CONNECT/DISCONNECT

Complete Piece

(This is a combination of the three parts of the piece into one, mostly so my dearest https://substack.com/@beirasbothy can find it without too much trouble. Also, because part three of the series is in the works. Again, parts are NSFW so read at your own peril.)

PART I

Dinner, inviting/accepting invitation inside, seated together, wine poured for one, first time trying to impress, scallops in brown butter, far too much salt. Not just any meal, February 14^th with unnecessary Hallmark pressures. Laughter, leaning forward, hand on thigh, strap to red lingerie slightly visible under dress, possibilities raised. Plates removed, hand taken, guided away from table. She closes the door to the room, switch off, pushing onto bed; she is on top, thighs straddling. The first time with someone other than. After. Blood simmers, boils with anticipation, excitement, but stomach cramping with nerves. 26 years with one person and then she is gone, taken too soon. Months of loneliness, solitude, changing of the mattress, and now on this on this day of all days. She exercises control, guides, directs, lips touching gently in burning anticipation.

Heart beats loudly in my ears. Space between cheekbones and eyelids inflamed, lips gently touch her neck, inhaling the sweat, musk, and perfume. I want to bite, not in anger but not soft, to bite hard, savagely. Living flesh. Healthy, alive. Her face turned away, ipsilateral jugular beats in the darkness of the room. I am on top, everything focused on this moment, piloerections of lust spreading to her arm, feeling the tiny bumps.

Suddenly my breath shallow, tachypneic, something disconnecting in my brain, ignorant of desire in my body, depersonalizing. Mind hovers, questioning propriety, whether vows can be broken after death, or is this the after part. Headboard noise against wall, the same pecan-colored walnut, the same sounds, just like before, but not with her. Closing eyes, images of past forced out, reopening eyes to focus on the present.

Thin red strap pushed down her shoulder, slip falling, pulled down, lips moving from nape to the space between her breasts, kissing, worshiping each centimeter, fingers finding areola, gentle pressure, movements automatic, motion well-practiced. Raising slightly, eyes fall onto her chestnut skin, tracking chest heaves, rising to meet touch, fingers, pushing closer, harder. Lips and tongue trace other breast, mouth pressure increasing. Beautiful breasts, so perfect and soft; lovely.

Unwelcome images return into psyche. Metastasizes, open sores, changing of bandages; slightest pressure causing pain. Everything before thought erotic about breasts, every teenage dream, fantasy and night sweat of imagined touch replaced with clinical descriptions, charts, mammograms, mri, explanations of biologic function, structure, each cell, each fucking cancerous cell. A battle of contradictions, desires and outcomes. A pause, hesitation.

Her hands on either side of face, she pushes down her stomach. Movement brings back into the moment, kisses resume, imperceptibly linger, trail, move to navel then pelvic bones. Inhaling deeply, scent, tart and moist; a moment to tease. Kissing inner thigh, moving to popliteal, causing laughter in excited frustration, I smile. Deliberate obfuscating, avoiding erogenous zones, a brush, slight kiss, without direct contact, bucking her hips, fingers pressing, ending games. No more torturing, withholding no more, deliberate patterns of my tongue, once told to practice the alphabet, watching her face, body vibrating, convulsing in a vocal ecstasy. Fully engrossed in pleasure, forcefully pulling to mouth, to lips, whispers “now.” Bodies pressing together, and want, desire, need to fully penetrate, absorb into me. Face so close, eyes closed, unable to see the emerald lust tint.

Instead of celebrating, mind begins to compare, the same and not, movements familiar not identical. Kisses dissimilar, tongue too probing, too aggressive. Fear begins to swell, worries of incapable, unable to complete, doubts growing, distracting, but continuing rhythmic movements, frequency of guttural moans; she is nearing the pinnacle, nearly at the peak, but I am not close, body disconnected, feelings and sensations lost in cerebral hyperventilating. Involuntarily, words repeating, sanskrit mantras: “this was our bed, our room, and now someone else in her place, occupying space under my weight”, movements becoming more imperfect, disjointed.

“Yes. Yes.” her voice raises, increased intensity, joy, satisfaction, but trying and trying, still not joining. Time elapses, “we need to stop, it is starting to hurt.”

