F. and his swords
Many years ago, I was telling my mom I had some terrible pains, especially at the base of my cranium. Could it be something neurological? Could I have some terrible disease, of the kind that runs in the family? If you're new here, my mother has dementia, one of my nephews is autistic and three of us in the family have had depression. We all think my sister is a bipolar maniac. But don't tell her.
I decided to go see a neurologist, one who had been recommended by David (keep that name, we'll get back to him later). Jesus, was he beautiful. Tall, beautiful smile, and a body that would put a lot of men younger than him to shame. I was calm at first, letting him probe my head and the start of my neck, wishing his touch wasn't so medical at times.
There was tension in the air, but I brushed it off seeing pictures of the wife and possible child in his office. I had sworn myself not to get down that path again. One day, I noticed there wasn't a picture of a little girl anymore: the frame with F. and his wife was toppled over. What was going on?
I knew the stories about F. I knew that he was a player and a womanizer - then again, how couldn't he be one? With the way he looked and the fact he was so sweet and delicate when he touched me, how could I not believe these rumours to be true?
Part of me wanted into that game. Part of me wasn't too sure about it. But this is why I write these things: because you all know what happens afterwards.
One afternoon, I had the last appointment with him for the day. His secretary had left, and it was dark and quiet save for the noises of the street during rush hour. We talked a bit more after the appointment was over, and we started to play with our faces, teasing and tempting each other into a kiss that took forever to happen, creating even more tension between us than what was already there. He dragged me to his desk, laid me there and pulled off my pants, touching me with his hands I knew already so well all over my body. I came in a matter of seconds, partly due to being so horny partly from being so young and inexperienced. It was so...liquid. I had never ever come like that, and I was ashamed. He was just cleaning up and telling me to bring condoms next time, even though he hardly wore them because he didn't need to. But seriously tho, what kind of doctor does that? One that operates and has unprotected sex?
Then I came back for seconds. He had a sofa that served fine as a makeshift bed while he laid on top of me and fucked me hard like we would never see us again. I tried to keep quiet, but it was just too much: I know all the security personnel hated me for it, but probably hated him more for having a young one under his spell.
I came back over and over again. Five minutes of checking my non existent exams and tests and twenty minutes of quick and quiet sex on his examination bed. Later I went to his apartment, a bachelor's pad in one of the more exclusive areas in the city. Again I faced scrutinization from security officers as they didn't approve of what was going on, or of what I looked like. Or maybe the fact that there must have been so many women going in and out of that apartment, that they hated F. for it.
I had a boyfriend at the time, Juan. He was very sweet and good to me, but we didn't last much because we just hung out for having sex, barely talking. I disregarded that fact and the fact that I was sleeping with my doctor and him at the same time. Looking back at this, it's a miracle I don't have AIDS. I might have some cervix issues, but that's not the case right now.
There were some moments of tenderness. Like the time I was in his lap and he touched my hair, or when we started to acknowledge that we could be a couple.
Or the time he taught me how to handle his knife, how to inflict more damage to a person. The ways in which I can kill someone with a BicPen because he was trained by Mossad to do so. I still carry this knowledge with me, and it'd be fun to share that again with him. We shared a love for swords and I was so jealous of him, with his big collection of knives and katanas. One afternoon, I kissed him so that he was moaning and getting down on his knees for getting into the room as quick as possible. Him and Juan are the only two men I've ever slept with, without a condom. I will never ever do that again - not even if I'm in a long term anything.
I went to live to Spain for a while and we said we'd be in touch. He told me about the death of his ex-wife, the mother to his kids, about how we would see us when I was back in Colombia. It never happened.
Something had broken in him and in me. I knew that the last time I saw him, about 6 years ago. Part of me wants to say hello to him, and look at all the wonderful things I've been able to do to my body and my health and everything and let's be friends again.
But people don't work that way. Men don't work that way.
And besides, who the hell wants to see me in the middle of a pandemic, when there's nothing we can do?
I decided to go see a neurologist, one who had been recommended by David (keep that name, we'll get back to him later). Jesus, was he beautiful. Tall, beautiful smile, and a body that would put a lot of men younger than him to shame. I was calm at first, letting him probe my head and the start of my neck, wishing his touch wasn't so medical at times.
There was tension in the air, but I brushed it off seeing pictures of the wife and possible child in his office. I had sworn myself not to get down that path again. One day, I noticed there wasn't a picture of a little girl anymore: the frame with F. and his wife was toppled over. What was going on?
I knew the stories about F. I knew that he was a player and a womanizer - then again, how couldn't he be one? With the way he looked and the fact he was so sweet and delicate when he touched me, how could I not believe these rumours to be true?
Part of me wanted into that game. Part of me wasn't too sure about it. But this is why I write these things: because you all know what happens afterwards.
One afternoon, I had the last appointment with him for the day. His secretary had left, and it was dark and quiet save for the noises of the street during rush hour. We talked a bit more after the appointment was over, and we started to play with our faces, teasing and tempting each other into a kiss that took forever to happen, creating even more tension between us than what was already there. He dragged me to his desk, laid me there and pulled off my pants, touching me with his hands I knew already so well all over my body. I came in a matter of seconds, partly due to being so horny partly from being so young and inexperienced. It was so...liquid. I had never ever come like that, and I was ashamed. He was just cleaning up and telling me to bring condoms next time, even though he hardly wore them because he didn't need to. But seriously tho, what kind of doctor does that? One that operates and has unprotected sex?
Then I came back for seconds. He had a sofa that served fine as a makeshift bed while he laid on top of me and fucked me hard like we would never see us again. I tried to keep quiet, but it was just too much: I know all the security personnel hated me for it, but probably hated him more for having a young one under his spell.
I came back over and over again. Five minutes of checking my non existent exams and tests and twenty minutes of quick and quiet sex on his examination bed. Later I went to his apartment, a bachelor's pad in one of the more exclusive areas in the city. Again I faced scrutinization from security officers as they didn't approve of what was going on, or of what I looked like. Or maybe the fact that there must have been so many women going in and out of that apartment, that they hated F. for it.
I had a boyfriend at the time, Juan. He was very sweet and good to me, but we didn't last much because we just hung out for having sex, barely talking. I disregarded that fact and the fact that I was sleeping with my doctor and him at the same time. Looking back at this, it's a miracle I don't have AIDS. I might have some cervix issues, but that's not the case right now.
There were some moments of tenderness. Like the time I was in his lap and he touched my hair, or when we started to acknowledge that we could be a couple.
Or the time he taught me how to handle his knife, how to inflict more damage to a person. The ways in which I can kill someone with a BicPen because he was trained by Mossad to do so. I still carry this knowledge with me, and it'd be fun to share that again with him. We shared a love for swords and I was so jealous of him, with his big collection of knives and katanas. One afternoon, I kissed him so that he was moaning and getting down on his knees for getting into the room as quick as possible. Him and Juan are the only two men I've ever slept with, without a condom. I will never ever do that again - not even if I'm in a long term anything.
I went to live to Spain for a while and we said we'd be in touch. He told me about the death of his ex-wife, the mother to his kids, about how we would see us when I was back in Colombia. It never happened.
Something had broken in him and in me. I knew that the last time I saw him, about 6 years ago. Part of me wants to say hello to him, and look at all the wonderful things I've been able to do to my body and my health and everything and let's be friends again.
But people don't work that way. Men don't work that way.
And besides, who the hell wants to see me in the middle of a pandemic, when there's nothing we can do?
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