I used to watch out for him when he came home. I'd invent a pretext, thinking that my studied unguarded stance might disarm him. It rarely did. He knew i had waited and he felt pleased that it was so. I loved watching the sinewy ripples of his muscles under the starched work shirt. I loved feeling his raspy stubble under my fingers. They sent coruscations of erotic energy flowing through me. When my fingers were thus abraded my heart was liquefied. And i knew, in those instances, that i loved him.
The past seems inconceivable now. All i have are random snapshots that emerge unbidden. Sometimes a memory will submerge me in a wave of contrition and guilt and i will be laid low for months, recovering with gradual steps. Elsewhere the pleasure immanent in certain painful memories would, with their redolence of bittersweetness, be a deluge i would pleasurably surrender to. Which is why onanism, than intercourse, is my modus operandi.
I never told him about my regard for him. Possibly he divined it. In any case he didn't deem it fit to share any such information with me. It was his subtlety i really fancied, the many layers i could unearth and subsequently process and sift through. Had my attraction been a simple physical itch i might have slept with him and consummated my lust. It was the prospect of plumbing those myriad depths that was irresistibly attractive, suffusing me with irrepressible fervour and ardour which, though felt keenly, remained half articulated, hinted at, parenthetical, in the interstices of experience and its expression.
Rather sagaciously i induced in him ambiguity about my own motives. My alternate alterations of sensibility discomfited him. The confusion became, to him, the ineradicable fulcrum of our togetherness. I sensed that mystery was what he unconsciously sought. By retaining an element of embodying what he sought i pleased him. Would the knowledge that underneath this putative protean patina lay a masochism that was unassailable change anything?
As for me i was playing my own game. By insinuating my own contradictory registers i augmented his self doubt. At a certain level i was conscious that by inveigling this ambivalence i was , in a circuitous way, through the confirmation of his blueprint of me, crystallizing his own inadequacy. I enjoyed doing so. I could play out my variegated dissimulations knowing that i was making the best of both worlds. Ultimately when this dialectic of incertitude and self doubt which gnawed him within worked itself out to its calamitous conclusion i'd choose to negotiate this relationship on the territory i would chart for it. Witnessing his disintegration, meanwhile, is gratifying restitution.