I volunteer to get water, leaving the bed in the darkened house, my nakedness more than my skin. Opening a cupboard, removing etched-star glass, a sound in shadows, muted laughter.

“You are pathetic.” Quiet but distinct. Turning to the side, trying to identify the foreign hissing voice.

“Did you really think you could be with her in your bed?” The tone dry, critical, disproving.

The source identified on the countertop, in the corner: the bottle of Lipton Peach Tea. Liz’s tea. The tea that is . . .was the favorite, up until close to the end. Five-hundred eleven days in the same place. An artificial monument, reminder of the past; a plastic memorial that no one else sees, no one questions, resting in solitude, fermenting.

. . . . . ……………………………………………………………….

“What are you saying?” leaning over the counter, closer to the container.

“You know,” the words clearer, affirmed by my attention. “You knew and yet you still decided to invite her here, to make dinner, to pour her wine. You knew you went into the bedroom, locked the dogs out; you knew it wouldn’t work.”

What in the literal fuck? Reaching for the bottle but stop. Peach iced tea cannot talk.

“You wouldn’t, you couldn’t finish the act,” surprising ire from an inanimate object.

That’s it, a line has been crossed.

“Oh no. Fuck you.” Pointing finger in emphasis. “You do not know what the hell you are talking about,” wanting to pick it up and into the recycling bin. “First of all, who are you to judge me? And how do you even know what we did or didn’t do?”

“I know you are still frustrated. I can smell it on you.”

“Smell? How can you smell anything? You aren’t real, I mean, this is all in my mind.” The comment about my performance replays, internal arguments: She had a great time, a really good time, right? No, right. That I didn’t orgasm, who the fuck cares, it was still fun --really fun. Why am I arguing?

“You can tell yourself whatever you need, but you knew you wouldn’t succeed and now she is wondering if it is her or you.”

That little fucker is reading my mind.

“It is you.”

“I do not know why my body wouldn’t get to that point. It isn’t a big deal. I am sure it was an aberration, a one-time thing.” The dish towel is strained, pulled tight, justifying my performance to flavored tea in plastic.

“Would you rather I stay celibate?” voice rising, eyes level to the counter. “What am I supposed to do, just sit on the counter and rot like you? Because I won’t, I can’t!”

There is no response this time.

“Is everything okay?” She calls into the dark.

“Yeah,” I respond, but my eyes remain on the container as I turn off the light.

Part II

“Thank you for coming over again,” removing takeout sushi containers from the table. “I have been thinking about you all week.”

She responds by taking my hand, leading me back to the bedroom. With a little work, the dogs are exiled and she is under the covers, bare shoulders exposed. With wry-smile she whispers, “turn off the light.”

Obliging, stripping most of my clothes, not wanting to fully expose excitement, sliding next, alongside, facing, playfully placing kisses on her shoulder —momentary thought, lights needn’t be off, possibly more fun if every part is visible, if expressions are not only felt but seen. Only in passing thought, a moment of distraction.

Lips meeting, kisses not hurried, not immediate, forceful, but different, still not quite in sync. Hands passing down the small of her back, feeling no cloth or silk, caressing skin, buttocks. Anticipation growing, leaning forward, one hand unhooking bra, black lace tossed to the foot, eagerly attempting to remove boxer briefs one handed, awkward, not graceful, falling on top. Pressure of kisses increase, trailing to lobe, nibble, neck, bite, breasts; breasts without open sores, pleasure not pain; just slight pause, such beautiful breasts, hardening nipple, a flash of image of cancer, but pushed deep, focus on the moment.

Bodies repositioning, shimmying under coverlet, head beneath, familiarity as now the second time, better able to sense pressure points, clitoris, steps, actions increasing movement, moisture building, flowing, whimpers followed by deep, deep exhale, appreciating attention and emphasis, fingers now join in. Minutes, seconds, and sudden orgasm, now demanding penetration, “with protection.” Clumsy foil tearing, doesn’t want to, now using teeth, happy lights are off. Deep, firm connection, hands lifting hips, feverish connection, the clock ticks and ticks, perfect tan legs wrapping around back.

