NAKED FOR SATAN // a poetic short story diving into the unconventional truth

A true bohemian, a non-conforming lover, green-eyed gypsy with a devilish smile, Capitan of the streets. A man with no harsh edges, only filling his spaces liquidly with a softness I haven’t seen before. 

I met the green-eyed devil and was put under a spell. I willingly stretched my eyelids open and poured glue into each of them, becoming fixated on his movements. The waves were building and the boat automatically swayed our bodies. This was a euphoric moment, a moment where lost myself and had no awareness of my surroundings. I lacked the understanding of consequences, and this feeling consumed me. Bodies on the dance floor moved out of the way for our energies to meet. I moved in closer as did he, not even a blink. What the fuck is happening. Our bodies surrendering to the music as I rotated and stretched my neck around and back into focus.

I felt sexy, my arms touching my neck and pulling on my hair as my hips swayed, my eyes never leaving his. What a moment it is to feel this sexy, and so in love with yourself. It's pure joy, an astounding feeling to know that you are the one in the room people are watching. They might not even be watching, they probably don't even know you exist. When you meet with sexiness, you don't need bobble-headed chickens enthusiastically giving you a nod of approval, you just know damn well within yourself that you are sexy. 

The distance shortened and our chests touched, he lifted his straw to my lips and I took a sip. He grabbed my face and kissed me, I remember opening my eyes and he was staring at me with a smile. My face must have resembled stone because I was thinking, once again, what the fuck is happening? 

The days passed and our separate plans turned into one, giving into another night of strong bourbon and seeing stars. His hand on my lower back guided me through the crowd. Re-enacting the night we met, bodies moving and I felt utterly free in the night.

A tattooed sleek haired, pocket rocket, wearing a fuck me dress walked passed him with her hands moving on his hips. His face met hers unenthusiastically; he leant down and whispered in her ear. Her eyes darted towards mine and she stepped forward on her tippy toes to give me a kiss. "Hola chica, so nice to meet you". Her smile was like a pat on my back, kind and soft. 

She walked away and another approached, god these women are quick, her body signalling a green light for a dance and they moved together. I prepared to swallow a gust of jealously, I waited and waited. Nothing. Where is it? He’s not mine, I’m not his. Simple. Another whisper between the bohemian to the Go Go Dancer where exchanged and she planted kisses on both my cheeks, I returned a comforting smile.

While outside inhaling puffs of contentedness, I could see that fuck me dress was looking at him; a stain of sadness in her eyes. I asked how he knew her. "Oh, we have sex regularly, we have been doing this for quite sometime, same with the other girl with the dark hair (Go Go Dancer). Oh my. I have just spun into an unnatural cluster-fuck of feelings and emotions.

"Does she like you?" I asked. He glanced at her, his look was untortured, her eyes suggested anything but. He turned back to me, touching my face with his hands, always touching something. "Yes I think so, but she knows what this is." Well, HOLD THE PHONE. What does "this" mean? Are they dating? My-two-night stand has introduced me to two different fuck-buddies who are actually pleased to meet me; the new arrival. I am baffled, because usually in these situations, we aren't meant to know about each other, but we all just exchanged kisses like we were meeting for high tea. This is an open diagram with instructions. I am free to read the instructions or I can leave, nothing is built because nothing was ever planned.

Am I playing the adult monoloply where I have just passed go, and everyone has an equal amount of hotels and sometimes we share a hotel on Mayfair street because we all know that place is THE RITZ?

We walked home in the rain and I asked him how these girls don't mind that they are sharing him, now with me. "I am an adult, I told them I am not interested in a relationship, if they want to fuck, they can, if they don't, that's okay too, everyone has a choice" he said as a matter of fact. “Ohhhh I see” I said with eyes wide open, having never had such an honest and raw conversation. “Do you think they cared I was with you?” I asked innocently. “Yes, they definitly looked annoyed, more at me then at you, so nothing to worry” he laughed.

I am dealing with a rebel spirit, an advocate of sex, a worshipper of all women, a guy that pounds you with the same force as a car crusher (while speaking Spanish). The pinnacle of the dance between sheets wasn't about cuming, It was all about trying to understanding each others bodies, his mouth on yours. It's so far beyond good that you can never go back to “just fine”. I get it. Why wouldn't you stay?

But then again, how long can you play monopoly if your money is about to run out and you want to buy, not rent on Mayfair Street?

It made me think, can women separate the act of sex and their feelings developing? This sex by all means isn't empty sex; it's a goody bag filled with affection, passion, and curiosity. As women, we surrender and offer up our emotions on a sacrificial table too quickly.

We are not careful with our minds getting lost when a repetition of overwhelming orgasms, affection and intimate, loving gestures occurs. This is a technical, empirical truth. It is inevitable before we start to automatically feel more. I felt for these women, and I knew I wouldn't be like them because being made of stone is now on trend.

Like a bubbling honey pot, I was like them once, overflowing so much that my feet would stick to the ground and I actually liked that. I thrived on falling so fast I didn’t think about the parachute, I just jumped off the cliff, naked.  

It hurt when I landed, by the time I went to catch my heart it slipped right from my hands and up in the sky.  All I could do was watch her float away, she got so high I had to squint up until the last moment I could see her. I promised myself this was the last time I forget to put on the string.

Which is why although raw and uncomfortable, the truth is so important. Expectation is the root of all heartaches – no expectations, no heartaches.

I too have been on the other side and have seen the consequences of lying. I didn't want to be the bad guy, the one with the bat in the back of his car. I was forced to stare unwillingly at the porcelain heart and smash it with the bat from my car, because I took it too far. I was scared of hurting something, and feeling the pain of guilt. Truth will indeed, set you free.

I have been asked to forfeit my Everything-You-Think-You-Know-About-Dating card and replace it with Whatever-Goes-Honey, and I'm okay with that. I can confidently spread my arms and lean against the strong wind, feeling myself fall when the wind drops and my stomach turn. Although unnatural for me not to be steering this ship, I am happy to put my hands over my eyes and walk the plank, laughing at every foot that peaks over the edge.

The honey pot is now on simmer and I have transformed into an open, bumble bee to which positively hums to life's tune. And why the fuck not.