08082010

It is our fifth night here (actually, a new day is upon us), and the moon is hanging in the sky as if by an invisible string, but I can’t see the stars… maybe for the brightness of the moon. Still, there is enough glimmer in the sky to drape a rippling mirror over the water. And I am awake… eyes wide open… unable to sleep. Too many images inside my head. Too many beautiful people… earlier today… and earlier this evening at dinner. I think they are more beautiful than usual because they are tanned. We look more beautiful, more vibrant, more alive, when our skin has been kissed by the sun. We look… as though we have made love. No…we look as though we have had sex… lots of sex… and have been left glowing in the aftermath of our spent desire. Or do we have more sex when we are by the ocean or sea? It must be the fishy smell of the shore that implants thoughts of sex into the very front of our minds. Or maybe we feel more sexual because we are in an elemental, primitive setting… as glitzy as that setting might be.

I like that this place is quiet… adult-oriented. Not that I mind children. But sometimes, I need my peace. I just want to eat… and drink… and nap… and swim… and eat and drink and nap and swim… quietly. I do too much of everything else in life when I am not on vacation. And I live with somebody else’s kids when I am working… eight hours a day. I am entitled to do nothing at all when I’m on holidays. And so, this afternoon, I laid back in the wet sand and let the gentle water lap at my body… and the sand get stuck in my hair… while I listened to Pink Martini on my iPod… and finished reading Venus in Furs. And when I was done reading, I watched all the lovely people walking around on the beach… playing games in the water… sipping their brightly colored drinks. My husband and I also sipped our cocktails… and played in the water. And we did our “knot” plunge, where we wrap our arms and legs around one another and make a somersault in the water. We started that when we were on our honeymoon… and now… every time we go to the beach… we do it. I actually think it’s pretty cool we haven’t drowned, yet... because we've come close a couple of times... he he he. And then we came out of the water and chatted… and fell asleep… and woke up burned by the sun. But these are nice burns… every one of them welcome, as far as I am concerned. I can feel them pulsing right beneath the surface of my skin. And that’s an alive kind of feeling!

It was pure luck that brought us here. We could’ve ended up vacationing in any of a number of other places … but here it was meant to be. My husband and I scribbled some names on slips of paper… the names of places we thought we might want to visit. We didn’t know how to pick… there were so many cool places to choose from after we had each made our list. And besides, everything else we do in life is so calculated… so prepared and measured. Why not just live off the cuff, for a few days? So the slips of paper were prepared, placed into a bowl, and I got to stick my hand inside and choose one. And when I was unfolding the paper, we were both staring at each other… because now, all of a sudden… it was about to matter. “Turks and Caicos,” I announced, and we both paused for a moment before we squealed like little kids… though what in the world we were squealing about, I don’t know. It’s not as if we knew what to expect. But really? It’s been a sliver of Eden, so far.

But… so many people alone, here. And it’s especially noticeable at dinner. They are always the most interesting to watch. We are so vulnerable when we are alone… so exposed… especially if we are away from familiar surroundings. We behave with a self-conscious awkwardness. Some people say they feel perfectly comfortable being alone in a social setting. That may be true… but I am skeptical, based on what I observe.

There was the elegant young lady in a blue dress that made her skin just twinkle. She read while she dined… and licked her lips after every sip of wine. I suppose she was using the book as a way to avoid making eye contact… or maybe she was engrossed in her reading. But at dinner? And then there was the man who looked at the water all night. There were so many gorgeous women he could’ve been looking at (or gorgeous men, if that’s his vibe), but his attention was focused on the sea. He only turned his eyes away from the water to look at his plate, and as soon as the food was ready on his fork, he turned his gaze right back to the water. It seemed he was fascinated by some distant memory playing out on the silver screen of the ocean.

