sex city-peter a part of something whole
...I am having this dream again.
Strong hands hold strong hands, gripping tight the knuckles become white and the skin around the arm red in hue. The bed is damp, the sheets messed-up at the edge of the mattress. The room is cold and I know that it is night, light from the moon is thrown into the room by an opened window, casting a silver- blue glow. Bouncing off the white walls and giving the appearance of soft illumination.
My eyes are closed.
My body tense, a thin layer of sweat encases my pale milk coloured form. The heart in my chest is beating in time with the slow rhythmic motions of my hips. The other body reacts to my movements. The light of the moon shifts as the storm clouds pass by and the image filters in and out of my vision. I am watching myself with closed eyes danseing. I hear children laugh, echoes of my voice ring back and I open my eyes. The face I see below me stares back and I know that I should recall the name of the person that I am inside but my memory eludes me, it is enough to cause a pause in my actions. I avert my gaze from the face and focus on the building pressure, watching the chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. The skin flushed with red and the beads of sweat make tiny rivers that gather and run down to the bed. Desire lines, I push in and there is an explosion.
I am finding it hard to breathe.
Room, flooded in failing light, black sheets cover me from the waist down. I shoot up in the bed and my body is cold with sweat. I hate that dream. The alarm is going off and makes these horrid sounds. My head is spinning already. Moving to the nightstand and turning off the source of the sound, I hear silence, but faintly the sounds of motor vehicles making there way across the city to destinations unknown are heard through the window. Traffic at its worst red light means stop and I hear a horn as I imagine a hand beating red applying pressure to the steering wheel. Angry at the car in front that would not gun the yellow light. This man drives a taxi and is under paid he wants to get home to his family or his mistress which ever comes first, or maybe he is late coming home because of the mistress. His wife waits at home for him to arrive, she cooked all day and the children are sleeping over at friends, but she does not know that he already found his source of excitement. When he gets home she will be tired but willing to comply, and he will go to the table eat his fill and then move into the living area to pass out on the couch, not saying a word for fear that they will betray him.
Seeing this and I think that my life is not so bad. But I am not him or her and I really do not care, my problems are my own not to be compared with a barley middle class family on the other side of town. Suddenly I feel dirty as I scratch my chest and want a shower. Walking to the window I stand naked to look out at the last rays of the dying winter sun, the final hope of heat for a few hours until the moon rises. I am trying to catch my mind that is playing a sick game of hide and seek, I feel a drafting chill, the sealant from the window must have come off again. At this height it is a task to get the windows fixed.
Steam rises out of the bathroom, billowing over and out like a fire, someone is trying to send a signal for help. I add to it by smoking, sitting on the edge of the sink, watching it rise and fall, to catch the air currents of the apartment moving around like a dragon out of legend, slipping and sliding in the moist air.
Tossing the cigarette into the toilet I cautiously step into the shower. The warm water runs down in rivulets finding natural depressions and moving is a semi-sporadic way to fall on the tile below. I lead my head back and let it wash away the sweat from my sleep. In moments like this memory creeps back in the brain making you remember that you were once human. As hard as I try to push out the pain of the one marked event that took place in my life it rolls back like thunder in a storm. And being as vulnerable as I am in the shower makes the feelings harder to suppress...
Strong hands hold strong hands, gripping tight the knuckles become white and the skin around the arm red in hue. The bed is damp, the sheets messed-up at the edge of the mattress. The room is cold and I know that it is night, light from the moon is thrown into the room by an opened window, casting a silver- blue glow. Bouncing off the white walls and giving the appearance of soft illumination.
My eyes are closed.
My body tense, a thin layer of sweat encases my pale milk coloured form. The heart in my chest is beating in time with the slow rhythmic motions of my hips. The other body reacts to my movements. The light of the moon shifts as the storm clouds pass by and the image filters in and out of my vision. I am watching myself with closed eyes danseing. I hear children laugh, echoes of my voice ring back and I open my eyes. The face I see below me stares back and I know that I should recall the name of the person that I am inside but my memory eludes me, it is enough to cause a pause in my actions. I avert my gaze from the face and focus on the building pressure, watching the chest rise and fall with heavy breaths. The skin flushed with red and the beads of sweat make tiny rivers that gather and run down to the bed. Desire lines, I push in and there is an explosion.
I am finding it hard to breathe.
Room, flooded in failing light, black sheets cover me from the waist down. I shoot up in the bed and my body is cold with sweat. I hate that dream. The alarm is going off and makes these horrid sounds. My head is spinning already. Moving to the nightstand and turning off the source of the sound, I hear silence, but faintly the sounds of motor vehicles making there way across the city to destinations unknown are heard through the window. Traffic at its worst red light means stop and I hear a horn as I imagine a hand beating red applying pressure to the steering wheel. Angry at the car in front that would not gun the yellow light. This man drives a taxi and is under paid he wants to get home to his family or his mistress which ever comes first, or maybe he is late coming home because of the mistress. His wife waits at home for him to arrive, she cooked all day and the children are sleeping over at friends, but she does not know that he already found his source of excitement. When he gets home she will be tired but willing to comply, and he will go to the table eat his fill and then move into the living area to pass out on the couch, not saying a word for fear that they will betray him.
Seeing this and I think that my life is not so bad. But I am not him or her and I really do not care, my problems are my own not to be compared with a barley middle class family on the other side of town. Suddenly I feel dirty as I scratch my chest and want a shower. Walking to the window I stand naked to look out at the last rays of the dying winter sun, the final hope of heat for a few hours until the moon rises. I am trying to catch my mind that is playing a sick game of hide and seek, I feel a drafting chill, the sealant from the window must have come off again. At this height it is a task to get the windows fixed.
Steam rises out of the bathroom, billowing over and out like a fire, someone is trying to send a signal for help. I add to it by smoking, sitting on the edge of the sink, watching it rise and fall, to catch the air currents of the apartment moving around like a dragon out of legend, slipping and sliding in the moist air.
Tossing the cigarette into the toilet I cautiously step into the shower. The warm water runs down in rivulets finding natural depressions and moving is a semi-sporadic way to fall on the tile below. I lead my head back and let it wash away the sweat from my sleep. In moments like this memory creeps back in the brain making you remember that you were once human. As hard as I try to push out the pain of the one marked event that took place in my life it rolls back like thunder in a storm. And being as vulnerable as I am in the shower makes the feelings harder to suppress...