Red and White Equal Pink: Romance/Angst, R
Red. Pink. White.
Hearts of spun sugar and rich chocolate. Roses of the deepest crimson, the palest pink, the purest white. Stuffed bears holding boxed treats in their paws, button noses shaped like hearts. Hearts, hearts, hearts. Little candies, large signs; lying lovers. Young men and women symbolically handing over their hearts, to what purpose? Having them consumed within a matter of hours? Have them be shared around, used and discarded in the trash once the sweet bits are gone and the empty box is all that remains?
Nikolai tells me with that amused smile of his that I’m looking far too much into the symbolism of the holiday. But Nikolai is sweet and innocent, my gentle lover with a hopeless streak of romanticism that I never cease to delight in. He doesn’t understand the significance of hearts and Valentines and red and pink and white or what flesh looks like, forced to circulate blood beneath a tightened black silk band.
“My sweet Valentine,” Pavel whispered against my skin, his lips brushing against the bruises he had made. Purple-red welts against pale skin; my skin, his living canvas. His tongue flicking against the inside of my elbow, running across the sensitized flesh in a teasing caress that prickled the hairs on my arm, the back of my neck; making me whimper as cool metal was dragged up against my forearm like a white-hot iron.
“Sweet, sweet Sergei,” he murmured, kissing me, sliding his tongue inside my mouth. He tasted like vodka and his saliva seemed to burn my lips even when he pulled back, lowering his mouth to my neck.
I flinched when the needle pierced my skin. Closed my eyes, bit my lip, as he steadily pushed the plunger down. The drug hit my bloodstream almost instantaneously and a languid feeling of lethargy flooded through my body; my whimpers quieted and I relaxed in Pavel’s grip, slumping lifelessly forward into his arms. His hand stroked down my arms and the touch lit my skin on fire with a thousand tiny needles prickling my flesh, and my vision whitened as he laid me down on the bed. The lightest brush was torturous, overwhelming, but my limbs were lead and my mind too muddled to protest as Pavel lovingly stripped me of the rest of my clothes; shirt-shoes-pants-briefs. The slide of cloth against my skin had me arching, in pain, in pleasure, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head, mouth opening wide in a guttural scream-a cry-moan; my fingers curling weakly in the sheets.
White was the color of my skin, cold and pale in the Russian winter. Pink was what it turned after Pavel was through with me, his hand or belt slapping or snapping heavy strokes against my flesh. Red was the color of the pinprick of blood that welled after the needle was pulled from my arm.
White-Pink-Red.
Red-Pink-White.
Pavel’s fingers tipping my head up, his pale-pink lips tasting my own. The world a red haze of pain as a thick member thrust inside of me, the length and girth and suddenness of it welling tears in my eyes. The sheets a pure innocent white as I clutched at them, unable to bury my face into them and pretend that this world wasn’t real, that this wasn’t happening.
“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” Pavel whispered in my ear as hands spread my legs apart and fingers wormed inside of me. “My lovely Valentine…”
Mine. Mine-mine-mine-only-mine. His eyes bright, too bright, his breathing rapid and his cheeks flushed. Arms wrapped tight around me even as I floated miles away, detached and emotionless, sleepily uncaring. Whispering his possession of me even as I drifted further and further away from him, his clear liquid concoction forcing us worlds, universes, apart.
“My gift to you.”
Pavel’s gifts never were pleasant.
But, then, Nikolai.
Nikolai is sweet. Nikolai is pure. Our first Valentine’s, he seemed to understand, somehow, of my distaste for the holiday. That it runs so much deeper than most would think; even before I told him why, months later. He didn’t make a big fuss, didn’t do anything extraordinary-just a quiet candlelit dinner at home, with the two of us making love after. Slow, languid; but in a way completely wondrous and blissful, not at all gut-wrenchingly detached. When his fingers brushed against my skin they left warm little sparks in their wake, lighting my body with pleasure; stealing my breath away with his kisses.
Dark and light. Fire and water. Pain and pleasure.
Pavel and Nikolai.
Nikolai wants me to do something this Valentine’s. He hasn’t said it, and he would never push, but I can tell by the look in his eyes. He is a hopeless romantic and secretly loves romantic surprises, though he would never admit to it. He wants me to sweep him off his feet; even though he knows and understands why I would not.
I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s since I left Russia. Not with Alex, not with Anna, not with Tara. It was one of the reasons Anna avoided me on those days, unable to deal with the irritation she would feel, insistent that she be babied and pampered. Alex, gentle, knowing Alex, understood. Tara was Tara, taciturn and flippant. Save perhaps Alex, all of my lovers since Pavel have wanted me to celebrate Valentine’s with them. All of them I had refused. So far, the holiday has held nothing but painful memories for me, memories that leave me shaking at night and wrapping my arms around my lover’s chest as he sleeps, clinging to him silently as I seek grounding. Memories that I would rather forget.
