Wednesday, September 26, 2018

David Russell writes

An Ecstatic Rendezvous 
(Part 5)

The encounter had been breathtakingly euphoric. I still tingle when the phone rings. It would be great some time if I could ask someone outright. Maybe I’ll get over the initial coldness and anonymity of those singles bars. Yes, I had stepped out of my rut into the world of virtual communication -- formerly, and sometimes still, called the red-light area -- that once, that special once, after literally years of torture, doubt, and deliberation. It was an utterly beautiful and benign experience. I remember every second of it with total affection, perfectly preserved in my memory. Come on, you shy blokes like me. You’ve all got your vain, narcissistic fantasies. 

Just once in a while, give them external tactile reference. Sandra made me feel that between us. There was pure, ecstatic, fully-reciprocated lust, and that lust passion could be pure and beautiful -- that she really wanted me, that I was the male body beautiful, her ultimate catch. The sight of me in trunks was her peak, a luscious turn-on. So either it actually was, or -- if she was just pretending -- it was an absolute, all-absorbing command of an acting role, which would merit a mass of Oscars, perhaps make the ultimate video. Yes, there was a supreme element of dance and drama in it, complemented by the warm, glowing, soft red lighting. 

That brief encounter was one of my highest peaks of euphoria. It wiped off years of bitterness and misery, outdid the work of myriad arty films and steamy novels. I replay it endlessly; the replay fulfills and sustains me. Sandra was so fully sexual, so deeply desiring. There was an element of deep challenge about her, and I felt that I met that challenge. Was I her special, her peak? Maybe, maybe not, but for the duration of that get-together, she really made me feel that I was. So much for that literary jargon about the suspension of disbelief.  

Here it really had worked. The imprint of that rendezvous was indelible. I had practically given her an orgasm. The preliminaries, the lovely disrobing build-up were indispensable for the ultimate, but the suspense was exquisite. We were our own film directors—getting an organic camera turn-on from what we showed of our bodies. And she was faultless about safety and hygiene. Stuff the old ways; these are better. They actually heighten delicacy in dealing with other people’s feelings. I was lifted. 

Has this all become super-rosy in retrospect? I guess so. And I suppose it’s only a prissy, edited-out fraction of real experience. Does it take all the guts out of real passion, real obsession? Perhaps it does, but I love it all the same. So, it presents this image of independent, largely celibate workaholics, having occasional, oh-so-polite, oh-so-arty blowouts, then returning refreshed to their solitary treadmills. Real workaholics, of course, get far more screwed up than that, far more likely to fly off the handle. Still, isn’t it nice to be nice, to hold a breath? Isn’t it good to save up for it and really relish it, just sometimes? Great to control the revelations. Yes, a meaningful casual encounter can really enrich life. It is one of life’s special punctuation marks. One should cherish these liaisons as much as any committed relationship they may counterpoint. 

If they are set against an austere, solitary canvas, their light shines ever brighter. Sandra and I met in the happy hinterland between domination and submission. We modulated the role balance beautifully.

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