We Barely Know Each Other Outside this Room

We were each other's temporary lovers. Bounded by the ticking of the clock and the confines of the four corners of the peach painted room. Our romance ends and goes on like Cinderella's story where her elegance is dispelled by midnight; minus the prince who pursues a lingering connection with a crystal slipper as the only clue to the short lived love affair  We were the pacifiers of each others whimsical wishes and desires. A cure to our hearts who longs for belonging. Or even just a sense of it.

December the twenty sixth was a Friday night. We lie in my bed, covered in the white sheets that drape just exactly below the bed. The room had books scattered everywhere; in the table under the lamp's yellow shade,  in the bed next to our warm bodies, and in the floor where the books had fallen from the pile next to us. Soiled dinnerwares lie on the desk, still containing morsels of supper, waiting to be washed after being untouched for a period of more or less three hours.

We lay there next to each other, in each others arms. Our eyes fixed onto one another like in a staring contest where nobody wants to lose. We fix gazes on each other, taking mental pictures of that moment. A moment that is elusive, yet binding. We shower each other's lips with occasional kisses followed by smiles which breaks each others barriers.

We make the most of this moment. For fate rarely gives us the chance to do so. The clock is ticking. Time is running out. We lie here in bed together, trying to make the most out of the remaining minutes, our hands clasped together. For after all, when we go out of this private place we shall remind ourselves again that all of this temporary and shall end very soon. Appearing like it didn't even happen. This was our reality.

A kiss travels down to my neck. I squirm a little and we fix our eyes once again and give each other a giggle. Spiteful that I am, I take my revenge by retaliating so generously by guiding my lips, the way you maneuvered yours. Up to your delicate and soft neck. You also squirm slightly. You seemed to be ticklish to the brushing of my facial hair.

You put your lips near my ear. I feel the gushes of air as you spoke these words. Make me a hickey.

I hesitate, thinking that a love mark, or more of a lust mark, shall put a sense of permanency to our temporary affair.Part of me wanted to do it. Part of me held reservations. We liked each other but we held on to the choice that we do not want to be each other's own. I value my singleness. I'm not into relationships right now, you would always remind me. I was quite cool with that. We happened to share the same perspective.

"Make me a hickey...", you say again.

I wanted to remind you. But those words were all I needed for me to surrender. Words which sounded like you were ready to swallow your statement. On valuing your singleness. On not being ready for a commitment soon. On not wanting to be mine.

In that moment  when you mouthed those words, I felt I was being given the chance to be the one. The one who you'll be willing to let your guards down. The one who will be the exemption.

I was overturned by that little hope. And yes, partly by lust too. I let go of all my inhibitions and all the reservations that held me from consuming you and your entirety. There was a part of me that took control of my senses. I gave in to the wanting of my lips and to the testosterone that fuels it.

I obeyed her command. Still thinking, I was the exemption. Slowly, I plant my lips to her neck. I close my eyes. My lips continue to do their thing like they were an autonomous part of my body. They had their own business and they took pleasure in it in a vigorous way. She moans in pleasure. I fix my eyes on her face. My lips still in place. Her mouth opens occasionally. She breathes more heavily as seconds pass by. Her eyes now closed. Then I stop.

I try to regain control of myself. Lifting my now tamed lips, I see a red mark on where my lips had been feasting on.

A love mark was formed. Or a lust mark. Whatever.

I hear my mind ask myself lingering questions after three hours of intimacy. My mind was being interrogative. I feel I was hearing auditory hallucinations.

Will the hickey change us and how we relate from this time forward? Or we stay as we are, as each other's temporary lovers? Did she surrender because she was willing to give herself. Or is it just a fetish that surged from her body and she dared for the nght?

I stare on the blank wall and the silhouette she forms as she puts on her clothes, all of which scattered across the room. My hallucinations subsided. She left without a word. She was poor in giving her courtesies.

I see her again walking across street of McKinley Hill after several days. No calls, no messages came after those moments of bliss. The hickey stayed in the same spot. She walks, head high, wearing the hickey for all the people to notice without any reservation . She wore it like an award that needs to be noticed. Oh, she longs to be praised for it. She must've wanted compliments for having been a really good lover.

As I walk nearer her, we fix our eyes once again. The only chance to do so after the night we had each other in our arms. In a split-second, I divert my sight to the red spot on her neck...while she continues to walk past me.  

At least now I am certain of two things:

That all of it was temporary.  And that she was so good in making me believe otherwise.

* The passage is a liberal metaphor for a social issue affecting teenagers. The author is not a nympho nor does he advocate having sex without the sanctity of marriage, thank you.