Love; Sex


I wish I could draw. I could paint pages just of 
her hands, moving towards me and then away, 
unconsciously touching my knee and then wrapping 
around a tall wine glass - strangely strong and 
absolutely all female. I wish I could write well; 
tell you that it's not just the feel of the air 
inside the room - vibrant and clogged at the same 
time - not just the way she in her ill-fitting but 
curiously elegant clothes just stood out in the 
room, not just that - something else made the 
flurry and sometimes the silent epic of her hands 
doing innocuous wonderful things just brighten up 
the whole room. The whole thirty feed wide of 
cement and concrete where people came to eat and 
talk (and eat, and talk) became a beautiful 
restaurant.

She stood out, but she wasn't stared at. The 
clothes were the reason, probably. And a little 
too much polish on her lips. Strange that they 
didn't see her hands.

I saw them first a long time ago. My car and I 
were idling around after a particularly early 
party and I just didn't want to go back 'home' to 
the next day. I was looking for interesting 
distractions. I saw her first. Of course she was a 
hooker - too much red everywhere. I watched her 
smoke and it was then that I fell in love.

She was standing close to a streetlamp; not close 
enough to show the scar that she had on her face, 
just close enough to make her beautiful. Neons 
made her redder and I suppose, more desirable. The 
hands were making magic with the smoke. It rose in 
and then slowly out of her and I watched her and 
she watched me watch her for some time.

It was only after I spoke that she did. That is my 
only surprise until now. I asked and she answered 
like she was supposed to. I got her in the car, 
kissed her and felt her up. She made nice noises. 
I took her to a restaurant - not too trashy or 
classy - just the right amount of shush-
shushiness. I watched her eat and I watched her 
hands and we talked and I decided to do this once 
a week.

Her name is Elina. With her, my name is Steve. She 
doesn't talk much so I don't know her a lot. Just 
her name, her pimp's name, her friends, her teeth 
(she is somehow oddly afraid that it'll fall out 
someday) and her expensive bottle of nail polish 
that is slowly diminishing - batting her eyes in a 
way I dislike so I can't see the hint. I pay her 
for a night of sex and we talk. I think she thinks 
I'm a pervert.

I am, but this story is about her. I read 
somewhere that there is love without sex. I don't 
know, but I don't think so. I've been in enough 
orgies to last a lifetime. I know what sex is. I 
can feel it every time I look at her short skirt.

But her hands are different. I'm too skewed up; I 
can't make a jump between those hands and that 
skirt. They don't belong together. The high point 
of my day comes when I hold her hands to my lips 
just before she goes away. She thinks I'm French. 
It's a convenient custom.

I love her, but not that much to see it destroyed. 
Sex is just sex. Sex with a hooker is still just 
sex. If I do convince myself to get between her 
legs...I'll tell you then.

And I don't think it's my choice alone. It's all 
in her hands.

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Vysnu: http://vysnu.com/