perverse heat

He called me on a Saturday so hot that all I could do to not faint was lay on the cool floor with nothing on but my panties. I would change position every ten minutes, for the heat my body exhaled warmed everything around me.

With cucumbers on my eyes, to avoid the bloating, and hibiscus water by my side, I lay, listening to some Moloko and something else.

The phone rang, it was he. We had met strolling the street near my house almost a year ago. I thought he was cute, I think he thought I was too. He never called, until now. “So hey, I found your number, how you been… yes, we met almost a year ago… uhm yes, the movie business, I think we have lots of things in common. What are you up to now? Can I make you a sandwich in my new gourmet store? 30 minutes? Great.”

And I got up, got dressed, unwillingly, and went. Why? Well, I thought of all sorts of dirty plots which could evolve on a Saturday afternoon at a small deli store with no one around. And because, well, I was curious.

I got there, and he was fat. Great disappointment. And bald. He had just shaved his hair off. Fat men with shaved heads, well, it ain’t my cup of tea, they are only good for one thing, when they use their head, recently shaved please, no prickles, to caress your body. The texture is so different and the shape helps to…

But I am getting distracted.

So, he was going to make me a sandwich. Needles to say, it took him ages. It seems like heterosexual men can’t talk and do anything else at the same time.

“It’s so great to have you here… I know we’ve just met twice for five minutes, but I feel like I have a special connection with you, like we can really communicate… on a whole different level…”

I just nodded and smiled. I had barely uttered two lines, but I guess that’s what he was talking about, that I didn’t talk and I listened to him, so he felt like the centre of my universe. And I was getting so bored.

I told him about some of the things I do, and he took one as a pretext to ramble around, for what seemed hours. He talked about pornography, and about a site where a dude tells girls that he will make them earn between a thousand and five thousand dollars a day, but in order to help them out, they need to help him first by giving him a blowjob. So its this dude manipulating all these chicks to fuck him and do all sorts of things because he will make them porn stars.

He’s making me a sandwich, the slowest sandwich on earth, while talking about the slowest porn site on earth. Ah, his perversion, he called it.

And I was hot, to hot to handle slow conversation. And getting bored. Why couldn’t he just say all of this in five minutes instead of thirty.

“is this conversation bothering you?” he asked at some point. His eyes, beneath his shades, were eager to make me uncomfortable, to break the cold that my body exhaled now, with the boredom that surrounded me.

Of course not, but he didn’t believe me.

So, his perversion, and then, well, I wanted to leave, because… ah, I was so bored. I told him about the heat. He said that he had overestimated me, that the conversation (rather, the slowest monologue on earth), had affected me. Then he told me about his wife. That was just way too much for me. Boring and married. God, why had he called me?

I said no, it hadn’t stirred me even a bit, and told him that he would fall for the same scam. He said it wasn’t the same thing. Of course, men tricked into sex think they are getting it all. Fools.

Manipulation is manipulation, no matter what your genre is.

The sandwich was quite good.

god bless you, friend

So, they met for ice cream. She had instigated that reunion since she thought, and guess correctly, that he was too shy. Shy for her, that is, for he was known as somewhat of a Don Juan, but she, maybe it was true what they said about her. When you entered into her realm it wasn’t like entering a clam sea, perhaps surfing a bit in the waves. No, she was a 40 meter high wave, a tsunami.

So, they met, finally, a couple of days later, strictly for ice cream, well, or so he thought.

They had nothing to talk about, seriously, nothing. She was into arts, he was into money, and although both subjects could meet at a certain point, for some reason, they just didn’t mesh up. So, what did they talk about? Their friend in common, the reason they had met, the reason they were there, walking the streets of a spring evening while she was figuring out how to jump him without him knowing that it was she who had done the jumping and not him.

His phone rang, he picked up. She said that if he kept answering his phone, she was going to distract him. And she did. Breathing on his neck, barely touching with the heat which emanated from her lips, his earlobe, holding his waist into place with her left hand. He has been distracted, and he kissed her. Finally, she thought.

They strolled some more. Hand in hand, or with an arm around the other's waist. The wall had been torn down. Intentions clear.

He said he didn’t read much, she told him to lie to her. That he should say that he loved books. He did just that and she told him he was the sexiest man alive. And she kissed him some more.

They went to her place and, needless to say, they jumped each other.

That is the only sensible thing one can do when you meet with someone whom is nice but you have absolutely nothing to talk about. You keep your lips busy, and your tongue, and your fingers, and your sex.

So, how was it, the common friend asked him the day after. “Oh, god bless you…” was all he responded.