Saturday, December 05, 2009

Love, come back to me

A woman is a woman is a woman. Even one who sells her self. Because we all sell ourselves, though some are more aware than others, what they sell.

For a night to feel that innocence, sweetness and joy of a beautiful woman in bed. To sleep and to feel and to hold someone until the morning comes.

After making love she wants me to fry her eggs. The hunger inside her is deep and true. I offer her the finest Belgian chocolate, prociutto, parmesan cheese, some left over caviar, even. No, none of that, she doesn't know what that is. She just wants fried eggs and looks at all the marvels I put in front of her with indifference. And in the darkness, naked, there we stood in the kitchen, with the neon lights from the apartment parking lot seeping in through the half drawn curtains. It's not enough light for me, I go to flip on the light switch; no light, electricity gone. She gets her cell phone, and uses it to guide me as I crack the eggs and then - sizzle, pop. I find her irresistible.

Kundera says to be careful with metaphors when it comes to Love. One metaphor can enslave a man to a woman forever, the deeper poetic meaning, etched in our soul, never letting go. But for me it's less metaphors and more the cinema of the moment, the pure aesthetic grace of being in a film together, no matter how absurd. If the story fits, wear it. And here I am after making love to her, I'm on the stove, in the middle of the night, frying her eggs and kissing her, and she's got one eye on me and the other on a late night dinner. Our passion may burn out, but the eggs won't; I am careful. She comes over behind me, caresses me, and says she prefers them easy over.

"An egg without salt, is like sex without love" - S. Dali

I make sure to add the salt, because I knew she isn't the type to care either way. She just needed something in her stomach and I just needed to feed her, in this moment we were meant for each other; salt and eggs; love and sex. How certain ideas once inside us bear a fruit so beautiful. I've often quoted that Dali quote at many a cocktail party, in vain and feeble attempts to appear cultured, sophisticated and interesting, and here it came to life, in the strangest of circumstance.

It reminded me to add the salt, to put a little love in, it takes so little, means so much.

She ate with that ravenous hunger, the hunger of someone who eats little but wants more, always. Her body was perfect, tight and strong. A body that works to survive is always a healthy body. Nature is perfect that way, it gives so much in poverty and takes so much in wealth. And makes both want to come to the other, to complete each other, master servant, we run to each other, east west, strong weak, the good and the bad, we need each other, each defined by the other, unable to live amongst our own kind.

She smelled of roses and the earth, and after eating, as if she had been sleeping in my bed for years, she snuggled up to me, and took the covers over her and smiled that deep smile of contentment. I looked into her eyes, and smiled too. There was no way to reach her through words. I only had my smile and my manhood, to let her know how beautiful she was. And my kisses, and when you can't speak, and no one can hear you, something deep down in us comes through to touch someone. And that is what I felt.

In the beginning there was the word, but I long for the time before the beginning when there were no words, only energy, innocence and a joy that no longer exists. Well, maybe for a night, on a strange island, until the morning comes.


Varun said...

it gives so much in poverty and takes so much in wealth

So, so true man. So much you said reverberates true.

Ezili Dantò said...

I've had the unfortunate privilege to read two of the links Gabo provided as he vainly sounded bored with Junot Díaz's worthy "Apocalypse, What Disasters Reveal' taking a gratuitous swipe along the way at Arundhati Roy as he affords us his "I am an insider - a Haiti aid worker" spiel. The first link was a jumble of words, full of sound and color signifying zilch, except to make the important point about the uses of Haiti to young white woman and Mr. Gabo's sex life, so i thought to read the second link, just in case it offered more depth and less vacous self indulgent tripe. Wish I had skipped this. Mr. Gabo recount of having paid-for-sex with a woman who hasn't eaten a decent meal is nothing less than an example of consumerism and blatant male narcissism at its most ugliest Western heights. He basically degrades all women, says, a body is a body is a body. I pay for it and no matter the inequity, i'll quote Dali and Kundera and make poetry while I masturbate on an impoverished woman's imposed degradation, which as a standard careerist poverty pimp (aka - foreign aid worker) I am entitled, socially entitled to do: have dollar will buy.

Revolting a la the bloated Straus-Kahn, et al..

Èzili Dantò

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