Sun Spark

The room is quiet but outside, in the afternoon sun, traffic fills
the street with fumes and metallic heat. Irritated voices shouting
foreign words into the urban day. But the window is closed, the thin
curtain drawn against the glare. The air is still and warm. Motes of
dust gleam in it like sparks. It's a cheap place full of dust and old
furniture. But it's away from the tourist trail and the sheets are
clean. I lie on the bed and wait, listen to the fizzing of the tonic in
the gin. Waiting for you. Ashamed but thrilled by it too. You could
always make me do it. Anything you wanted. Even if my mind resisted and
my rationality clicked in. One word. Your quiet word and here I
am.

The hotel was your idea. A place to talk you said. To be private. An
inexpensive room at the back where no-one would see us, peer at us
curiously through windows or as they poured the wine. I listen
carefully for your footsteps along the corridor. But there's nothing.
My shirt is sticking to my skin so I take it off, let it fall to the
floor by the bed.

I can remember you in the days before you noticed me. Overheard your
lazy sentences, your soft voice. You moved as if you knew the world was
watching, always turning your profile to the lens. And I was watching.
From my computer. Wondering how I could get your email address,
imagining we could talk. So I sent you that first message and you
replied. Emails exchanged in the darkness of cyberspace. Talk about
books, the music we preferred. Until one night, alone at my P.C, you
suggested I undress.

The light in the room is changing. A mellower gold now as the afternoon
turns towards evening. My eyes are closing, the sting of the gin still
in my throat. The pillow is hard but the sheet feels smooth and I'm
drifting, sometimes losing myself, sometimes waking and listening. For
you. But you don't come.

Computers are cold. You warmed me with words. Pleasure words. You spoke
of skin and sex, of kisses that were too hot, that might burn me up. I
gazed at the screen and waited for the hunger to rise, feel the hard
pressure of my arousal. I suggested that we meet. Some other time, you
said. Some other place. You were always elusive. A sun spark.

I drowse a little more and shift on the bed, remembering when we first
came here. You closed the door and smiled, pushed me against the wall
and bruised my mouth with your kiss. Our first kiss. Real kiss. Not
words in the machine. Your body was heavy on mine as you unzipped my
pants, fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. You smelt of sweat and old
cologne. I heard you laughing as you slid your hand into my undies.
Afterward we didn't even have a drink. I waved at you from the window
as you emerged into the street. Thought about emailing from the place
over the road.

We could talk in cyberspace. Sparking and electrical. Our words meeting
somewhere and nowhere. You can make me come without touching. My hand
morphs into yours. I print your messages and bring them here. Read
through them. Imagine your unhurried step in the hallway.

I open my eyes, my hand straying over my stomach, sliding under my
waistband. My dick is hard. I need only this and the thought of you.
The memory of that one time here in this hotel. All your printouts
scattered over the floor as I undress.