The Write Thing

Conversations in a gay bar on the verge of midnight can lead to interesting findings. There we were, my circumstantial Aussie companion and I, sipping Cuba Libres and Tequila Sunrises at the table, and discussing life. I suddenly realized that, in the course of our conversation, I had brought up over four notable of her fellow countrymen/women in the field of arts, each of whom was approved by my partner with exaggerated gestures of joy.

Gradually, she drew her quirkiness near me as the minutes ticked away and we emptied our glasses. Funny enough, there was a solid moment in all that frailty when she said: “I think you should kiss me”.

The foreignness of her lips became a temporary drug, numbing senses in a regulated fashion. Skeptical at first, I went along with it. Before me was an adventurous, fragile woman, with a feminine lightness of being as I had not seen in years, flaky and in the raw. She gently slid her hand along my thigh, traveling upwards in airy lines that traced the contours of my arms, the nape of my neck. I tentatively made my hand familiar with the shape of her shoulders, the protruding bones converging on her chest, the soft milky skin. I found myself looking into cloudy eyes, dawning into her neutral scent, the impersonal fragrance that makes or breaks a new moment. I pressed her hips against my leg, and held her by the ephemeral waist, my fingers feeling the lace of her underwear, absorbing the immediacy of a body that opened up to me.

She buried her face in my neck, pressed her lips and designed playful circles with her tongue on my shoulder. Inadvertently, as if in a game of no consequence, against my will, she was turning me on. We merged in powerful, open kisses. She was half-arched above me, and I could feel the warmth of her sex through her summer trousers. We were ready, and were actually surprised at the clock that showed that we had stopped all attempts at conversation about three hours before.

Australia is a strange land. One would think the country is a hybrid of mystery and circumstance, known for some talents that would only come to one’s mind accidentally. It might be the modesty that pervades its people, or the fast assimilation of foreigners to the land of promise in the North. Take your pick of Cate Blanchett ruling over the likes of Naomi Watts and classic Nicole Kidman, all potential or real candidates for lesbian devotion. And now there was C., right from Brisbane, a few hours away from her plane back home, becoming a pleasant physical memory in an anticipated summer Christmas night.