Chapter Three – Rebound
by Christine Wild
After two years, my arms were on someone else. These shoulders were new. They were lower. His lips touched mine differently. His embrace was heavenly, yet ever so foreign. Still his touch was so intoxicating. He paid attention to me. He was surprised by my total surrender. He once told me that what he recalled from that night was my untamed energy. That night was my first rebound after my first and only long-term serious relationship. His name was Joe*. He liked my curves. His hands fit tightly around both my ass cheeks and did not like to let go. We were both looking for extreme proximity. The least space between us the better. His hands helped him glide inside me as deep as possible. Later he pulled me towards him by my hair. As he thrust into me, I pushed myself closer onto him. With every gesture, I could see his eyes studying my uncalculated moves. I must have looked so liberated, yet inexperienced. I did not care though. He looked at me like I was the greatest thing that ever kneeled on top of him, and that was all I needed.
I first imagined this moment one morning in geography class. I did not expect much of my science requirement, let alone handsome men. I had noticed him from the first day; he sat two rows in front of me. As he retreated, I advanced, getting closer as the weeks went by. Less than a month into classes, we sat next to each other and had chatted each other up. He had a tattoo on each forearm that he kept staring at. It was something about changing perceptions, he said. He was quiet. I am not usually interested in quiet people; they baffle me. He, like the artist in a way, had a manner about him that made a very loud impression. His eyes were blue, with dashes of grey. His demeanor was nonchalant, sometimes even somewhat defeated. His soul, however…
The morning after my tragic yet impending, long-distance break-up, I showed up to class discombobulated. He looked me in the eye and said: “What’s wrong?” To which I replied, matter-of-factly: “I got dumped last night.” (Nowadays, this seems to be something that happens to me quite a bit.) He grabbed my hand so, so, so tightly. He did not let go for what felt like an eternity. This human contact was exactly what I needed and I did not even know it. He saw through me. It was just as if he had known me for ever, better than I even knew myself at that point. His touch and his strong intent to be there were my savior. He knew nothing, yet he knew everything. Something about human misery is so universal that when you are in touch with your deepest darkest feelings, you can communicate with those who are as well.
A couple of days after the most affecting hand gesture to date, we progressed in our relationship over vodka at 10am. We had both had a hard day. I remember sitting on my couch, looking at him, feeling uneasy about how comfortable it all was. We laughed, and sat there silently. It was as if all of our worries had just vanished, just the way the vodka did down our throats. Isn’t it funny how the brain remembers selectively but leaves you an incredible amount of detail? I have no idea what happened before I was standing in front of him that night, in his dark one bedroom, attempting not to crumble at each kiss. I remember not once thinking of the ex. I remember standing naked at his sliding glass door, smoking. I was thinking of nothing. Or rather there were so many different thoughts going on in my head that I was totally and utterly unable to discern one from another. I felt him move and it was reassuring to know he was still there. I had almost forgotten where I was, consumed by my new feelings of self. Then, completely by surprise, his hands were on my hips. He pulled me just an inch closer, and ever so delicately laid the sweetest of kisses, on my right hip. I looked down. He smiled and gestured a very familiar motion. I gave him a puff. We exhaled together, and I returned to lie next to him. He gave me another kiss. I remember distinctively smelling whiskey on his breath. It was comforting somehow. Then I fell asleep.
We still talk and I hope we will meet again one day. The sexual energy between us just does not seem to waver and we both like it. It is nice to know that however many miles away, someone somewhere still dreams of fucking you senseless.