The beast in me
Is caged by frail and fragile bonds
Restless by day
And by night, rants and rages at the stars
We were young lovers; not in love (well, maybe secretly, a little), but at least very in love with being young lovers. We fucked constantly, until one day he told me confidentially he was so raw he thought he might need to take a one-night reprieve just to protect the health of his poor, aching cock. And then, within minutes of having said this, he was fucking me again. And again and again.
He lived in a flat with others, so we would go to his bedroom when we wanted to be alone together. We always wanted to be alone together. And, since the wardrobe and his big bed took up most of his small, crazy-wallpaper-patterened, bay windowed bedroom, even when we weren't fucking, we more or less lived together in bed. We talked, ate, played, read, fucked, dressed, undressed, and did everything else together in or on his bed, surrounded by a floor strewn with books and ash trays and empty Bulgarian wine bottles made into makeshift candle holders. We fucked with the bay windows open, on purpose. And wondered who in the long rows of flats on the opposite side of the street had seen us.
But it is not him I want to tell you about. It's about a moment I remember that happened with him; a moment never completed, and one I've always tried to find since.
We were, one night, as all other nights, in bed. We generally slept naked but in this memory we had on some clothes. He had on some old sweatpants and I had on an old, worn-out t-shirt of his with some punk band logo on it. We were lounging around, chatting, doing nothing in particular, and then somehow, a pillow fight started. I can't remember who initiated; it is gone from my memory. It might have been me who suggested it; he was always far too intellectual and serious and, well, English to click into goofball play mode unless I prodded him a tiny bit--but I knew he was always dying for the prod. So I would prod, and then he was off. This was probably one of those times. "Let's have a pillow fight," I might have said, and I think, after some teasing and goading, perhaps it was he who first lightly, good-naturedly smacked me with his lumpy, worn feather pillow. I grabbed the other and smacked him back. We were laughing; he hit back again, a little harder. I jumped to my knees while he was still half-lounging below me, raising my pillow above my head to deliver a fatal smacking blow. While I still had the pillow raised over my head, he smacked his full into me, across my face.
And suddenly the air became charged. Delighted at his dirty fighting, I howled with the fake anger of wounded betrayal and pounded him with my pillow, seeking revenge. He leapt up out of bed and I pursued. We ran around the room and scrambled over the bed, smacking each other over and over, each time progressively harder. And each time I got hit, I loved it. And each time I hit him harder and harder, I loved it. It was like my whole life had been slow up to this minute, and now, now I finally knew what it was like to have blood coursing--rushing--through my veins. It was a delicious, delighted rage I felt. It was a heady insanity; an intense reverse evolutionary rush that changed us from adult to child to--yes, yes!--animal in mere moments. We ran, screaming and laughing and hitting each other harder and harder. And it was so good. I couldn't stop, now that I had found this feeling. I could feel him fighting and I fought back; it was so good; beyond words.
I hit and hit and hit and hit again, harder, harder, teeth bared with effort, noises coming out of my throat, hoarse and growling with delight... and it was better than orgasm; better than heaven; total release, complete freedom, no sense involved, just sheer rage-filled adoration and arousal---and I wanted to live there forever.
And suddenly he wasn't hitting back anymore...I heard him shouting something....I held back for a moment...and everything zoomed in to a hyper-suspended moment of stillness...
And there we were staring at each other...him barefooted, bare-chested, breathless, on the floor at the foot of the bed, looking up at me as I stood above him on the rickety bed, barely clothed, pushing my hair out of my face, panting, eyes locked with his. My pillow raised and ready to defend or strike, shakily balancing myself, watching him for any sudden move. I stared into his eyes, a strange kind of exhilaration coursing through me. I felt like a wolf, like a cougar, some wild thing, circling another of my kind, ready to run in for the final fight. And oh, I wanted it. I wanted to feel the moment of engagement. I wanted to feel the fight and the rip and the kill. I wanted to feel myself doing it and I wanted to feel him doing it to me. I looked deep in his eyes, ready to howl in ecstatic rage as we leapt at each other. And he looked back at me and I could see...fear.
No, no! I thought. Don't back down! Don't leave me here! Fight back! Stay up here with me in mad animal nirvana! Show me what you're made of! Make me fight you! Wrestle me down and roll with me on the ground, biting and scratching and growling and fucking and fucking and fucking me till we lose our minds.
I tried to say this with my eyes. But I could see the light had gone out in his; all I could see was fear. And then hidden close behind, anger and possibly disgust and...was it humiliation? But above all, a desire--a begging--to turn to back to normal. Not just begging for him to. For both of us to. For me to not be this thing I had become. And the feeling inside me, it was like a balloon slowly being leaked of its helium.
I have never found any man, ever, who wanted to stay there with me at that level of animal savagery; who didn't hold back or back down and stop it before we'd really gotten there--beyond. It is a crossing over, allowing oneself to be in that state, and one needs to be willing to turn certain things off to be brave enough to stay there. Most people are not comfortable with the absence of those things.
This doesn't mean my relationships aren't good. They are; the sex is good and very satisfying within the boundaries of how far the men I am with are willing to take it. I understand that most people don't want to go to this place. And I don't like my lovers to feel afraid or uncomfortable, and I like lots of the other places they do like to go.
But for me, the lack of someone who can understand and connect to this state with me often leaves me feeling like a prisoner who has been kept in seclusion for many years. I long for that feelng of release; but it will take at least one other willing person to make it happen.
No matter how many years you keep a prisoner in the darkness, though, she can still remember what a sunlit garden looks and smells and feels like.
I still dream of the garden. And of someone who also dreams of it, who gets it and who's willing to open the door to it with me.
I hope I can find him so the seclusion can be over. He's who I'm looking for.