tagErotic CouplingsA Woman's Story of Love Ch. 11

A Woman's Story of Love Ch. 11

bymidorigreengrasses©

A woman's story of love in one hundred episodes

Part 11: Passion



Let me tell you something Marcel did- rather, said- that I haven't before, I guess because I haven't told anyone, certainly not Mitchell, not even Hiroko until now, as she's helping me write in English.

I was talking with Marcel (at the party, of course) about my diary, and he said, joking, I think, that I should put a lot of sex in it, that would bring a lot of readers, as if a big audience is what I want. Then he said, explaining the idea, "I mean, imagine if you not only gave me a blow job but made yourself available to any guy who asked for one. Think of what a response there'd be. Think how much money we'd make."

"We'd make." Was he picturing a business partnership between us? What would he contribute?

I examined the idea for an instant, as we will even crazy ones, and saw it was out of the question, would include the tasting of all those different men.

The joke, if that was one, shocked me partly because of what happened before (though the rapist hadn't demanded the act Marcel was suggesting), and also because it was so far from anything Mitchell would say or do.

Mitchell is polite to a fault, and I'll give you an example to show what I mean:

He told me that once, when we'd broken up temporarily, he had an opportunity to be with another woman right away- she was available to him- but he decided not to because he felt it wouldn't be right to start a new romance so fast; he should "allow a decent interval." And even as he thought over his choices, the woman disappeared from him (literally; they were at a party or something, and she became impossible to find; he'd spoken of a shimmering beaded white dress. She was blonde, attractive). He'd missed a chance, felt loss at the time but of course was happy about how things turned out when we got back together later.

I told Mitchell that if I'd been in his position and met a potential lover while he was away, I wouldn't have hesitated as he had but gone straight ahead. We laughed- that was a joke; at least not reality.

I guess I didn't tell Mitchell what had happened with Marcel for the same reason I didn't tell anyone else- because I myself still couldn't understand it. I needed time to come to terms with feelings so mixed they seemed they'd never reconcile. I felt both repulsed by and attracted to Marcel. Deeply. He said that!

I was working at the library on my writing when an older black man approached to talk. He said, as introduction, "A man of a certain age attempts to write a memoir of love." Half apologizing for deigning to speak with someone at a different stage of life- the prime, that is- young, and a woman. I found him appealing and showed he was welcome. He stood before me tentatively, stooping, it seemed, to make his body look smaller so I wouldn't feel imposed upon, threatened.

I guessed he was recently retired, though still strong, able, and had decided to use his free time to start a project long-awaited.

He'd seen I was writing too (and what a coincidence that our topic was the same, love!) and come over with the idea of conferring during his break.

"How old are you?" I asked because he'd raised the issue.

"Sixty-three." He looked younger, in good shape, was bald, handsome with a kindly face, and the front of his shirt was open- green, top buttons undone. What a chest. I saw his arms, shoulders were muscular, torso broad, as sculpted as armor, hammered iron, a dark shining plate. I commented and he said in his likable tone, the self-deprecating one that showed he was really a man with confidence, "I try, you know, keep in shape."

Try!

After our chat, I glanced back and saw him writing at his table, haltingly, with difficulty, probably because the experiences he'd chosen as his focus were from the past; he had to dredge for them, while I was writing about recent events and could fluently. I felt pleased with myself and then ashamed of my pride. Every one of us eventually gets old, after all.

That incident also crossed my mind as Mitchell and I walked home from the movie theater.

Mitchell attracts me, but so do other men. I think he knows that.



When we fought, he embarrassed me in front of friends, he said he'd rather be alone or with someone else. Does he think I've never felt the same way?

Mitchell had joked about our not having kids yet while our friends did. I didn't care. That didn't hurt me, but it wasn't something to say in company. How could I defend myself? My friends wouldn't have wanted to listen. They were mortified already by his statement- and his laugh afterward hadn't lightened it. Mitchell knew I wasn't ready for children. I wanted to pursue my art. We'd talked that over, and I thought he understood. He'd said he had. He might be old already, but I wasn't. He'd assured me he also felt no hurry and even accepted that I might never want any- at least at the moment I couldn't imagine putting my art work second. That was an agreement under which we'd married ("marital growing pains," he'd say later!)

Did he imagine he'd catch me off guard there on the street and exact from me a promise I'd never have given under other circumstances? Against my will? Was he so deceitful, desperate? So indifferent to my feelings? And those of my friends? I felt loyal to them, wanted to offer an apology but of course couldn't, not in words. I tried to with my face.

This was a night months ago, but it came back to me. As Mitchel and I strolled after the the movie, I remembered how we'd walked with my friends, how bad things got in a space of seconds that felt endless.

Mitchell had apologized, but it was too late. I'd frozen up. We weren't going to talk about our private lives with my friends there. I wouldn't put them through that, force them to listen. And two words from Mitchell, "I'm sorry," weren't enough. He told me later that my black hair looked covered in frost, I was that cold to him, walking at his side but not looking- he couldn't see my face, "couldn't see into it." I had left already, he said, even though still there. I'd rejected him, he meant.

My friends had suffered from the tension between us, could read it in our silence that went on and on, gloom they had to enter along with us. They couldn't very well carry on the cheerful conversation Mitchell had interrupted. Did he believe they'd want our company after that? They too were embarrassed, at a complete loss. And even then Mitchell had an erection. He did when he finally left (made up an excuse), and my friends and I (three of us) were able to catch our breath at last and gradually begin to unwind and think of how to enjoy the evening as planned, feel that was still possible.

There are times when it seems we'll never overcome our differences and get back together. But we do. We did. Relations between us thawed. We were the same people, only without the anger, and Mitchell still had his erection.

"How could you?" I said.

"It's only physical."

I meant how could his cock get hard when we weren't even talking to each other, in a rage and in public.

"It comes with my passion. And anger is passion too."

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by Anonymous08/10/18

Would you consider using some of your art here. Not photographs-- paintings? I think they might offer a window into you that phographs won't capture.

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