I started writing this post back in July, yes that's right JULY. So it's a bit funny to pick up where my summer self left off, specially now in the after-sigh of Christmas. I hadn't meant to disappear, I never do. It's always for the usual reasons, the bread, the butter and everything in between. So I come back always a little surprised at finding myself again. I imagine the words creak on. I've been writing alright, at work and mainly in the language of lawyers and rules and science. In words so concrete and heavy, they squash all the other softer things I'd have to say.
The Nubian Toro calls me off and on between my having woken her up from a nap, regaling me with details of her daughter's latest play to going food shopping and apparently, even while eating her dinner half-way through the conversation. At this point of "adulthood" ahem, our lives are less socially centered and more well, you know, happily mundane. It's not the concocted string of soirees we like to put on Facebook. It's work, chores, all the things in between. Writing for me, child-rearing for her. She sniffs as she hears the ambient noise around me, "Are you being pathetic and writing on a Friday night?"
I ignore this as I watch a set of couples loping down the sidewalk, the women tarted up, tits pushed up, heels tilting them forward, the men in somewhat casual beach wear. My attention drifts as I briefly wonder when if ever, the mismatched styles would catch up with each other. Is this like the Unofficial weekend version of a Tarts and Vicars?
There's so much flesh on display my eyes begin to glaze over, until I notice a couple of the men giving my laptop lit face lingering looks. One even turns around to aim a cheeky little smile at me as I stare back in shock - both at his little stunt and how much of his date's ass-ets are hanging out. Gravity really isn't our friend at times. Hmm, precisely my argument for showing a little but not too much. "Are you THERE??," the Nubian Toro whinges at my lapse. "Yep, yep I am," I reply, "Just staring at the sloppy drunk girls and the guys waiting for it to kick in."
I hear her rustling through a bag of something noisily, "Are they young?," she asks. "Hmm, yeah, maybe early 20's to early 30's, I seriously have no idea how anything gets accomplished, "I mutter. She reminds me I never went through that and probably can't relate before hanging up to finish feeding her face and the dog. It's true, I never did. I've never had drunken sex, or been in a significantly impaired enough state that would facilitate that kind of sex. I mull this over, going huh.
While I risk the potential judgment of a new lover - oh you know, because I was too frank, or straightforward, or just went for what I wanted, I also have less tolerance for poor "form". Let's call it that.
I'm hardly expecting my lover to do Churning Curds the first night round, but hey, would a girl really say no? Not this one. Still I don't seek to be shocked and awed, though I'm happy to say I have been many times. In the moment, all I look for is the full benefit of an honest connection. I think right now, when I've just told you I want you, when the world and it's worries haven't yet quite caught up with us, now is the time to love without preconception or condition. Safely of course. But without all the arguments we all know we'll have to weigh the few days after.
The threshold is fresh, never having been crossed before and I always think, we will never come this way again. Such is the power of firsts and first times, the purity of the new. After, it takes more conscious effort to shelter innocence and be open to the task of discovering what else is beneath the known. Or at least what's masquerading as something we think we know - whether it's our hopes or our fears. People, ourselves included, can always surprise us, provided we're willing. That and all the L words that seem to follow - lust, love, longing, lingering.
I'm saved from fully disappearing into my musings when the Nubian Toro calls again and volunteers her own recollections of youthful, drunken follies, "Oh you know how it is, people just want to be out drinking, having fun, they don't care how crap happens." I concede with raised brows to this, but think how by contrast my own encounters are highly private affairs. Well, save for what I share here of course.
Most of the time, my friends aren't clear who I'm going out with, prompting them to sniff suspiciously when I report I'd spent yet another weekend in solitary with nothing but my laptop to keep me company. The Nubian Toro would often fling an accusatory, "I don't believe you, you've got someone!" at me as if by habit, I stowed lovers in secret chambers my small flat couldn't possibly accommodate. I'm no Blue Beard, but I do try to keep my silence most of the time.
Like anything seeded, love affairs need quiet, not too much light and a lot of space. And like anyone, I need time to be in it, to savor happiness and distill any sadness into something else. I hadn't told her then, in fact I hadn't told a lot of people till much, much later. But a few days before my birthday in June, as if by some eternal clock that kept it's own special time, the Long Lost Capricorn had returned.