And then there was another man… wearing the sparkling eyes of anticipation. It looked like he had been waiting a while… for someone. And, telling from his agitation, that someone was a lady. There was something intriguing about him… he twitched uncomfortably… he shuffled his knife and fork and napkin and empty stemware… he darted his eyes all over the terrace. And I couldn’t help wondering what he would have said to the lady he was waiting for (if there was, in fact, a lady) if he had gotten the chance. Or… what would he say… if he were to write a letter… without ever having to send it? And, supposing he had a fetish? What type of fetish would it be? A fetish for… hair (too ordinary)… nails (nah)… feet (cliché)… shoes (shoes… getting there, but not quite there yet)… teeth, blood (blech!), toes, knees, chins (yawn), eyes, lips (zzzzzzz), ears, tears. Tears! Can someone have a fetish for tears? Why not?

So, here is the supposed letter:

My Beloved… My Sunshine,

I am thirsty… and I dream of being with you. I dream while the shadows lengthen at dusk. And from behind my eyes I watch your eyes smile. You know how I dislike your obliviousness to my need of you. You know how I have wanted you for some time. You know how I have wanted for your eyes to stop smiling… and you know why.

You are in my gut like a wind that is trapped in a hurricane… violent and awkward. And I am insatiable with longing for you. But I will wait as long as necessary. I will be here when you decide you want me. I will bring you tea in bed. I will dress like a gypsy… a farmer… a slave. I will dress like a woman, if that will please you… and traipse like an impoverished whore. Whatever you want, my darling.

But then, Love, you know it is my fondest desire to make you cry. Cry, while I ravish your orange-blossomed skin with kisses and bites the likes of which you have never known. My dream is that you lie down on your back… a little lower… just like that. And cry for me. You know your tears captivate me… drive me mad. If you tilt your head to the side, your tears will flow effortlessly. And if you half-close your eyes, they will flow with more patience… the better to make me burn. Half-close your eyes, my love, and pretend to sleep. Let the rain come. Lie down before me and say, I am Goddess. And I will say, I am your servant… your serf… your slave. Please, don’t make me torture you. My heart does venerate… oh, how it does! But it is myopic and fickle.

Let me get here beside you… all the closer to feast upon the salty wetness of your tears when they are delivered. I want to watch the silk of your gown slide like a caress over your tear-drenched shoulders and down the temple of your body… and fall with a whisper into the pool of tears on the ground. I want to draw ecstasy slowly from your throat… your feet… your eyes. I want to watch you go blind with your tears while you try to whisper, Can you feel inside me? as your back arches, and together we fall. I will do anything for you. And you may do with me as you please… so long as I can see those enchanted crystal rivers gush from your eyes. Make me an oath… a fragment of an oath… something to appease my pining. For, is this not love?

But it is getting late, my darling, and the darkness awakens my quiet wounds. Night has fallen, and I can no longer see the paper. I fear writing over the edges and on the table, where another’s eyes might discover my thoughts… to my mortal shame.

Until soon, then, my love. I will wait for you. And time will wait. The second hand will tick in place. The postman will deliver no mail. Come soon. And cry for me, that I may quench my thirsting spirit, that I may comfort my feverish brain! In my avaricious mind’s eye, I wrap my arms around you and press them together until we both are breathless. Perhaps you will shed a tear for me, there, from between your half-closed lips. Come to me. Look at me. And tell me this is not love.

Yours,

S.

* * * * *

I just turned that man into a tear fetishist (there’s got to be a name for that) and an obsessive mess. Supposing he’s perfectly normal? But then, supposing he isn’t? And what’s not normal about having a fetish? We all have them. But… seriously, he was miserable enough without my adding a fetish to the brew. And besides, my language was a bit… passé. I might as well have written "To die, to sleep no more." But, Venus in Furs is still haunting me. And it was all fun and games... the man will never know.

I'm sleepy... very sleepy. And a bit sad. We'll be leaving in a couple of days. How come the fun doesn't last forever?

August 8, 2010

@ 3:24 a.m.