Sunday, February 15, 2009

I thought that you might be interested in hearing what it is like for us. You know, the girls lying in your bed, sometimes nameless, the ones that you use to dull the edge, when riding it gets too rough, desperately seeking that resonating echo in someone else, always failing to find it, being misled at times, half spurred on by their lies, half spurred on by your driving need to just not be alone for once.

He calls me.

He's riding that edge. He's out of his head with words and feelings and he needs, oh god he needs, the flesh to put him back inside of himself. He needs skin, my skin, tonight.

So I go to him.

I follow his instructions. Door is unlocked, join him in bed, no words needed.

I drop to my knees, he opens his arms, and I fall into them. He knows my name, he whispers it, but I know that to part of him, the size of which I do not guess at, I'm just another one. Another person to dive into, another person to bring him back from his madness. When he can't take the words that are pounding out of his brain, pounding onto his keyboard, he calls.

Whatever he needs, I am there. I make no demands for myself. I'm not there for me, I'm there for him. I'm there because he's beautiful and glorious, he's so damned damaged, and he understands the feeling of being so overwhelmed by the viscera inside, so overwhelmed that no matter how far we go, whatever we do, we can't escape.

He pumps into me, I moan his name. I clutch at his back, ankles locked behind him, and writhe, and wonder why he's the only person who understands this internal storm. He knows I understand, so he calls me. He knows that he can say two words to me and I will be there for him. He knows that weeks may pass with no contact and it does not matter to me, because just knowing that he exists, that someone exists who can understand this amazingly wonderful, unending torment, this tornado, this feeling of impending explosion... it is enough.

When we finish, he writes. He's kind enough to turn out the lights, leaving him hunched over his keyboard, draining his soul, his face uplit by the monitor. I watch him as I drift in and out of sleep, when I hear his breathing change I reach out and touch his ankle.

Come to bed.

We curl up, my chest pressing against his back, my nose against his hair, inhaling. I hold him until he sleeps, and then I sleep, lips against his skull.

In the morning, he's okay. He's back in his skin, the tightly restrained jumpiness, the tension, the beast... it is calm. He has used me for a breather, both of us coming up for air for one evening.

I leave him to his writing, usually after breakfast. I do not know when I will see him next, if I ever will again. I drive down Fairfax with this knowledge, with the scent of his skin in my hair and on my hands. Maybe in a week, maybe in two weeks, or even a month, he will call again. I do not know if he does this with others. With his demanding schedule, I doubt he has the time. When he calls me, my breath always catches.

I know he's using me. I also know he appreciates me, is glad of my company, is especially glad of my understanding. I ask nothing of him. He has too much pressure already. I do not know when he is going to go on the road, or for how long it will be, or even if he will remember me when he gets back.

It doesn't bother me.

It should. But it doesn't. No one will know what we have done. No one will know that as he was writing, I was the one he called when he was about to go under the waves.

It doesn't matter.

What matters is that he exists. Someone like him exists, and someone like him made the time, had the need, for someone like me. And that he knows that we're similiar creatures. Not the same, but in this world, we're close enough. I am not alone.

We burn separately, but we burn together.

So when you turn to your bed and see that shoulder sticking up, hair curled over it, please recognize me. You don't know my name, you don't know my face, but I serve a purpose.

I understand.

I center.

I make no demands.

I am here for you because of you, because of the beauty you create and the fire that lights you up. I ask nothing for myself, and when you are done with me, I will still be burning.

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