

‘Object permanence.’ He says, ‘It’s ok. You will see me soon.’ I cry harder. Knowing that there is no way to know that. ‘Oh Liza, it’s ok.’

‘I know, but no matter what I tell my brain, I can’t be different.’ I say through hard sobs. ‘I’m going to hurt so much when you are gone. I wish I was different.’

‘You are doing great. Look how far you have come in the last year. You published your book. You got a car. You got a new job. So much good has happened.’

‘I know but I’m not going to suffer so much when you are away. My brain is broken.’

He breaths into my ear.

‘At least you know it. I like the way you are.’ He says, rocking me. A blanket of sincerity. I get to have this tiny bit of love. Of someone thinking I am good just the way I am. I try to take it in because I know it will be gone soon.

‘I like you the way you are.’

‘Like this?’ -this broken child? Bubbering hot mess of tears and fractured grey matter.

‘You’re so sincere.’

It’s true. I am sincere. I am honest. My body breaks when I am not honest. The crying tapers off and I feel better. I walk him to the door. He puts his beaver hat and bulky black coat on. I touch the fur, it’s tight and soft. Delicate whispers of shiny hairs poking through the dark matted under coat, sprung like a mattress. The kind of fur that seems to generate its own heat. The kind of fur that blood was shed over.

‘Can I have a kiss?’

‘Of course.’

He kisses me on the mouth. Lingering gentle warmth.

‘I’ll see you soon.’ He says and the space between us generates its own heat. The cold dry air reaches in with painful grasping fingers as he opens the door to leave.

I am alone again.