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.
Pavlov and his dogs might a have a thing or two to say about this.
Moriarty and I have a creative project we are working on together over the coming months. Without going into too much detail, it involves him in front of the camera and me behind. We had our first session yesterday afternoon. As it was the first shoot, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I had some general ideas of how it could work, but wanted to see how he felt and respond to his mood. He had no qualms stripping naked and standing before me. It is always an interesting dynamic between model and artist. Trust, respect and a conscious effort not to let your mind wander all come into play.
It occurred to me that he is the first man I have photographed naked. That may have explained the slight flush in my cheeks. It is also rare that you have the opportunity to just look at someone else’s body. I loved finding the shadows and shapes of his torso, tracing the lines of his thighs, calf muscles and shoulders. Naturally, my eyes lingered on his cock. And this is where I think Pavlov might be right:
After years of only seeing the male member in the bedroom (or at least as part of a sexual scenario), my immediate reaction/desire was to touch. At some instinctual level, I had the desire to kneel before him and take his cock in my mouth. It was a strange, unnerving desire. I am guessing this is the bedroom equivalent to Pavlov and his dogs.
Of course I did not touch his cock, I merely observed and documented. But, it has certainly got me salivating.
The last 48 hours have been all enveloping, consuming, exhausting and a delightfully titillating time. It feels like one long night, the sort that wraps you in its seductive darkness and spins you round and round until you feel dizzy and disoriented.
It was the first weekend I’ve seen the husband in nearly two months. It was also the weekend of a long planned gathering of friends, including Moriarty and the economist. And so it was the first time I’d seen Moriarty since the day I sent him a link to this blog and outed myself to him. Such a strange scenario, to be sitting with the husband, one lover (the economist) and a man who knows about not only the economist, but also all of my other lovers. Perhaps, the only person at the table who knows the real ‘me’. There was little opportunity for physical touch or intimate conversations with the economist over the weekend. The odd gaze, or touching of knee under the table or hidden stroke in a shared nighttime taxi ride through the city. Never a moment alone. It was strange to see him talk with the husband, to watch them as their body language mirrored one another, trying not to let my gaze rest too long on his face.
And laced throughout these nights of drinking, talking, dancing, looking-without-touching, I kept catching his eye. Moriarty has a way of looking and communicating so much with just a glance. A fraction of a second when our eyes would meet and we both knew what the other was thinking. We share the same hunger, thirst, desires. We managed a few snatched conversations when the others were elsewhere or the din of the bar was loud enough to mask our conversation. There is so much I want to talk to him about. So many things I’d like to share with him. And then last night, sitting opposite him, between the economist and the husband, our legs touched under the table and we held one another’s gaze. He pressed his leg against mine, with a pressure that sent a bolt through my body and triggered a tingling in my sex. My breathing shallowed and I felt naked under his gaze. The rest of the bar, the people around us seemed to dim as I looked into his eyes. My god, I could have sunk to my knees, melted under his gaze. You see, he caught me off guard. Given his views on the economist, and sitting right opposite him, I did not anticipate his touch under the table. But what a touch. I took a photo of him as our legs touched. His eyes say it all. That gaze will haunt me in my dreams.
Sunday night. And no reprieve from this bubbling undercurrent of sexual desire that has been threatening to pull me under since “Running high“. I’ve tried reading erotica, writing erotica, looking at sensual paintings, running, masturbating (many, many times). Nothing works. I am conscious of my heart beat with every breath. I feel the tension in my shoulders and neck. There is that place just between my shoulder blades that tingles at the merest thought of touch. I catch myself looking longingly at men passing by. I have to stop myself from accidentally touching the man at the next table as I reach for the sugar (I don’t even use it in my coffee!).
I drink a glass of wine at night, in the hope it will help me fall asleep. Anything to take the edge off this rawness, this heat. And in the midst of this fever, hidden desires seem to bubble to the surface. What would it be like to be out of control, to let someone else take control? Be controlled, titillated, teased, pleasured by someone, a stranger? I crave so much. But there is no reprieve.
That is, my frustration levels are running high.
My thoughts have been plagued by memories of the nights spent with the economist, the (now) pipe dreams about Moriarty and an evening spent at a lecture with a number of men in the audience I could quite happily have shagged. One in particular excites me. I met him last summer. He is oh-so-young. Probably 21-22. But a James Dean look-a-like and frankly, has a lingering eye contact when he talks that turns me on. The lecture was about to start, the lights dimming and we spotted one another across the room. He inclined his head, raised and tipped his glass, mouthing ‘Salute’. I blushed.
Talking to him briefly after the lecture, I felt the tingling, expectant sensitivity of my sex and cursed his young body, intelligent gaze and flirtatious manner. For now, I am home, alone (he, naturally has returned to his girlfriend). My levels of frustration are bubbling dangerously close to the surface. I have had a few glasses of wine and my breathing is shallow. What I wouldn’t give to be touched right now.