M for Maybe

Our meetup with Nase was nothing from the romance books. Infact we met when applying for a job position, I guess as interns at a local media agency. She was just a girl with a blue water bottle next to me in the reception area filling out forms. I wanted to say hi, without saying hi. You know, initiate a conversation without looking like I’m hitting on her.

I remember I asked a stupid question concerning the form, just to get her to notice me and talk to me. I know she knew what I was upto and she was game.

Barely a minute, she was back at me,

“Since we have both decided to leave our brains at home. Where it says sex, what do you want me to put  there?” She asked, pointing at the form.

Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t see it coming. I answered, “female, right. Or what do you want to put?” Again, these days one can never be too careful.

“Plenty. Just so you know,” she winked and went ahead filling up the form.

Before I could even recover, she was at it again, “uhm excuse me, where it says position, which one do you want me to be in?”

“What position do you want to be in?”

“Well you know, I prefer doggy style. But you seem more like a missionary kind of guy. But you know what, I could show you the spider. You know nothing about that? Just legs everywhere. Ha. You know I got them great legs.”

That’s when I noticed. True, she got good legs. All I could picture was them on my shoulders. She was in a black dress, one that hugged her well. Her pushup bra cupped her breasts well enough to show how they look, with the dress showing just enough of what she wanted to show off.

Leave the looks , if there’s one thing that stood out was her scent. You know, she smelt divine. 

All I thought about during our days was how I would be able to use walks from the workplace just as an excuse to be close to her again.

I studied her eyes, smile,  her change of clothes, her decent dresses, her official clothes and felt a deep emptiness inside. I wondered if she felt the same. I hoped what she wanted was me.

There’s a certain kind of lovesickness. Not passion, exactly, or heartbreak—conditions that usually imply some degree of mutuality—but the obsessive, all-consuming fixations we sometimes develop on people who do not feel the same. Or whose feelings we cannot be sure about.  Call it lust, call it a crush, whatever floats your boat.

I bought into Nase because I liked having a secret, and loved having a crush. I reveled in the weight of it all, in how risky this was. We made out in the office. We always left the office as the last people, just to be sneaky in the hallways. Heck at one point we almost did it in the washroom.

For most nights after meeting her, I would stare into the mirror, I pondering her body as my hands caressed the curves of  her breasts — cupping them momentarily, holding their roundness and their weight — before moving on to her hips, the ass, coming back around to trace the neck and throat. I felt giddy — aroused, even. It wasn’t what I’d expected. It was just a thought. And it became a normal thing for me.

Lying down on the bed, closing my eyes, I imagined myself under the lights, creamy and luscious, my hands tracing the contours of her body, my breath quickening, and then releasing in a slow moan.

I always pictured her dressed in black — lace and net — dagger heels, and seamed stockings. 

Slowly revealing herself, her heels come off and she peels the stockings down her legs, where they nest at her feet. I picture her breasts swollen and rise above the satin corset, as she arches to reach and release the hooks.

In my imagination, Nase’s hands find me and she begins stroking my legs, her tongue tracing my belly, flitting and gliding until she is licking me, sucking my fingers. Her breath is warm and smells of me as he covers me with her body and mouth.

At the end of my imagination, my toes curled and I smiled as if I had a secret. 

Then she D-day, when she actually visited. I don’t remember much. After several attempts of undressing each other in texts, we decided to test the waters.

Going through the texts again, I’m both appalled and embarrassed by myself. My tone always drips with desire for her approval. I sent her three messages in a row explaining the movie I was watching and why she should try it too. Then I bragged how I could make her legs shake and have her in all positions under the sun.

Look at me now. You see, I was just shy and trying my best to impress her in any way I could. Of course, we knew only one thing had brought her over, but no one dared make the first move.

The movies, the joking, the laughter and the next thing I had her hand in my hand. I guess that was our ice breaker.

Though she never took advantage of my lead, she played her part, too. She never told me to stop. Never told me I was being inappropriate in my advances, in my clear obsession. I finally see she loved the attention, too.

Next thing, I’m pulling her close to me and one hand groped around in an attempt to unbutton her shirt — while the other hand had found a breast and fondled it. Most days she went braless, but I knew she was wearing one so that I could take it off, and now I was grappling with the hooks. I couldn’t remember the last time I tried wrestling someone out of their clothes. Then we were both naked. Now what?

She asked for the bed. And hurriedly like scared goats we made our way into it. I didn’t even have to take her panties out to feel how wet she was. Goddamnit, I am and have always been a sucker for boobs. They’re intentional, warm and stress relievers. This girl, she was blessed.

Then it hit me. I didn’t have any condoms with me. Eeeeeeeei child of others. Timing ya shetani!!! I excused myself, embarrassed as I struggled to wear back my sweatpants. Yes I was in sweatpants, grey actually. She told me she loved them.

After waiting for a few minutes to ‘cool down’, I hurriedly went to the nearest chemist. Along the way, all I could think of was, what if she changes her mind? What if I get her all dressed up? What if it’s a prank? Heh, overthinking will kill me for real.

I get at the chemist and to be honest, I haven’t kept tabs with the changing syllabus so I asked for the brands available. Trust. Durex. Rough Rider. So I went with durex, just had a thing to it’s name. The cashier tells me it’s 700. Like heeeeey, why would I pay so much to… Never mind.

By the time I was getting back, I was so embarrassed I couldn’t look her in the eye. She was still undressed and all we had to do was jumpstart and on we were.

Did I mention she had great legs? Wueh, this was one weapon sent against me and she was succeeding.  Great sex is not orgasm upon orgasm so much as agreement upon agreement, through looks and gestures and breaths and talk — the personification of ongoing accord, no permission slips or questions necessary.

The point being that sex isn’t sexy unless it’s between people, not just their bodies; people who change their minds as well as their positions. In isolation, where you have nothing to do but wait for it, it only makes you hotter to watch not only the physical restraint and psychological tease, but every move, every look, every word that says “Yes!” before it’s screamed aloud.

I lost track of time and this time I beat my personal record of 3 minutes. Hard pounding sex, soft moans, louder moans, her calling me out, grunts. Change position. Sweaty bodies, running out of breaths, heavy panting. Change position. Kisses, choking, adjusting bodies, body fluids. Then we collapsed into each other. I knew there and then, this wouldn’t be the last time we were doing that.

I don’t know how many times I stalked her IG page, always yearning to see what she uploads in her stories. 

She made me so happy, but there’s so much danger attached to being with her. More than anything, I just really enjoyed having someone to talk to, who enjoys my company.

And I just really, really wanted to hug her and feel her caring and understanding hands around my back, feeling my entire body go warm in her grasp. Was I obsessed or I was just human?

At one point, she wrote me a sticky note. Yes, we did write each other letters, and send flowers for we knew love only gets if you let it. On the sticky note, she asked, ‘if the world was ending you’d come over right?’

I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but I thought love just fades away. The only thing worthwhile is the beginning. That’s the best part about love, right?  When every song reminds you of her. When you’re having a meal together and all you do is talk. When everything she says makes you laugh.

But no.

Love precisely comes after that. When the spell is over. When during dinner, you’re happy to be quiet, because you’re at peace. To love someone, you must really know them. How can you love someone you don’t know?

I guess I didn’t know her well then. 

I never replied to her sticky note but this is in case she’s reading this, ” When the world’s on fire we won’t even move. There is no reason if I’m here with you”