What Is This Terror? What Is This Ecstasy?

I am lying on my doctor's couch, feeling stunned at her request for
a routine breast examination. I am feeling her hands circumnavigating
me. I am asking her a simple question which is making her touch me
again, as though she is working me to help her find her answer. I am
seeing pleasure in her eyes, the professional fa?ade slipping
momentarily into sensuality, and I wonder who is receiving the better
service.
Recovering my clothing I am trying to end our encounter with the upper
hand, letting her know where we stand, but she is resisting me, she
won't submit. She thinks I had no part in it. How can she be so sure
that she is right?

I am walking out of the surgery, indignant.

I am walking away from the surgery like a flipped coin; I'm on my other
side. I am wincing at the brilliant rays catching the tips of my toes
as I am walking back up to my car. This side gets no sun, but here I
am, burning up. No one's flipped me for a long, long, time. I am not
even trying to resist; I am submitting too easily, the edge of my mind
blunted, lost to all discrimination.

God, I wish I could talk to you right now, I ache?

You are more generous when it comes to give and take. You plan our
encounter carefully, deciding on candles and champagne. You will arrive
before me, and place the tall flames in the four corners of the room,
following my instructions precisely. I exist only inside that Wednesday
in June, when we will meet for the first time.

With you in my thoughts, I am even placing the key in the ignition
sensually; the feeling of entering runs up my arm, the shudder of the
car engine moves over my skin. This is what you have done to me, these
last few days. And what have I done to you? You complain to me that you
have to face a twelve-hour shift with the taste of me on your lips;
this mixture of pleasure and pain is perfect between us. I imagine you
going about, in your uniform, the back of your neck prickling from my
gaze; you keep turning around for no reason, edgy. You wonder who it is
that's reached into you in such a way, and in so little time; you
hardly know me, after all. You have arrived at that place where it
seems very, very dangerous to live even one day, but the danger excites
you; courses through your body like a madness, the wings of bats
momentarily fluttering across your consciousness, obscuring your
thought processes.

And, when your twelve hours are over, I'll be there, fresh out of the
bath,
between those cool sheets that are still stained with tiny droplets
of
wine.

I can't go anywhere without you; like the dragonflies that ride the
warm air currents, linked together by sex, drawn to the river's
edge.

The bends in the road are loving me. My parking is perfection. Who's
doing the steering? You are a great driver; I'm getting into this space
effortlessly. The man on the pavement can't believe it; he'd invested
so much in watching me fail. He slopes away, bereft. I've stolen his
fix. He thinks, 'what has the world come to,' as he sidles off down the
pavement, to his wife and children. His house is made of red brick and
UPVC.

Entering the florist's shop, the gaiety is almost overwhelming, too
much of it all in one place, flowers everywhere, each one detracting
from the other's purpose in existing.

Nevertheless I am buying the flowers; two red roses, one for each
pillow. I am not chatting to the florist, she already thinks me odd,
though she insists on making an apology for all the noise of the road
outside, as though it were her fault. I won't let her force me to
reply, I am not going to do things in order that people can think this
or that of me; I want to do things simply, for themselves. I am buying
the flowers for us. They will compliment the candles and the champagne.
I am tempted by Chianti, but no - I'll let you have it your way. The
flowers will surprise you, and I want you to be surprised; opened out
to me. I am cradling them in my arm as I open the car door. Someone
waves to me from the opposite pavement; I can't match a name to the
face. She is crossing the road towards me, I am hearing the roses gasp;
I am putting them on the floor of the car as she comes closer. She is
smiling as though she knows me intimately. I can't make out who she is;
your hands are still on my breasts.

She tells me that, had she known I was going to be coming down this way
today, she would have asked me to fetch the flowers - after all, what
are daughters for, if not to help their mothers plan a big party?

'You are a dream, sometimes.'

You'll be there in the hotel vestibule when I walk through the doors of
the Bloomsbury Hilton. We've never met, but I will know you straight
away, and you will know me. You will have checked into your room
earlier. I will not speak to you at first; you will just watch me as I
check in, and take my key. You will ride up in the elevator with me,
saying nothing, then watch me enter my room, memorising the number. I
will smile at you as I place the key in the lock, your gaze will make
me ache. A little while later you will tap on my door. I will open it
and smile; two red roses in my hand. Taking yours, you will lead me
down the corridors; open your door for me. You will insist on entering
first. Then it will be my turn. The candles will dance for us; the
champagne will stain the sheets.

Later I take you out with me into the summer air and we walk hand in
hand. We don't care for the smartly dressed people and the cars filling
the Bloomsbury streets, for we are of the feeling that they will all be
turned to dust before long, foolish wedding rings and gold teeth the
only visible remains.

In the evening we'll head for the Bloomsbury Theatre, where people will
be reading their stories and poems. How wonderful it shall be!

Afterwards, when our friends come to greet us, there will only be one
woman standing before them, with a dreamy expression and a sensual
smile. She will tell them how she has spent the afternoon popping in
and out of all the Bloomsbury shops, passing pleasantries with the
shopkeepers, all alone. How she'd wished she could have had one of them
with her to share a pot of tea and a few dreams.