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Letter to a friend
My Dearest S.,
I hope that everything is well with you.
I want to tell you a story, a story involving yet another (Albanian) man, a man who I cannot stop thinking about. Again. This time, I was taken totally by surprise because I found myself the object of such an intense interest from a man well over 45, judging from his sweet appearance. For you know, generally it is the reverse. I will lose my composure in front of these older men. However, this most strange encounter was not supposed to have the influence that it had upon me. But here I am, feeling helplessly enamored with this person’s looks, words, and manners. When I most don’t expect it, and just as I am trying to recover from some pathetic rejection of my feelings for some virtual man whom nevertheless, I haven’t yet gotten over—but who, on the contrary, keeps lurking into my mind and overwhelms me entire. These are the times, my dear, when I am served most excellently with some new longing.
Every attempt to avoid hurting myself is fruitless. So when I least expect to get into trouble, when I least suspect that anything else will happen to increase or renew the pain that existing is for me, something will, my dearest. And my pain will renew, double or triple itself. My curiosity, intellectual or otherwise, has always been my enemy, for it has always led to pain. We’ve frequently talked about this, as you may recall, about how a desire to know, feel and experience manifested through a burning, and irresistible curiosity has led me into many a troublesome and humiliating situations. . . This time, again, curiosity about a man is consuming me and ruining my summer here at home.
I wish to tell you about an experience I had on Friday, June 7th, because you are my best listener, my confidante, and I need one tonight. My heartache is unbearable. “Kissed by a Stranger” would be the title of the experience. How else could I call it? Nothing but that, and I trust my patient reader—that is, you—will understand, for it is a story composed of kisses rather than of words, a story that’s leaving me sleepless and driving me insane with curiosity; curiosity about a man I met only a few days ago, or a few months ago; but it doesn’t matter. His kisses are still fresh on my mind’s hand, on my minds hair—where he keeps placing them again and again, as if in passing. At least in my mind. A man who has forced his name upon my memory by the sheer gentleness with which he would come to me, look at me with pleased, despaired, charmed eyes; who would ask me if I remembered his name, and take my hand and softly kiss it.
He would gently place both of his hands on my head and kiss my hair. Then go. I was so puzzled. But only to get shocked. A.N. would come back. He had to, because he was irresistibly attracted to this girl with a child-like face, in a white knitted blouse sitting against a table and greeting the guests. He didn’t even know how the rest of her body looked; he’d only seen its upper half; yet he felt completely absorbed by her. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, with a puzzled smile on his face, as if saying: "I can’t believe what is happening to me. . .I want her." At least, this is how I could interpret the way he gazed at me. His look seemed lost as he came back again, kissing my hand AGAIN, again asking me the same question, without even considering asking me about MY pretty name. But of course I didn’t remember and asked forgiveness. Apologetically I asked him what his name was, and this time I took a pen and wrote it down on a napkin: A___N___. He looked down at me as I was writing it, and once I was done, he placed another seemingly fatherly kiss on my head and taking my hand he said: “stand up!” I stood up as if hypnotized and he scanned my body from head to toe. . .I was wearing a long and softly colorful, patched skirt and had tied a pinkish scarf around my bare belly. His “stand up” was neither a request nor a command but something in between yet neither of them. Which I still cannot define. . .It was just that, two words. . .It was a hypnotic “stand up” that gently forced me up from the chair. And as I stood up, my skirt gravitated toward the ground in its entirety, and I could sense how he wanted to pull me to himself and squeeze me tightly. . .The overt yearning look in his eyes made me extremely nervous. Because his look so embarrassing I teased him with a: “I’m not on sale, thank you!” He took that in, and immediately apologized for giving me the “wrong” impression, and said that he only asked that I stand because he had wished to get down on his knees but couldn’t because his knee was hurting that night, or something along those lines. And he touched his left knee. (I wish I could now kiss those knees that kept bringing him back to where I was. But I know it is not going to happen in this lifetime.) He then asked me when I would be moving to the other room where dinner was being served. I told him I couldn’t at that moment, as (important!) guests were still coming in and I had to greet and direct them . . . So he offered me a drink. I preferred white wine. He went to get it for me. Someone gently wouldn’t let him take it out of the dining hall. . . After all, we were at The Pierre Hotel (a distinct one even for NY, to say the least). But he insisted to taking it out and there he was in front of me. The glass was in my hands. His eyes were fixed on mine. I was puzzled. But pleased. Again, he kissed my hands. He was tempting me. Or just letting himself be. And I felt so drawn into the game he was playing—and playing well—that I couldn’t be less flirtatious. So I said:
-“Do you kiss everyone like this?”
-“No, only those I really like.”
