Last weekend I completed my home, thereby accomplishing one of my specific measurable results for 2006. I put up shelves, and installed my long-boxed library. While unpacking a box, I straightened up and nicked the back of my head on one of the metal brackets. The sharp edge scratched me. It stung all week.
My home is complete because everything has its place. Every book has its little bit of real estate. Unprocessed mail has its nook in my desk. The candle holder sits jauntily on the table, lending the surface a surreal air. Duchampian surrealism, not Dali-esque.
In accomplishing this, I find even my non-material possessions have found their places, too. My practice of remaining in the present, and directly experiencing what happens to my senses, was front and center of my daily experience all week. My ability to turn my impatience with the occasionaly naughty Kimble into love of a little companion who is asking for attention in the few ways he knows how comes in at the drop of a dime. Sometimes, I drop a dime. Its bounce has its place.
And my memories of things that happened in the past have never been clearer, uninfected by any involvement with my present experience.
Aaron and I were at Mike's birthday party in late August, several years ago, at a very chic bar whose name shall remain secret. We had been Boyfriends for several months. I was crazy about him, and him me. I even accepted the time he hit that guy with a bat. (This was before I discovered, through him and others, that undesireable behavior exhibited towards others will eventually be directed toward me, the Boyfriend or co-fiend. No one is safe from the vagaries of a personality.). Mike's party was boring us. His friends were never my favorite crowd, and they had turned the party into a boozy shivaree singing songs by some non-interesting diva whose name I cannot even bear to type.
Aaron was drinking beer, and was compensating for his boredom by drinking them quickly. I had had one poorly made Manhattan and was slowly sinking into full-blown annoyance, when Aaron leaned into me from behind, his sweaty chest and wet neck turning my attention very quickly to my crotch. And his. He bit my ear and said, through the biting teeth, "let's go to the bathroom." As always, it was as much a request as a command.
It was this double that I keep writing about with Aaron. I keep repeating myself because I was repeatedly drawn to it. It never failed to work for me. I was his partner, and his property. He was playing, but not. He loved me, as he was forgetting me. He was forward, he was backward. His schedule didn't make sense, but he was always at my side.
He had me walk in front, avoiding the shivaree. He guided me with his hands on my hips. He was always so gentle at this. If he'd been forceful here, I would have bolted. But it was like a gentle pressure, leading left or right. Request and command.
The bathrooms in this place were a bunch of individual rooms with their own sinks, perfect for a couple's private time. I thought we were going to pee, make out, or pee and make out at the same time, as usual. We peed, and then made out, but Aaron right away took down my drawers and lifted me up, my knees above his shoulders. He had spit on his dick, and he slid it in me very quickly. The pain gave me a rush, and cut through the oversweet Manhattan still on my tongue. I shivered on his dick as he thrust in me, my back against the rough exposed brick in the stall. He was possessed, and didn't kiss me much, just kept slamming my ass. He was incredibly strong and beefy, and he was holding me in the air, slamming my back against the brick with each thrust. This felt good and was turning me on. I was ready to blow. He loved me, and he owned me in moments like this. It sounds unhealthy, but it's something I don't share with many people.
Aaron kept at it, harder each time. Then he began to slam me even harder into the wall. It started to hurt, and I told him so. "Baby slow down a minute.". He smiled and did it harder, smacking my head against the wall too. Of course, I came. Later, someone would describe this as a paradoxical effect. Aaron was the master of it. He came a minute later.
He let me down, and leaned forward, kissing me softly, wet, juicily. He put his hand behind my head, and I felt a sting. I winced. He pulled away. I reached down for some toilet paper to clean up, and in the spotlight could see my crimson blood smeared all over his rough and hairy palm.
My first thought was, of course, that belongs there, doesn't it?