Noses touching, eyes staring at closed lids, guttural utterances filling night. Corner of eye sees nightstand lit under phone florescence and apparition, memories of bottles, pills, set alongside journal tracking dosages, times. Body continuing action, mind wandering, her nightstand. Distraction refusing the enjoyment of the moment, the sensation, friction. No images of her, or of pain, but not in the moment, not in the half or hour. Sensing frustration, repositioning, laying with chest on mattress, positioning behind, the second-hand sweeps, the sound of time passing only further distracts. Fear growing, returning, not of propriety but of success. Sweat drips off brow, onto small of back, but once again not there.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she says, “you okay?”

I nod. “I will use the guest.”

. …………………………………………………………………………………………………..

In the second lavatory, leaning on the pedestal sink, eyes are focused in the mirror, wonder what is happening. Twice? Really? Behind, in the cabinet filled with guest towels, excess toiletries and tissue paper, eight gold labeled boxes. Eight boxes of Loreal Superior Preference, 6AM. Bought when hair returned, in between treatments. Boxes of hope for the future, a promise for what never was. Hair dye no one wants or will take, slumbering behind glass pane. A soft voice is appears:

“It is okay.”

Searching for the source, there, there, from the cabinet, eyes drawn to model, the bangs, the auburn hair; the face that she would look for to locate her color in the hair care aisle, never remembering the numerical designation.

“You too?” Voice betrays frustration.

“You like her and she is beautiful. You thought you were ready.” Sudden embarrassment, eyes find the floor. She continues.

“You waited an appropriate and respectable number of dates before inviting her to your home. You were trying to take your time.” Eyes drop to floorboards, her tone soft, the slightest hint of a French accent. Of course, Loreal.

“I needed this,” eyes rising to the shelve, begging for approval. “I need to feel alive, to connect. It is so quiet here.” Sitting on the closed lid, eyes find blue glass etched handle, unable to meet her gaze. “Is it wrong? Am I wrong for trying to find someone else, to be with someone else? What is wrong with me?”

“There is nothing wrong with want or need,” she says. “But we are still here. You haven’t let us go.”

Pause of moments, seconds, minutes. Why have I kept the boxes, what reason is there?

“You still wear your wedding rings around your neck. And you never talk about before.”

“I do not think she wants to know. It bothers her when I talk about the past.”

“You care about her feelings, that is reasonable. Is that why you have moved most of the pictures?”

Correct. I have rearranged the house a little, but not just pictures, more items placed into her dressing room, a shrine behind a closed door, seldom opened.

“Are you okay with the changes?”

“Yes,” too quick in response. “Just rearranging. She never asked and I don’t need pictures in frames.” (I still see her in everything.)

“Are you already wondering if she will be the one?”

“No. I mean, I do not know, I am not trying to replace, and while I may have wondered, thought about whether it could even work, it was just a passing thought. I mean I like her, really like her, but I shouldn’t be thinking about that, not after only two months.”

Faucet drips in the silence, unsaid thoughts linger, pushing in.

“What if I am not really ready. What then?”

No answer forthcoming.

“Is this going to work when I still miss her so very much?” I realize the double entendre, not intended, but not wrong.

“Time. You cannot change your heart the way you change the color of your hair.”

In wonder if the words are a variation of advertisement, slogan while washing hands, splashing water on face and turning out the light.

PART III

Ill Dog Amelie by Michael Sowa

Entering the kitchen from the second bath, she stands, left hand manipulating her temple. I hope that my conversation in the second bath was inner monologue, unable to eavesdrop.

“Do you have any Advil? I have a headache,” she asks, fully dressed and ready to be driven home.

“Let me get them for you,” one last glance in the direction of the cabinet of my two-dimensional confidant

“They are over here,” opening a pantry, removing the lined-wicker basket. “I think they are, at least.” Boxes of cold-medicine and other pain relievers, once neatly arranged, now jumbled together without rhyme, inspecting each, searching for pain medicine. She is next to me, shoulder touching, watching my search.

“Have you checked the dates of these?” she asks, picking up a sleeve of gelcaps. “These expired last year.”

“They did? I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t the one who usually bought them. I do not really take medicine.”

“No really,” she continues, examining more bottles and boxes. “Every one of these are expired.”

No response, not telling her that we did not need cold medicine when we seldom left the house for nearly a year, afraid a weakened immune system; a cold or the flu could mean hospital visits, unable to even eat vegetables grown in dirt for fear of salmonella. Over the counter medicine, not prescribed by a doctor, are not part of a treatment cycle.