* * *
AN was a charming man, dear S., and with an unusually sensual behavior, as he stared at me with a depleting smile on his face. He looked gentle but firm, his acts so flirtatious I couldn’t breathe, his kisses seemed fatherly and harmless. Yet there was lust in them. And from now on I know I will only be looking for another AN. . . This encounter has meant so much to me, that words fail to describe its intensity. It's been the most special encounter I've ever had, in every sense of the word. I don't think I'll ever be able to put it into words the way I felt and still feel about it, the way it was: beautiful! I'm not so good with words, particularly in these (illogical and unreasonable
) situations. I can only experience them poetically and profoundly, but not write about them in a similar way. Which is why I should have spent time writing about it when it was still fresh in my mind and when he was all I was thinking about. But now I've kind of given up on the idea of seeing him again, even though I am returning home. And I have started to forget everything that we talked about, which was really little. But if I could only call him on the phone right now, how alive I would feel. And I love feeling that excitement, that joy and nervousness. . .But, alas, I do not dare call him. And I should not. Though we did speak a few times during the summer. And how could I ever forget his first response after calling him up and asking him:
-“Mr. N, what do you remember from last Friday night’s dinner?”
-“I remember a sweet girl—is that you?— who asked me if I kissed everyone like that.”
And how could I forget the intensity of the passion that was there? How could I forget what it meant for him to say “I know I wouldn’t stop kissing you if a saw you again. I will miss you tonight.”
And it is still incredible to recall that that first time I called him, as soon as he learned who I was, he told me “You made my day!”--exactly what I had told the person who had given me his number just minutes earlier. So I felt very tempted afterwards to think that it was real, that it was mutual. . .But how disappointing: the man never asked me out or contacted me in any way. . .I only got an email from a friend of his on his behalf (he doesn’t use email!!! I like that.)
But you know me, I keep swallowing a lot of pain. And even though I do talk to you about it, it doesn’t really get easier. My world consists of men and ideas, or love and philosophy, however contradictory they may sound on a superficial level. And you also know how passionate and loud I am about both. Human nature is paradoxical at its best. And this is OK. It is a good thing. It is what makes me survive in this otherwise miserable condition of being. For if it were only the one or the other there would be utter lack of excitement, staleness, Death. But my body knows better. My body tells me there is no better counteraction to the passion for reason and the search for meaning and truth than by expressing just as much of a passion toward certain men. This passion for the unknown in this man, or for this unknown man, the desire to know what and how he thinks, to kiss him and caress him infinitely into the morning hours. . .this is what drives the irrational me and makes me forget the otherwise ridiculousness of my life.
I am very tired now to continue, and I don't think there's anything left to say. I could only start saying the same things differently. My life is meaningless, yes; my life is empty, yes. And the craving itself is empty, too. I have great friends, yes. And they have their own great problems, too. Yes. Yes...it's all the same. Luckily, there is the music that understands my pain, my infinite Lack; and then there's the wine.
your dear friend,
x.
My Dearest S.,
I hope that everything is well with you.
I want to tell you a story, a story involving yet another (Albanian) man, a man who I cannot stop thinking about. Again. This time, I was taken totally by surprise because I found myself the object of such an intense interest from a man well over 45, judging from his sweet appearance. For you know, generally it is the reverse. I will lose my composure in front of these older men. However, this most strange encounter was not supposed to have the influence that it had upon me. But here I am, feeling helplessly enamored with this person’s looks, words, and manners. When I most don’t expect it, and just as I am trying to recover from some pathetic rejection of my feelings for some virtual man whom nevertheless, I haven’t yet gotten over—but who, on the contrary, keeps lurking into my mind and overwhelms me entire. These are the times, my dear, when I am served most excellently with some new longing.
Every attempt to avoid hurting myself is fruitless. So when I least expect to get into trouble, when I least suspect that anything else will happen to increase or renew the pain that existing is for me, something will, my dearest. And my pain will renew, double or triple itself. My curiosity, intellectual or otherwise, has always been my enemy, for it has always led to pain. We’ve frequently talked about this, as you may recall, about how a desire to know, feel and experience manifested through a burning, and irresistible curiosity has led me into many a troublesome and humiliating situations. . . This time, again, curiosity about a man is consuming me and ruining my summer here at home.
I wish to tell you about an experience I had on Friday, June 7th, because you are my best listener, my confidante, and I need one tonight. My heartache is unbearable. “Kissed by a Stranger” would be the title of the experience. How else could I call it? Nothing but that, and I trust my patient reader—that is, you—will understand, for it is a story composed of kisses rather than of words, a story that’s leaving me sleepless and driving me insane with curiosity; curiosity about a man I met only a few days ago, or a few months ago; but it doesn’t matter. His kisses are still fresh on my mind’s hand, on my minds hair—where he keeps placing them again and again, as if in passing. At least in my mind. A man who has forced his name upon my memory by the sheer gentleness with which he would come to me, look at me with pleased, despaired, charmed eyes; who would ask me if I remembered his name, and take my hand and softly kiss it.
