Penumbra is inevitable.Your intersection can't avow itself by day. Yet as the gloaming intensifies you catch your breath, your pulse quickens and the sliver of erotic possibilities, unmet during the afternoon, works towards a fruition.
Either you inhabit the hinterland of forbidden spaces to cleave or you go to a gay bar and measure your chances. You stand by the bartender nursing a small diet coke, casting nervous, flickering glances, witnessing the jostling and the syncopated couplings of physiognomies . You see a man rubbing his thumb against the striating stubble of another while two other men kiss under the coruscating light of the neon. You are suffused with longing and desirous of commingling. Yet a reticence, an inexplicable shyness holds you back and makes of you a lone observer with a soft drink, caught between yearning and fulfilment, desire and its satiation, in the interstices of unrealization and actualization.
A man detaches himself from the dancing crowd and moves towards the bar. He orders a martini. His appraising eyes look you up and down. You blush, feeling embarrassed and self conscious yet that tremor of pleasure courses through you and intensifies your flush and the sheath of your integument engorges as a quick rush of blood passes across you. As your eyes meet his, he traverses the arid patches of your virginity and asks you to dance. And he kisses you. The serrated edges of his teeth leave tiny indentations on your bruised lips.
You, accustomed to metaphysics, the incorporeal want this to be a meeting of souls. And the urge to narrate your story is directly proportionate to your desire as an interlocutor to absorb his. You discern an exchange of life stories to be a sacrament that would confer an imprimatur of sanctity to this precarious togetherness. Yet you curb your loquacity, you eschew effusions and your discomfiture is manifested in your feeble attempts to expostulate with him on his frenetic expression of sexuality.
The incandescent halo of soldered flesh entices you irresistibly and you agree to go back to his place. He undresses himself unfussily while you, bred on romance expect a gradual, sensuous unraveling. But the prosaic nature of his pragmatism, his no nonsense paraphernalia of sex lull you into non being. You cleave, you conjoin and yet a layer of your being has been left unfilled. You have dreamed of this encounter and despite your romanticism, divested it of its saccharine accoutrements and fantasized about unflecked, uninhibited sex. All those porn videos you saw stood you in good stead.
Yet something is wanting. What you subterraneously seek is what you palpably disavow. He asks for your number and promises to call again. He falls on his side of the bed asleep. And you are caught in a quandry. Either you own up to the intensity of this encounter or you take it as an experience and a hope for better opportunities. It is a foregone conclusion yet there is a certain ambiguity which the indeterminacy of his open endedness has left. As he gently snores you pick up your clothes, put them on and stand with your hand over his back, trying to wrest from this tenuous propinquity a degree of corporeal transcendence. Then hand hovering midair youdepart, take a taxi and go home.