3 10 2008

We ate Sushi in a back street restaurant, I felt like I was sharing in his magic light, so often I have seen him, so often he came into the restaurant where I worked, his hippy style of dressing, his smile that made me want to smile right back.

Before I left work I commented to a co-worker about the secret crush I had harboured for the last year ‘I have no idea why I think about this man so much but I do’ I confided, the day after I left that same co-worker passed on my number and the hippy is ringing me … so there we are eating Sushi, we’re talking random thoughts in broken English, a man so different than anyone I have met before and there have been many men, so many different types of people with whom just for a night or a little while I have let myself share in their light.

I confide how confused I am about the move, how for some reason just before I am supposed to be leaving I have found myself feeling that its not time for me to move, I do not tell him about the running, but he knows, I know he knows, I can see it in his eyes. ‘You’re a very different type of girl’ he tells me. I spend my time being as normal, as inconspicuous in this world as possible I tell him that I am boring. He laughs, he disagrees, you say that so much he tells me but you have no idea how non-boring you really are, your different, its ok to be different he tells me.

Why am I so different? I don’t know.

He tells me about his sailing, his carpentry, he takes odd jobs around both of his loves, he tells me about his visits to Thailand how he is learning the language. About his life where he comes from in Madrid and the girl that owned his heart for a long time. There is ten years between us, him older but in some ways while so open minded he seems so naïve. He has lived in a world of kindness and compassion, he shines with his acceptance of himself and those around him. I, the girl who only feels live when she is alone and seeing the beauty of the natural earth around her, wants to reach out and touch him.

We’re in a bar its named after the dark moon – we’re sitting on cushions. He is laughing at me again, you call me the hippy man but look at you. Your no different, maybe more so. I look at myself at my clothes and think about the comments people have made in the past about my bohemian sense of style. I know other looking in would think that was what we are, but I am wondering if I am being a chameleon, I am so good at that I can blend in with whatever is happening around me to go unnoticed. You can never be unnoticed he tells me with a brightness in his eyes. For a moment I feel like he is mocking me but soon see he is not.

I tell him about my family, but just the facts, not about the pain. It seems to quaint to talk about causes when I am finding myself telling him the truth about who I am, I am telling him about not liking people, about my obsessions with the spirit world, about my pretence about liking the things that people are supposed to but never really wanting to be there or understanding what I should like about it – about my beliefs, we talk about believing in god and he tells me he wishes he could believe, my confidence in my own beliefs surprises myself. How can you not I say, when you are on your boats and you look around and see all that is real, all that is amazing how can you not believe. My church is the world I say, my church is in nature, not in cold stone buildings and words of a bible. I am part of something that no amount of scientific talk can take away the magic.

His pulling me towards him, we’re kissing and touching like teenagers, in bar empty apart from two other groups we’re sitting in the corner reaching for each other.

We speak so much, we say little about the past or the future, we speak about the present and the things that are important to us every day, he tells me about caring for his elderly Father, I tell him about my battles with the many facets of myself about how I never feel in, am never quite accepted – I feel like I am saying too much, being too honest for the world of lies I have built around myself, its only here in my written word that honesty feels so natural to me.

He takes my hands and speaks to me in low tones; People are scared of anyone that is different, you are much more different than most, your anger at yourself is because you are trying to put yourself in a box, so you can be part of this thing called normality. But you cannot fit, your different and it makes people insecure and it makes you angry.

I wonder if he is right, at the time it seems so real, but in the back of my mind I know he is seeing me as something pure, he is seeing the good, honest side of me – the girl that like the quiet life and just wants to be. There is another side of me that I fight with so much, the self destructiveness, the anger that he has not yet seen.

We walk to the promenade, we sit smoking cigarettes in the early hours of the morning on a bench, the sea is behind us, black with the night and alive with the wind. We’re sitting close, silence has descended and we’re just being.

Then we are in his apartment, laying close, touching, in the darkness he is whispering to me in Spanish, he kisses me goodnight, tells me I am beautiful, my body is aching for him but he does not do anything more than hold me as I fall asleep.

It’s the morning and I am feeling him wake beside me, I can hear the shower going and then he is back, laying next to me and stroking my face, through bleary eyes I gaze at him and wonder if I can stop the thoughts that will turn me against him in days, the thoughts that come so easily to me to make me not want someone, even when my heart and body aches for someone I can turn myself against them. My emotions are like a winters morning, when my mind turns cold it freezes my feelings. His leaving for work, telling me to stay and sleep, I doze on and off and then return to my house.

All day I am thinking about him. Then its nine at night, he is ringing me, I can hear the tiredness in his voice and we arrange to meet tomorrow.

I’m in a bar, Nicholas, someone I have known for a while is with me, we’re matching drink for drink, laughing at stupid things and having difficult conversations with our broken attempts at each others language. My heart is telling me that I don’t want to do this, my minds pushing any thoughts of good away, this is the night, I belong to the night.

We’re in my apartment, kissing, clothes being torn off, biting, touching… we’re in my bed, we’re pulling, tugging, the sex is rough, sweat running down our bodies, we’re everywhere, hair being pulled, swollen lips being chewed, I look at us in the mirror my eyes last night so bright with warmth are now black as coals, void of anything except lust, his hurting me treating me with the lack of respect that men keep for whores, my body is reacting with desire, I want to be hurt, I want to feel the pain it makes everything real, there is no gentleness, no soft kisses, this is what I do, this is what my body is made for, like a lady of the night I want more and more, I take everything he gives and come back harder.

We lay side by side, his rough hands bringing me to climax, making me call out.

His leaving, it’s half four in the morning and we’re done. We swap chit-chat at the door, one last kiss. I close the door lay back on my bed and stare up into the darkness, I have a voice in my ear telling me to feel humiliated, telling me that I promised myself I was passing this, that it was not needed anymore. But like an addict craves the drug of their choice, like an alcoholic craves their drink of choice, I crave pain, I crave the feeling of loss of abandonment, of emptiness, of emotionally void encounters that make my body react and my heart feel cold.

I do not cry. My winter snow is not yet ready to melt.




7 responses

3 10 2008
Invierno | jdTVu

[…] freedom2be wrote an interesting post today on […]

3 10 2008

Your comments continue to be comforting for me and your posts compelling. I can tell you have a beautiful soul underneath it all.

9 10 2008

I am so disappointed…
From the first sentence, I was expecting a post about sushi, food… and what do I got?
…A very nice story and post

11 10 2008

Great writing.

11 10 2008

Maybe the box theory is not so bad. (for either of us)

12 10 2008

Thank you Fvarga and Mossy, your comments are appreciated, unfortunately I can’t return the favour as you didn’t leave me links to your blogs!

Mossy – see you as we pass on the way out of the box!

13 10 2008


It did not occur to me that people in WordPress can not simply click on “mossy” and go to my blog.

I hope that you will visit me at:

Perhaps your story helped me a bit.

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