I spoke with an old lover
a while back and, told her that I barely remember any of the actual lovemaking
that went on, but remember with great detail the other times we spent together.
I meant this but I am not sure that I was telling the complete truth. There
were some times that we made love so often that I do not remember all the
details of what happened, when. There are times, though, that we were so
passionate together that I will never forget a single detail. This is true
of many of the people that I have been with.
I remember one time, after
a petty squabble, the two of us awoke and fucked silently but savagely
on the couch before I had to go to work. Another time I shared with someone
else the hot fast quickie upstairs in my parentís house before she had
to leave to go shopping with my sister. Another time, again a quickie,
was in the bathroom of my parents house when we were visiting for the holidays.
Still another afternoon was spent lying in bed and lounging around fucking
when we felt like it, sleeping when we felt like it and laughing and giggling
about it all.
There are so many more memories
I have of actually having sex but really need not be categorized here.
So why havenít I been more bold to share stories like this in my column?
It never occurred to me until tonight but there is something inside me
that says that it is to private a moment to share. Or more precisely that
I could never express the emotion that was behind the scenes pulling the
strings that made it so wonderful. Because in the end itís not really about
who put what where.
Itís not about whether she
was focused upon me, herself, or someone else that might have been there,
or some other fantasy that she was whispering in my ear as I ground slowly
into her. The moment that holds our thoughts, that holds power over our
minds, is not the actual physical act but the emotions that are involved
as well. The beauty of the whole scene that reminds us of how human we
are. Too often, in this age of full disclosure, we lose sight of the fact
that sex is above all a beautiful moment. This moment can be shared by
strangers or lovers of long standing. It really doesnít matter. It is a
moment of beauty that stands still in the history of our mind.
Who really remembers that
precisely after he bit into her nipple and then licked it for two minutes
that he then plunged inside of her and pumped for fifty-five strokes before
he exhausted himself inside of her? Those are for the magazines; for the
writers trying to titillate their readers. Theirsí is the story to excite.
No real memory comes with emotions tied to those facts. The facts themselves
of exactly what happened lose themselves to the whirlwind of emotions that
surrounds the event itself.
The morning after, on the
couch, it was savage and delicate at the same time. It was born out of
a longing to be connected to each other again. A longing to be united and
not divided as we had the night before. It is that tender aggressive play
that I am reminded of and the way I was made to feel very connected to
her that I remember. Not that I lasted this long and made her come several
times before it was over. That is the physical act being recorded. The
memory is the voice-over the act, which drowns out the action and replaces
it with emotion and meaning.
And the quickies. What emotion
did they hold? Simply the quick fired passion that we held for each other
at the time. It was present not only in the sex but in the life surrounding
us. In the way that we reacted to each other outside of the bedroom. This
one moment brings it to the forefront of the mind not because it was about
incredible passionate sex but because it symbolized us in that time. It
brought out the freshness that we still had at that moment. Life is ever
changing and with that so are memories. We often change them to fit our
moods at the time. What doesnít change though, is the wealth of material
there to enact that change.
If it were simply a clinical
memory of the act then there would be nothing for us to grasp a hold of
except the amount of orgasms that occurred that moment. But, no, there
is so much more. There is pathos that is planted before us ripe for the
picking. So perhaps that is why I am reluctant to talk about the actual
details of my varied women and our sexual acts. Those details are for me
to savor the beauty from, not a springing board from which to tell a new
Stories are always there
and I could make a many of them up if I wanted to just titillate my readers.
But while the titillation is nice, what act of love making can you honestly
bring up that hasnít held you captivated for some other reason besides
the fact that she let you take her up the ass? It is not just the taboo
of a ďdifferentĒ sexual act that makes it so special but the person and
the reason why that act happened when it did. So while I did not lie to
my old lover, for I truly did remember the other facets of our relationship
more, I was not quite honest when I said that I barely remember our acts
of love. I merely meant that I did not remember them all precisely the
way they occurred. But then does anyone remember an event exactly as it
I am reminded of a quote
from ďLost Highway,Ē in which a character downplays the role of the camera.
He basically says that he likes to remember things, not necessarily how
they happened, but how he remembered them in his head. It was a great line
indicative to mankind. So if I seem a little reluctant to share all the
juicy details, know that it is not out of spite but out of a shared respect
for beauty. Some things are better left for the mind to dwell on and appreciate
rather than dragging them into the light for everyone to see and criticize
Besides, when was sex ever
really only about sex? Never that I can tell. There is always some other
motive lurking in the shadows by the bed. And that is what I prefer to
focus on. Not the sweaty bodies and how nature makes them wet in order
to ease the penetration but how the mind swells and merges with forces
unknown to create a moment of beauty that will be remembered by the participants
forever. Sometimes when itís all good itís better to keep it to yourself.