A story in eyes

Thoughts indistinct.  Movement without significance. No moments this past weekend elicit a painting. I write of noise.

A weekend in Vieques. Following my last minute decision, an impulsive text was sent to the very handsome man stranger from the gym Friday morning:

Going to Vieques if u want

One wrap following a work out and two lunches is all we had shared. I had always noticed him and while we had spoken, our eyes never had.

The quick meals shared in the last two weeks unveiled intelligence and shared philosophies. A heart and a gentlemen. Something was still missing. Our eyes still failed to speak. Though, curious about his continued lunch invites. And intrigued with my combined attraction and indifference, hence the text.

What time
Calling you

“Well, we’d have to share a room, but there is a seat for you on the plane. I won’t take advantage of you,” I joked.

In my mind, I didn’t foresee a budding romance or a weekend of sex. I simply was inviting a man on a plane, to an island, to my bed and was more or less, indifferent. Sleep like siblings should I wish.


The weekend was not a catalyst for emotions of color. Highlights. Experiences. Memories. However.




Dancing with Mr. Handsome. Physically, we are the perfect pair. Such ease and sexuality, our bodies seemed as if every inch had been explored. The truth is it was their first meeting.  A couple that you couldn’t watch without imaging them fucking. A comment from my dear gay, “What a hard on everyone had watching you two.” A weekend that brought a second truth to the fact that dancing is not a perfect indicator of the horizontal same. Decent. But my thoughts shift to Caballito with who I had two left feet. I enjoy Mr. Handsome, but emotions, there are not.






2am. Our corner spot was closed. We waited for the crowds to leave. To reenter and dance after hours with just our group. The locals walked to their mode of transportation-horses (a species higher in population than people in the amazing island of Vieques). I approached. Bored. Waiting for the doors. “Quieres montar?” One said. Thinking I was just some pretty gringa , he would lead me for a little walk.

I mounted. My legs bare. Took the reigns and one kick. In a minute, the crowds were far behind. Rhythmically gliding in the saddle. My hair flying.  His friends attempted to ride alongside me. Their faces shocked, in awe. I noted my continued amazement at the fact that languages divide, riding never does. Hugs envelop me without words or touch. Their eyes, their acceptance. Applause from the crowds. The boys following me as I turned the corner, bringing the canter to a halt.


Highlights. Memories. A lesson in eyes. 


The Dance of One

24 hours later. On the couch where his eyes could not meet mine. Where his voice was lost. The couch I walked away from . . 

I thought I would never look back.

A conversation, a teaching of my needs and here we are again. The break up, deleted.

You open champagne. A gift you have saved forever. And you gift me with the knowledge that you want to share it now. Your eyes tell me your emotions are deep. We sit. We talk. Like old times. Hours pass. 2am approaches and we start kissing.

I touched you? Or you touched me? I don’t remember.

In seconds, you enter. Foreplay not on the menu. My body was ready, wet with missing you. My lips part. That gasp of disbelief of how you feel inside me. That disbelief that never leaves. As if I have never felt this feeling, felt this good.

I am sitting on the couch and you are standing, entering me. You flip us around. I straddle you. My body moving selfishly, how she wants—but, it is also the rhythm, the movement, your cock desires. Your eyes. My body, in one continuous orgasm. You lie on the couch and we continue. Perfectly in sync, so much so, it is almost a blur.

Somehow we move, effortlessly, across the room. You sit on a chair. I, on top. You never leave from inside me—how, I don’t know. The pleasure, the choreography is overwhelming.

You stand up and are holding me. My 5’11” body feels weightless. And you, a professional jumper, are so much shorter. I feel acrobatic. Upside down in the air, somehow. Intense . . . I scream. Moan, even louder, if possible. Poor neighbors.

We are moving. I am stepping backwards. Choreographed. As if my legs are a part of yours. How? We enter the bedroom freezer. You turn on the light and look at me.

And throw me on the bed. The mirror. We continue. The emotions–our connection is intolerable.

We are one. We come. Together. It lasts forever.

Minutes pass. Our bodies still going.

 There are no words. 

The Return of the Dance

He is back. A day early, without a phonecall. Caballito (Mr. Unavailble) texted me the news. He said he would explain later. I await “later.” I cannot lie. I am trying to ignore the emotions. History tells me that “later” will calm them, that there will be an explanation that satisfactorily contests my sentiments that he mustn’t care.

Yet, as I wait, I am upset. Anxious. Anticipating. And hurt. Trying to ignore any feelings until their appropriate time. A time when he didn’t have to rush back to this country to solve issues. A time where it’s just us. A time where we are actually speaking.

I search for an “off” button. A “ctrl-w” for this window of thought that can’t be worked on now. Perhaps, a “ctrl-q” would be better. Quit-without having to return to these frustrations.

Our bodies. Will our bodies meet? WIll these thoughts leave me long enough so that I don’t sabotage their reacquaintance? Will it be the second act of a shy dance between lovers? Or even better, will it just be a dance?

Please, I ask myself, don’t become a saboteur, not today . . .

To be cont.

The Shy Dance of Lovers


I wonder if you feel the same way. It has been two weeks, and I felt shy. I believe you did too. The same reason we were unable to change our habits and immediately escape to your bedroom upon my arrival. Finally retiring when the wave of sleep sifted over us.

Same habits. You go to the bedroom. I finish washing up. The comfort of the routine. We bring our respective glasses of Crystal Light into the bedroom. You are in bed. I walk in. I say what I say every evening. “It is freezing!” as if I am shocked and have never entered this incubated freezer. You respond with the same response, a laugh, “Come here, under the covers.” This time, you refrain from saying, “you will be grateful shortly.”

Perhaps, it too presumptuous.

The dance of becoming reacquainted.

 I get in bed. Your arms wrapping me in an effort to warm me. The feeling of your arms. I exhale now at the memory of the comfort.  My limbs relax and I press myself into you. I moan. The familiarity. You pull me closer. We kiss.

Your lips feel tighter. Your kiss restrained. Your hands travel my body. My hands rediscover your perfect ass and the pronounced arch of your muscular back. The progression stalled. More kisses, somewhat looser. You kiss me hard and I remember the kiss that changed everything, that made this our destiny.

I sit up and straddle you. Small kisses down your stomach. My hand caressing your thighs. Reacquainting. You are in my mouth. I know you.

You have to be inside me. You flip me around and enter. You say my name and fall into me. Our eyes meet, our astonishment at the feeling and this is why we are both addicted.

In sync.

Estoy aqui con mi companera. You said earlier to your friend on the phone. You still don’t know I understand. But, yes my companion, I do . . .