Dreaming of a Ghost with Auburn Hair
Well, today is another gray and rainy day in this town. Kind of makes you think that life is nothing but a succession of shadows and gloom, dark clouds and chilly winds, interspersed with the promise of a little sunshine now and then to maintain enough of a fiction so everyone keeps going. Gray and cold. Old and gray. Wet and chilly. That’s how the day looks. That’s how I feel. That’s what this day makes me feel, as if I’m immersed in reality.
Good thing that I still can dream and fly. And it’s always harder not to wander away. To warmer places. To sunnier places. To places in which I can be whoever I dream of being. To places where I can meet the woman I want at will.
If I look through the window I can see her walking. Funny thing. I haven’t seen her face, ever, and yet here she is: smiling, saying nice things in a voice that’s caressing me, full of sweet overtones.
“Hi. How are you? You look as if you need a break. Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? Well, we can go to this coffee shop, close to my place. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go”
And all of a sudden, we are neither in this time, nor in this town. We’re somewhere in the middle of a dream, looking at each other, sipping cappuccino and talking of our lives. We’re frozen in time. Words coming and going without a finish line. Words coming and going, dancing with the music of our eyes, following the rhythm of a more intimate connection. Here we are: the first man and the first woman, repeated ad infinitum. The first blood and the first heartbeat. Always the same and yet always new.
Her face is changing with the slow movement of the moon. Her words are wrapping me with the laces of rainbow. Her eyelashes are hypnotic. Her mouth is more than tempting and this is not a coffee place, this is a forest and she’s casting her spell. I look but I want to see. I see but I want to dream. I dream but I want to have. Her words are falling and they sweep me.
I’ve played the game of seduction many times, but every new look, every promise of flesh anew, every new whisper of the garden of wantonness washes out my old sins. It’s me, fresh, again. It’s my skin without memories, without owners, without repeats. I’m a virgin one more time.
Did I say that it’s funny? Well, it is. I haven’t seen her. I know nothing of the space her body occupies in time, the space that her contour steals from the air. The space that her eyes cut from the light. And yet she’s making me dizzy with needs that I never knew I had. I’m Adam, I’m Tao, I’m Gilgamesh and Ra. Sex is being born with me. Sex will die with me. Sex is her name. She is the night that holds me and nurtures me. She is the night that will bury me. Sex is her name.
Suddenly, we are not in the coffee place anymore. We’re in her room. And there’s music being played from some old record. Her body strokes mine as we try a few languid, lazy dancing steps. As in a Humphrey Bogart movie, I hold her, feeling the softness of the naked flesh of her back. I hold her and feel the warmth stream of her breath in my cheek. She’s in my arms, devoid of a will other than the will of feeling. I softly lick her earlobes, to taste the sweet flavor of her fresh skin. I feel the voice of lewdness growing in the back of my neck and traveling throughout my body. I sense the pinch of desire nesting in my groin. Possession is the name of this painting. Lustful strokes from an old Dutch master’s brush. How can I want her so madly, so deeply? I need to melt in her. To be in her. Doesn’t she see that I’m hurting? And my only relief can only come from her wet flesh, from the deep of her sex, from her scented juices and oozing tissues.
But I don’t want to surrender to this single urge. I don’t want to retreat after a burst of heat. I want to revere her body and soul forever. I want to explore her every cleft and nook with my lips and my tongue, and my fingers and my bones. I want to knead her muscles with my avid hands, pursuing the harmony of relentless passion. One hour, and another, and another, until time goes away with its sad-filled rhymes. No. I don’t want to abandon myself to orgasm. I want to keep the feelings flowing, unstopped. I want to lay the fabric of pleasure at her feet, as a magic carpet that will take us to ancient Basra, in the domains of Haroun-al-Raschid or Scherezade or Al-Manzur. Traveling in thin air. Swirling, twisting, flowing, softly falling and never reaching the sands of extinction.
Overwhelmed by our senses, simmering in carnal consumption, halfway between the dream and the reality of our bodies. That’s how I want to take her, that’s where I want her to lead me. To the constellation of her breasts, to the black holes of her chin, to the heart of her warmer, inner fantasies. I want to be an astronaut over her limbs, a diver in her pores, a climber on her hips. I want to melt and become jelly fish in the deep of her vagina. I want to trace the stars spread on her hair. I want to suck her sex juices and kiss her soul out of her mouth. I want to be hers, in her, for her. I want her to take me. To swim in my veins. To join me. To come to make a splash in my blood and in my semen, in the fluids and essences of my being, in the fluids and essences of my thoughts.
And then I dream of death striking, taking us exhausted, satisfied, wholesome, full of pulp and languid tissue, to the island of void.
Now, there’s no room. There’s no coffee place. There’s no love left. Just a gray, rainy day. Just a bunch of feelings and longings. She has no face, no legs, no hands and her spirit comes back to being a ghost. Sand blown away by a gust of wind. I haven’t seen her, ever. I don’t recognize her voice. I don’t even match her self and my desire. There’s just rain, cold wind, and dark clouds. No space. No place. No room. Kind of makes you think that life is nothing but a nightmare, only bearable if you stop dreaming.
—
anonymous author
