You were the boy I never mentioned during lunches with friends who talk about their significant others who give bouquets of flowers on their fancy dates. I never utter your name, not even think of it sometimes, when they ask who I'm seeing. Maybe the night or two before, I would be dressed up to meet you for a date. You would smile and look good yourself, but what we wore didn't matter if we had to take them off.
Who are you exactly to me? You were not a terrible person to begin with; I've always found you handsome but not exactly someone I wanted to date and you thought the same of me either.
Yet, we wanted each other in salacious fashion: I had that hunger to relish every inch of your skin and you had that impulse to satisfy all regions of my physique.
There were moments I wondered what if I tore up this imaginary agreement we had, binded by the fact we are two stressed out adults leading totally different lives who just want to have company for pleasure and play? I was always wary with men, but I felt I could trust you with anything.
But the thing was, I never actually liked you.
Usually by day, we were our respective occupations. We were adults still maneuvering into this world and making our name in it. We were also kids trying hard not to disappoint our parents. We were humans who wonder what else was the meaning of life other than our present states and future plans.
Yet some sunny days...and some starry nights, when we had the free time to escape from our routine lives, I hopped onto your car as we cruised through crazy Manila, while speaking about what transpired in each others' lives before we go to where we would make "love."
And this goes on until night or the morning, as exact events were all but a blur that still manages to bring a pleasured smile on my face and a slight blush on my cheeks. What I was sure of was time was never wasted even if our voices were from all the action, the shouting, the losing of breath. What I remembered clearly was the stillness of looking into each other's eyes, as I position myself on top or you choke me down. What I adore of you is your mouth that spoke with firm but low voiced ideas during conversations but brushed against my chest while your tongue swirled around wherever your mouth landed.
We would be like this until one or the other started to date another person. We both knew when to back off but after a while, when things fizzle with a potential match, we would be each other's first person to dial up.
And while most calls lead to passionate trysts, there was never a time you ignored what I had to share on what went on with my life. I wondered if those times you listened to me, you felt forced to listen but it never felt like it did. You listened intently and knew you cannot solve anything but could only offer reassurance that I could get through life.
For someone whose sole purpose to me as I was to you was someone to run to when we felt lonely and amorous, I realized you were one of the few men who knew how to respect me. We exhibited carnality but more importantly, observed consent when it was given or not . When I had moments I felt I did not want to be touched, you let me be. When I would express the limit I can do during our raunchy rendezvous, you listened.
In times I dated for romantic reasons, I would feel men pressure me into situations I felt I was not ready for. I felt men touch me in my body parts I did not consent them to during the first date. These were men who professed that they liked me, loved me, missed me, wanted to be with me. Yet, I felt like a dirty object to them. I was not conservative and had always been a little liberated, but it did not mean these decent dates could have an excuse to be lewd and crude.
Oddly, you never objectified me the way those guys did. Sure, you craved me like I craved you and we were animals mating in a lovers' bed but you never took advantage of me in times I did not give a green light. To you, I was not just girl you crumpled bed sheets with and slammed your weight on top of the bed; I was a writer who valued doing work ethically. I was a hopeless romantic who wanted a great love or nothing at all. I was a dreamer who is manifesting her aspirations into reality.
You would tell me that I was not just the promiscuity a number of men judged me for...because you knew I was not promiscuous at all. I was my brain and my words, even if we have seen each other in our most naked form beyond our flesh and sweat that collide but also our thoughts and beliefs.
I would feel your heat wrapped around me whenever we'd lay beside each other but the most magnetic sensation I never told you was my favorite was when you clasped your hands into mine, like you were the heat that gave me power. Whether you did this as you held me down during missionary or when I sat silently in the passenger seat of your car, you hook my soul into yours and remind me I will never be alone.
I joked that when I was not dating anyone, you were the anti-boyfriend. I trusted you and you trusted me because we both knew each other well enough that we were each others' safe places of sorts, a sort of calm safety we both feel even if we would trigger each other to loud moans and hard slaps.
I will appreciate the moments without expectation and hesitation beside you, lying down or standing up, or in whatever position we perform. If we cared for each other in a romantic sense, that we will never know. All I know is the sensation when you stand behind me as your lips trail on my neck. You hold me tighter, the nails on your hand digging a little deeper into my skin while you whisper how much you can't wait to have me like this again.
I will never consider my heart yours to own, yet this body and soul will be yours to detain by this burning ardor we don't sense with anyone, not even with our lovers, but only with each other.
