Communication of Bodies, the Words Spoken by Eyes

She was in my office, she wanted to talk about St. Thomas. She is only 18 or 19. She told me that she's decided to minor. She has a beautiful face, with long brown hair, wavy, a lovely jaw line, perfect teeth. And green eyes. Like mine. She looks directly at me, not turning away. I talk and ask her questions. I pull my chair closer to hers. In those rare moments when she looks at her book, my eyes move to her cleavage, barely visible between the open wings of that coat, like a curtain parted just enough to present the drama which will soon unfold.



 

When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck.  The body becomes an object in my eyes.  

I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying.  I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs.  I lean back in my chair.  My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.  

And then she leaves.  And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home.  Come home, it says.  Come home.  

Remembrance of Things Past

"As I walked out on Bristol Street ..." the sun stared me down, reducing all to shadows.  A world of ghosts.  A couple walked in front of me.  College students.  And she walked with this tiny, nearly imperceptible saunter that magnetically attracted my vision.  I could see nothing else.
And I thought of the excitement anticipating sex.  When I was in college, I did not see women's butts.  Maybe it was the fashion.  Or maybe I just hadn't learned to look that way.  I fetishize faces, I suppose, first.  In this respect it does not strike me as strange that I cannot remember the body of Jodi, high school girlfriend.  The virgin who gave me her virginity.  But loved to suck cock.  Among the things she taught me was the sweetness of the woman's sex.  How it could become, far from something objectionable, as I may have anticipated it, a younger, unexperienced man, the most sublime taste.  
Thinking of her I am reminded of the excitement around sex.  She had a sexual appetite and she was not afraid of expressing it.  She went to the local girl's parochial institution and wore skirts and knee socks everyday.  Lovely.  
But I cannot invoke the image of her body.  In my mind's eye, all I see are skirts and knee socks, atop a fictional set of legs.  For example, I want to know what kinds of breasts she had.  I imagine that they were B cups.  She was a small girl, maybe 5'4, 5'5.  I wonder what I thought of those breasts.  Those sensations are gone to me.
I know that I thought, despite the slight naiveté in her eyes, that she was beautiful.  Her skin was fair, like mine, but she had strawberry blond hair, blue eyes.  These things I can still see quite clearly, albeit through the mnemosyne of a black and white photograph that I captured on the beach in Massachusetts.  Jodi had a voice that was not high, but could get high when she was excited.  Luckily, that did not happen very often.  
I recall three or four sexual experiences with her, in some detail.  Our first was in her mother's house, the night of our second date when she asked if she could do something and then took out my handsomely large penis, which impressed her quite a bit, and gave me "oral pleasure." Also, a rainy night in the summer when I traded virginities. How strange it is for two bodies to come together like that for the first time. We didn't know about how our bodies needed to approach the other. The operation was merely sticking this into that. She was in pain and I was a total gentleman, concerned about her pain, although I think I filled that little condom with my cum. Also, a surprise visit to her dorm room in the year following, when her roommates were gone and we could be alone and naked. Also, just after our breakup, a furtive night spent convincing her to have sex with me, in the back of my car behind the junior high school. I recall that time in particular savoring the taste of her wet pussy.

These are remembrance of things past becuase, I have not savored sex in that way.  I do not any longer feel the pleasure anticipating sex. Anticipating sex would last for hours, perhaps days, during which I maintained a hardon and rubbed the fabric of my pants across it, subtly, no matter where I was, to pleasure myself. Now the anticipation had been reduced to a few minutes preceding the act, or the text messages that I send to a lover with whom I never have love.