So, under the drip of his shower, I wash my hair with his shampoo. The rest of my body with his soap and, in his towel, make my way back to his room through his wet footprints in the hall.
Tall and shaving in the early light. Bit better? he asks. Bit, I nod. Well, come put your arms around me, like you did that first time. I do and. The smell of him then, damp shivering against his damp back. I don’t want to go to Ireland. He says I really liked last night. I say I liked it too. Can I do it again? What now? Why not? I won’t be able to for another month. While he rinses his face, I prevaricate but what need here for No? Turn and tug his towel then get myself dragged to bed. And soon I’m rolling back through the pleasure again as though it is brand new. Cold drops from his wet hair trickle my thighs. Mint from his toothpaste mouth tingles nice and long fingers locking through mine. I give in to him. Resign to his tongue, to every single thing he does, for it’s good to have this thing we do as the hangover breaks my heart. And take his lips on my stomach breast. Biting my shoulder. Into my neck. Kissing completely until I look up What is it? I want to be inside you, he says and I am ready, surely ready for him So Yes. No I mean without anything on. What? Just for a bit. I won’t come in you and I’m completely clean. What? Nerves hitting lungs with the thought of what it is. But not come? Not come, I promise you that. So and watching each other I say Alright. Jesus, he says as I, for surprise, cannot even think to say how it feels. Just open myself to his body in mine. Stretching to the want of him all over me now. This is it and I am like normal like. Like that? I do. I know, he says I can tell. Given over to him and the creak of his bed, racket of both until Close? he. Yes. Well do, I can hold on. And far beyond shame my body longs. And him doing all he can to drag it down. So I hide against him. In his neck. Let it go through. Like a burst. Like a hurt. Clung to him clinging to gritting his teeth. Tiding me, though pulling out after so quick to sit on the edge of his bed. Leaving me in a body clicking inside like it never has.
I curl in to hide my delight. Blushed with it, or shower and no face cream for after. Come lie with me. But first water’s splashed down his front. Getting a condom. Lighting up. Kneeling beside to offer a drag That was bad but, fuck, you feel good inside. And I think Am I not my own self now? Can’t I do too what I want? I can. So. I take his hand. Lead him across like it’s my turn now. His long legs naked and my knees shake. What’s this? Sit in the armchair, I say and when he does, kneel down. You sure? he asks. I’d like to if you would? Well I’ll just lie back and think of England. Any tips? Nope, far as I’m concerned you can do no wrong except bite and you won’t do that, will you? I hope not. Jesus, that makes two of us, he says as I put him in my mouth.
Fuck, his whole body goes to it and I wait for the impatient Open it wider. Instead he takes what I give and only strokes my wrist. Concentrates on the ceiling. Sometimes holds his breath. Sometimes pushes my hair back to watch but I like how he looks at me. Easier this than I thought until. His breath catches in his throat. The only sound I rrr. Not here. Not this now. Don’t freeze. Make your way through. Talk, I say. What? Say something. What about? Whatever a poem anything. Him looking down strange at me now. I’m nervous, I say Please it would really help. He puts his head back Alright well Now is the winter of our discontent how’s that? Better, I almost laugh Go on. Mmm made glorious summer by this son of York. And all the clouds that loured upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried Jesus now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths our stern alarums no our bruisèd arms hung up Fuck more? Yes, I say. Ah what the fuck is it? Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings our dreadful visaged war hath smoothed fuck I forget Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front I don’t I You’re a bit distracting, you know? Then goes to go silent but I cannot. Please keep talking and don’t stop. Alright. He wets his lips then goes to the words at a similar lick Nowisthewinterofourdisconte ntmadeglorioussummerbythissonofyork and allthecloudsthatloured upon our house inthedeepbosomofthe ocean burrrrieeeed nowareourbrowsboundwithvictoriouswreaths right I’m right I’m there I’m. I pull back quick. He presses it onto me as his body gives up. Wet on my chest, ends of my hair and my breast and the heat. Goes everywhere and him smearing it all down me as I, touching the threat of bruise on my lip, lay my head on his knee.
He eases himself off with my hand a while. That was lovely Thanks for that. Sorry, I say For not letting you you know in my mouth. Don’t be, he says I think it’s rude to expect. And I look all about at the mess made by our versions of sex. I’ve been naked, embarrassed, touched and kissed and brought the whole way like any woman might. So after that what is it to say When I was little someone used to and now I don’t think I can any more. And the past sits forward and the cold comes pouring in. He looks down at me What did you say? I do not say it again. And he. Slides down beside me then. Takes me in to the lean of his chest that rises and falls in time with my pulse. The tight of his grip keeping me safe until I am calm and recalled to the smell of his neck. Until my soul re-finds its place. Listen to me, fuck him, he says He’s nothing to you now. And it is as if he always knows the very best thing to say.
I’d like a cigarette. I bet you would. He lights one for us both. Lies on the rug. His damp hair resting on my thighs and blowing smoke rings to make me laugh. I do too, dipping them, twisting about. Do other shapes. Rings not enough for you? Stretch yourself! He laughs but only stretches his legs. Fancy a walk to Regent’s Park? Some fresh air might do us good.
So we go down through Camden. Market now under way. Slack queue for cash at the Midland bank, though it’s early in the day. He gets sandwiches in Cullen’s. Bag of Minstrels for me. I watch for agitation but he doesn’t do a thing. Just eats his like a hungry dog then has a bite of mine. Somehow light with all that’s in us now the night has rolled away. Only tired from drinking — and other things — treading up Parkway to Gloucester Gate. And this the first morning I can see my breath clear as smoke from his Marlboro Red.
Regent’s Park is freezing but we walk on and on. My arm dandling in through his. He even takes my hand. Eventually settle on a bench. Cigarette? Please. He lights. I take and there we sit, breathing smoke across all dead flowerbeds. You alright? he asks. Fine, I say Was it a bit much, that? On contrary, it’s good to keep your speeches up to scratch. I scrape my heel through the gravel and nudge No really do you mind? No, why would I mind about that? I’m not sure but instinct backs all those secret years when it burned down holes through me. Soiled goods maybe? Wow Holy Catholic Ireland, he laughs I’ve been soiled goods too long myself to care about that old crap. He watches me though, with those eyes of his. I can’t see in or past the grey until he smiles Just as well you’re off today, I’ll need a month to recuperate. You’re just hungover and shagged out, I say Can’t be easy at your age. You shut up, he says, beginning a kiss and he is cold to the lips but quick with smile and soft too from his shave. Remember this moment. I will remember this because, even though this morning’s not much of his life, it’s very much of mine. Whatever happens, nothing will be the same after and nothing will be like it again. Right, he says It’s getting late. We should go or you’ll miss your train.
Christmas Holidays 1994
In the cold and dark of Ireland, I burn my month away. Tell friends about London. What wonders seen. Where I’ve gone. The fame in the street. The way we’re learning to make the world make. Art and all of that. But he is a secret worn down deep in the seams and thought. Does he think about me? Or is he away to the next? Real life’s not all romance and I should remember that. Still I send him a postcard to gentle note when I’m back, and hope he’s doing well. Fairly nonchalant tone I’ve struck, if rewritten again and again. While, on the other side of myself, think of him all the time. All he said. What he did and I did, to reciprocate Not that. Go to sleep.