“Here,” finding a prescription of 800 mg. ibuprofen, prescribed before the codeine, before the morphine. “This will help,” taking one out of the bottle, de-emphasizing the prescription date or the patient to whom prescribed.

“You need to get rid of all of this,” she says, taking the pill from my hand, inspecting. “Why is it so big?”

“Prescription strength.”

“You need to clean this out. Having medicine that is expired won’t help you when you need them.”

The white-lidded orange bottle in hand, there is another voice, muted, muffled.

“She is right. Clean us all out, start fresh, empty the shelves.” My eyes search to find the source, then to ensure we are alone.

“This anthropomorphism needs to stop,” I whisper to myself.

“Maybe,” the container continues, undeterred. “That doesn’t change the fact that you never look into this basket and yet you keep us all.”

“Why am I keeping you?” I ask.

“Probably because you keep everything,” the voice continues. “Probably because you have a hard time letting go.”

This seems to be directed at a larger issue, something more than sleeves and bottles. Lately, I have been holding onto things that no longer serve their purpose, unnatural attachment to inanimate objects, hoping that some use will be found, some purpose.

“But you do not mind being thrown away, not taken, never having fulfilled your . . . destiny?”

“No. We understand. We had a purpose, you collected us with care, arranged in case of need, but you didn’t find one; you haven’t caught a cold or come down with the flu.”

“So, what, now I just throw you all away?”

“There is a time for everything.”

This makes me stop. Examining the bottle, the “use-by” date passed in 2023, before diagnosis and yet I save, filling the space where something new can be placed. Scanning each box, each bottle, it is true, not one did I purchase, have I stocked. Looking at the tea on the counter, back at the cabinet with the boxes, there are things I need to change, things I need let go of.

Without pause or further thought I carry the basket to the bin, opening the lid, and deposit the contents, setting the empty container on the counter. Fighting the urge to double check that none might have some use, I feel I am being watched. A gentle pat on my shoulder: “Good Job.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A fortnight passes, with daily communication, sometimes only by text, schedules prevent meeting until weekend night, when son is with father. Meeting in a restaurant, agreement arrived to spend the night, unspoken consent to third time together, a trilogy of experience. We arrive at my house as the moon rises over the nearest hills.

“One more time,” she whispers into my ear. I nod.

This time there is no rush, no haste; time is taken with the removal of each piece, turning back the linens, lights dimmed but not extinguished. March temperature of the room, slight chill, and we are quick to find warmth in our bodies, an intimate embrace. This time, lips and tongues are gentler, more in sync. This time, there is comfort, familiarity to the landscapes, topography of skin, nipples, hips, thighs, calves, and more delicious parts. Slowly exploring, manipulating in minuet, scherzo, oral exposition leaves fingers clutching, one big toe curled. This time, the development is more deliberate, knowing the precise pressure to apply, the rhythm and location; four (F) sharp motions, in descending octaves, a light and simple cadence, repeated four times, following staccato movements. There is music to our movements, a modulating sequence, leading to a rising chromatic exhale, a crescendo, vocal crescendo.^[1] This time, I know what I am doing, recapitulating, a sonata, until only panting escapes her lips.

On this evening, there are no hallucinations, no ghosts visiting, apparitions to distract. Tonight, I lead and there is no clumsiness with wrappers, gold foil tears at perforation, without hesitation. Tonight, we chase pleasure together, bodies remain connected, no separation of mind, enjoying touch, movement, thrusts, near perfect positioning of corpus spongiosum and clitoris, sensations crescendo and . . .peak. Tonight, when bodies come together the subject is brief, the exposition complete; episodic progressions of our movements, developments; we build upon the first two nights, without fear of reaching an arbitrary finish line or peak; together chasing the tonic, the fugue complete.

“Holy shit,” I pant. All that can be said, the only words that come to mind. Exhaling, “thank you.”

Mutual laughter, not of humor or joke, but of satisfaction, release. Seconds pass, ready for the weight of my body to alight, a quick but frustrated kiss, and I understand, I know, rolling to my side. In the dark of the room, there is a different tone, an absence, everything feels changed.

^[1] The description of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 comes from Charles Rosen’s 2002 discussion, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a Short Companion. Yale University Press.