my placeyours, your bodymine
Lilith
We crawl through the window. The air within is warmer than outside. All of Jordan’s exhales have made a miasma inside his
room, this muggy atmosphere of spent breath.
We like it. The presence of his breath. A warm bath to wade through.
His bed is waiting for us, next to the sill. We remember it well. Pleasant memories of our night together seeped into the
fabric. So many vessels ago. So many souls since. It feels like coming home, returning to something warm. Skin, nice and cozy,
to slip in.
I’ve never come back. Not to a body. Certainly not to anybody. Why return? Love them and leave them, as they say. Why look back when there’s so much skin to swim in?
The idea of circling back to someone we’ve already tasted seems so silly. A waste of our time when this world has so much
to offer us. And yet . . . here we are. Back.
What am I even doing here? Why him?
Because things felt different. A cold current. A spark. Something simmering at the very center of him sings to us. To me.
A song yet to be written.
New territory, then. Uncharted terrain. I’ve gone my entire existence blissfully drifting from one body to next and never felt the compulsion, the urge, to return. To settle in.
To sink.
I’ve been trapped in relationships that didn’t work. Bodies I couldn’t break free from. Why would I ever want to settle for
this? For him?
But here I am. Inside a body that swells with sensation. Feelings I’ve never felt.
For him. The shadows within. Is that what I want? To feel the warmth of a familiar body? To know Jordan, inside and out?
Our hands press down on the mattress, one after the other, as Jordan clambers away. From us. Interesting. He’s pushing himself back, the distance between us expands.
For a room with such tight confinements, the space between us feels like a gulf.
He doesn’t make a sound. Neither do we.
Only the swell of the city behind us can be heard. The occasional car passing by below. A far-off siren wailing into the night.
People are hurting themselves, dying out there.
Inside, however, there is only us. Our bodies. This paper-thin skin. These barriers mean so little to us. Nothing can hold
us back from slipping in. It would be so easy to enter.
So easy to dive inside him.
And yet . . . I hesitate. I want to remain outside of him, his body, in order to experience the sensation of him. Feel him
as others do. Through touch. Let’s let these bodies do what bodies do and feel everything there is to feel, marinate in our
senses for another night.
One more night with Jordan. That’s it, that’s all, nothing more. That’s the line we draw for ourselves. Once more. Just one
more night with him. Let’s see if he can find us.
Who knows? Maybe he’ll like what he discovers.
So we remain outside his flesh. Let him come to us.
Will we let him in?
There is nothing in this room beyond our breath. His . . . and ours. We wish to contribute our own exhalations to the humid
ozone of his bedroom.
Jordan presses himself against the adjoining wall. He watches us close in, breath held in his chest. He’s afraid of us, still.
We sense it, that fear. It sweetens the air between us. We let his inhale draw us closer, an undertow of breath pulling us
further out to sea.
Toward him.
His gray eyes won’t leave us. Always searching. So stoic, so silent, and yet . . . there’s fear. We sense it, that terror,
radiating from his skin. The very heat of it.
What does he see? Inside us? Has anyone ever truly looked that deep before? Everyone else always stops at the surface, never
probing further than the flesh.
It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To be seen? To be known? For someone to peer through the layers, get past the skin and sinew,
and uncover what’s nestled within . . .
How would it feel for someone to see us? Who I am? I’ve never felt that before. It’s always been so easy to hide behind the
eyes of my hosts. Their skin is a perfect mask.
Who am I then? What does Jordan see?
Why is that so frightening? It’s he who should be frightened of me.
Maybe we both are.
“What do you see?” We close in, narrowing that gap on our hands and knees.
“You.”
“And who are we?” Who am I? “Describe me.”
“Dark hair. Pale skin. Tattoos.”
“No . . . Who am I?”
The space between our bodies tightens. We creep across the mattress, one hand over the other, a tiger approaching its prey.
He’s cornered. He can’t escape. We are between him and the door now.
If he tried to leave, leap out of bed and lunge for the door, we would pounce upon him.
Take him to the floor. He is ours now. We want him. Need him.
We sense that we are wet. