I had spent the previous night writing, my skin was sticky, the air heavy with heat and lust, this was autumn in the city. Heavy, sultry air that still smells like smoke from the deadly summer before, mixed with the aroma of roasted chestnuts being sold on the street corner. All I want to do is lay in bed with a woman, eating figs with our hands, tasting each other. We don’t speak but gaze into each other’s eyes like predators waiting for the first move.
We had dragged a mattress to the middle of the living room floor with a view to the kitchen, that's where we slept, made love, and spent most of our time alone. The afternoons were for sleeping while the nights were for dancing, around the apartment and out in the street.
When I walked through the door that morning she was sitting there, on top of the kitchen counter, shirt sticking to her skin glistening. Cutting a pomegranate with a dull kitchen knife and eating it like a heart. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days with her, I wanted her to devour me.
What do you do when the woman you want is yours at last? You’ve been through it all and now she’s right there, in your home making it her own. Leaving her scent in everything that’s yours, strings of her long thick hair, traces of her being, from the music she plays to the food in the fridge and the way she likes to have it. All of it; hers, forever. Watching you watch her, I watch myself through her, this is the point where the sense of self dissolves, we aren’t ‘one’ but rather a physical manifestation of soul gemini. I could get used to this, you know? I am a woman of many lovers, I could belong to her, alone.
I find that loving women is inherently Sensual; pertaining to the gratification of the senses or appetites. Lacking in moral restraints; lewd or unchaste. Hedonistic. I become possessive, hyper-aware of the gaze of others (men), so I assert my dominance. No one can love women the way women do. Declaraciones de amor entre toques posesivos. Por tí, yo mataría. Pero qué haces con una mujer que no tiene amor por tí?
I was sitting on top of the kitchen counter cutting a pomegranate with a dull kitchen knife and eating it like a heart when she walked through the door. She had with her a paper bag with bread and roses, seven in the morning and the sun was just rising, neither of us had gone to sleep yet. Sweating, the pomegranate seeds bleed down my arms and neck, onto my legs. This; performance, self-indulgence which melts into a game of seduction, performing femininity for a female lover is so much more erotic.