Thu. November 25, 2010
Categories: soul
Tags: , , ,

He rolled on top of her and smelt her neck. Pushing her head back, he grabbed her thick, short hair. He entered her. She recoiled with pleasure, her fingernails nearly tearing the sheets. His face was placid.

“God… you’re a machine.”

She had no idea how accurate her words were, he thought.

She howled with delight, and he felt her vagina contract around his penis. Firm, rubbery. Numb. She came, and he withdrew, burying his face in her breast. He collapsed against the mattress, and she curled up against him, stroking his chest.

“Do you ever notice how some people seem to get fanatic about things?” he said wistfully. “Their favourite book or author. Some people just have to get the latest Harry Potter novel, like a compulsion.”

“I suppose. Kids mostly.”

“Perhaps… but I see adults like that too some times.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never felt like that. Sometimes I wonder if they really feel as they seem to, or maybe they’re just pretending – as if they feel a need just to be passionate about something so they can have some concept of identity… but yeah – I’ve never felt like that.”

“Do you want to feel like that?”

“Perhaps. Even when I think of my favourite directors – and it feels strange to call them ‘favourite’ – because it’s not the same way that other people seem to mean when they say it. Fellini, Lynch, Gilliam… I continue to watch their movies, only because they continue to puzzle me. They don’t engage me on an emotional level, only an intellectual level. You know when we make love…”

“Yes, I know.”

He clammed up.

“Come on – what. You’ve got to finish that sentence. You’re the one who’s always saying that I don’t open up enough.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. When we make love… I feel nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing… I feel nothing. I might as well not have a member. I’ve lost something. My soul has been damaged… stolen. I’m… incomplete.”

“Aw… You’re not.” She rubbed his arms.

He gazed up at the ceiling.

“Why do you invite me here? What do you get out of it?”

“You get pleasure.”

“But what do you get?”

“Satisfaction… it satisfies me, intellectually, to give you pleasure.”

“But you don’t feel… But… so… you’ve pretty much admitted that you’re never going to feel anything for me.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t you see anything wrong with that?”

He sighed.

“Well, what do you think?” she demanded.

“I think… we shouldn’t see each other any more.”

He turned his back and waited. He heard her get up and collect her things, zip up her handbag. He heard the door close.

Deep inside, under his stomach, a small bubble rose up and collected in his throat. He felt regret.