He would gently place both of his hands on my head and kiss my hair. Then go. I was so puzzled. But only to get shocked. A.N. would come back. He had to, because he was irresistibly attracted to this girl with a child-like face, in a white knitted blouse sitting against a table and greeting the guests. He didn’t even know how the rest of her body looked; he’d only seen its upper half; yet he felt completely absorbed by her. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, with a puzzled smile on his face, as if saying: "I can’t believe what is happening to me. . .I want her." At least, this is how I could interpret the way he gazed at me. His look seemed lost as he came back again, kissing my hand AGAIN, again asking me the same question, without even considering asking me about MY pretty name. But of course I didn’t remember and asked forgiveness. Apologetically I asked him what his name was, and this time I took a pen and wrote it down on a napkin: A___N___. He looked down at me as I was writing it, and once I was done, he placed another seemingly fatherly kiss on my head and taking my hand he said: “stand up!” I stood up as if hypnotized and he scanned my body from head to toe. . .I was wearing a long and softly colorful, patched skirt and had tied a pinkish scarf around my bare belly. His “stand up” was neither a request nor a command but something in between yet neither of them. Which I still cannot define. . .It was just that, two words. . .It was a hypnotic “stand up” that gently forced me up from the chair. And as I stood up, my skirt gravitated toward the ground in its entirety, and I could sense how he wanted to pull me to himself and squeeze me tightly. . .The overt yearning look in his eyes made me extremely nervous. Because his look so embarrassing I teased him with a: “I’m not on sale, thank you!” He took that in, and immediately apologized for giving me the “wrong” impression, and said that he only asked that I stand because he had wished to get down on his knees but couldn’t because his knee was hurting that night, or something along those lines. And he touched his left knee. (I wish I could now kiss those knees that kept bringing him back to where I was. But I know it is not going to happen in this lifetime.) He then asked me when I would be moving to the other room where dinner was being served. I told him I couldn’t at that moment, as (important!) guests were still coming in and I had to greet and direct them . . . So he offered me a drink. I preferred white wine. He went to get it for me. Someone gently wouldn’t let him take it out of the dining hall. . . After all, we were at The Pierre Hotel (a distinct one even for NY, to say the least). But he insisted to taking it out and there he was in front of me. The glass was in my hands. His eyes were fixed on mine. I was puzzled. But pleased. Again, he kissed my hands. He was tempting me. Or just letting himself be. And I felt so drawn into the game he was playing—and playing well—that I couldn’t be less flirtatious. So I said:
-“Do you kiss everyone like this?”
-“No, only those I really like.”
* * *
AN was a charming man, dear S., and with an unusually sensual behavior, as he stared at me with a depleting smile on his face. He looked gentle but firm, his acts so flirtatious I couldn’t breathe, his kisses seemed fatherly and harmless. Yet there was lust in them. And from now on I know I will only be looking for another AN. . . This encounter has meant so much to me, that words fail to describe its intensity. It's been the most special encounter I've ever had, in every sense of the word. I don't think I'll ever be able to put it into words the way I felt and still feel about it, the way it was: beautiful! I'm not so good with words, particularly in these (illogical and unreasonable
) situations. I can only experience them poetically and profoundly, but not write about them in a similar way. Which is why I should have spent time writing about it when it was still fresh in my mind and when he was all I was thinking about. But now I've kind of given up on the idea of seeing him again, even though I am returning home. And I have started to forget everything that we talked about, which was really little. But if I could only call him on the phone right now, how alive I would feel. And I love feeling that excitement, that joy and nervousness. . .But, alas, I do not dare call him. And I should not. Though we did speak a few times during the summer. And how could I ever forget his first response after calling him up and asking him: -“Mr. N, what do you remember from last Friday night’s dinner?”
-“I remember a sweet girl—is that you?— who asked me if I kissed everyone like that.”
And how could I forget the intensity of the passion that was there? How could I forget what it meant for him to say “I know I wouldn’t stop kissing you if a saw you again. I will miss you tonight.”
And it is still incredible to recall that that first time I called him, as soon as he learned who I was, he told me “You made my day!”--exactly what I had told the person who had given me his number just minutes earlier. So I felt very tempted afterwards to think that it was real, that it was mutual. . .But how disappointing: the man never asked me out or contacted me in any way. . .I only got an email from a friend of his on his behalf (he doesn’t use email!!! I like that.)
But you know me, I keep swallowing a lot of pain. And even though I do talk to you about it, it doesn’t really get easier. My world consists of men and ideas, or love and philosophy, however contradictory they may sound on a superficial level. And you also know how passionate and loud I am about both. Human nature is paradoxical at its best. And this is OK. It is a good thing. It is what makes me survive in this otherwise miserable condition of being. For if it were only the one or the other there would be utter lack of excitement, staleness, Death. But my body knows better. My body tells me there is no better counteraction to the passion for reason and the search for meaning and truth than by expressing just as much of a passion toward certain men. This passion for the unknown in this man, or for this unknown man, the desire to know what and how he thinks, to kiss him and caress him infinitely into the morning hours. . .this is what drives the irrational me and makes me forget the otherwise ridiculousness of my life.
I am very tired now to continue, and I don't think there's anything left to say. I could only start saying the same things differently. My life is meaningless, yes; my life is empty, yes. And the craving itself is empty, too. I have great friends, yes. And they have their own great problems, too. Yes. Yes...it's all the same. Luckily, there is the music that understands my pain, my infinite Lack; and then there's the wine.
your dear friend,
x.