…I hope that Nikolai will like the opera seats I picked out.
-
Hearts of spun sugar and rich chocolate. Roses of the deepest crimson, the palest pink, the purest white. Stuffed bears holding boxed treats in their paws, button noses shaped like hearts. Hearts, hearts, hearts. Little candies, large signs; lying lovers. Young men and women symbolically handing over their hearts, to what purpose? Having them consumed within a matter of hours? Have them be shared around, used and discarded in the trash once the sweet bits are gone and the empty box is all that remains?
Nikolai tells me with that amused smile of his that I’m looking far too much into the symbolism of the holiday. But Nikolai is sweet and innocent, my gentle lover with a hopeless streak of romanticism that I never cease to delight in. He doesn’t understand the significance of hearts and Valentines and red and pink and white or what flesh looks like, forced to circulate blood beneath a tightened black silk band.
“My sweet Valentine,” Pavel whispered against my skin, his lips brushing against the bruises he had made. Purple-red welts against pale skin; my skin, his living canvas. His tongue flicking against the inside of my elbow, running across the sensitized flesh in a teasing caress that prickled the hairs on my arm, the back of my neck; making me whimper as cool metal was dragged up against my forearm like a white-hot iron.
“Sweet, sweet Sergei,” he murmured, kissing me, sliding his tongue inside my mouth. He tasted like vodka and his saliva seemed to burn my lips even when he pulled back, lowering his mouth to my neck.
I flinched when the needle pierced my skin. Closed my eyes, bit my lip, as he steadily pushed the plunger down. The drug hit my bloodstream almost instantaneously and a languid feeling of lethargy flooded through my body; my whimpers quieted and I relaxed in Pavel’s grip, slumping lifelessly forward into his arms. His hand stroked down my arms and the touch lit my skin on fire with a thousand tiny needles prickling my flesh, and my vision whitened as he laid me down on the bed. The lightest brush was torturous, overwhelming, but my limbs were lead and my mind too muddled to protest as Pavel lovingly stripped me of the rest of my clothes; shirt-shoes-pants-briefs. The slide of cloth against my skin had me arching, in pain, in pleasure, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head, mouth opening wide in a guttural scream-a cry-moan; my fingers curling weakly in the sheets.
White was the color of my skin, cold and pale in the Russian winter. Pink was what it turned after Pavel was through with me, his hand or belt slapping or snapping heavy strokes against my flesh. Red was the color of the pinprick of blood that welled after the needle was pulled from my arm.
White-Pink-Red.
Red-Pink-White.
Pavel’s fingers tipping my head up, his pale-pink lips tasting my own. The world a red haze of pain as a thick member thrust inside of me, the length and girth and suddenness of it welling tears in my eyes. The sheets a pure innocent white as I clutched at them, unable to bury my face into them and pretend that this world wasn’t real, that this wasn’t happening.
“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” Pavel whispered in my ear as hands spread my legs apart and fingers wormed inside of me. “My lovely Valentine…”
Mine. Mine-mine-mine-only-mine. His eyes bright, too bright, his breathing rapid and his cheeks flushed. Arms wrapped tight around me even as I floated miles away, detached and emotionless, sleepily uncaring. Whispering his possession of me even as I drifted further and further away from him, his clear liquid concoction forcing us worlds, universes, apart.
“My gift to you.”
Pavel’s gifts never were pleasant.
But, then, Nikolai.
Nikolai is sweet. Nikolai is pure. Our first Valentine’s, he seemed to understand, somehow, of my distaste for the holiday. That it runs so much deeper than most would think; even before I told him why, months later. He didn’t make a big fuss, didn’t do anything extraordinary-just a quiet candlelit dinner at home, with the two of us making love after. Slow, languid; but in a way completely wondrous and blissful, not at all gut-wrenchingly detached. When his fingers brushed against my skin they left warm little sparks in their wake, lighting my body with pleasure; stealing my breath away with his kisses.
Dark and light. Fire and water. Pain and pleasure.
Pavel and Nikolai.
Nikolai wants me to do something this Valentine’s. He hasn’t said it, and he would never push, but I can tell by the look in his eyes. He is a hopeless romantic and secretly loves romantic surprises, though he would never admit to it. He wants me to sweep him off his feet; even though he knows and understands why I would not.
I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s since I left Russia. Not with Alex, not with Anna, not with Tara. It was one of the reasons Anna avoided me on those days, unable to deal with the irritation she would feel, insistent that she be babied and pampered. Alex, gentle, knowing Alex, understood. Tara was Tara, taciturn and flippant. Save perhaps Alex, all of my lovers since Pavel have wanted me to celebrate Valentine’s with them. All of them I had refused. So far, the holiday has held nothing but painful memories for me, memories that leave me shaking at night and wrapping my arms around my lover’s chest as he sleeps, clinging to him silently as I seek grounding. Memories that I would rather forget.
…I hope that Nikolai will like the opera seats I picked out.
-