OmU

I love sitting in a darkened cinema, just as the lights have dimmed and a hush falls over the audience. That sense of anticipation clings to every rustle of popcorn and suppressed cough. Everyone watches the silvery grey rectangle flicker to life and willingly loses themselves in that blacked out room. I am particularly fond of foreign language films. The exotic sounds of different tongues, the initial concentration required to read the subtitles as they flash before your eyes and vie for your attention against the beautiful cinematography before you.

OmU. Original mit Untertitel. Original language with subtitles. Subtitles. If only every scene had subtitles.

I would love to read the subtitles playing across the screen as Moriarty and I engage in what seems like hours of silent eye contact, of touching, fondling. We have met a number of times over the last few weeks. One evening at my place. We shared wine, conversation, open conversation (because there is a difference). Our legs brushed, then touched under the table. He exerts a certain pressure with his thigh when he touches my leg. It sends a jolt through me. Every time. He reached over the table, never losing eye contact and cupped my breast in his hand. Just that sensation of skin on skin, of someone else’s hand touching my flesh, is one I crave the most. I can go for weeks without feeling another’s skin on mine. It distresses me. I feel myself curling up like an autumnal leaf, drying up and cracking. Such a simple sensation makes me feel the blood in my veins, makes me feel green, alive.

He told me not to wear my hair up when with him, placing his hand at the back of my head and taking hold of my hair, pulling it out of the hairband, but in a controlling way, so that my head was pulled down. It was the first time anyone has done that. Taken control. Physical control. It was an incredibly intensely erotic experience. Not a word was spoken, yet we seemed locked in conversation, our eyes never erring.

Last night was another night of looking, touching, but still playing by a set of rules that I no longer understand. We do not kiss, yet his hands often stray from my thigh to knee and gently part my legs as he traces a delicate line along the inside of my thigh to that soft flesh between stocking and knickers. Never breaking eye contact. In a public place. I feel as if he challenges me to a duel. A silent duel. Yet I am at a disadvantage, because I do not know the rules of the game. And there are no subtitles.

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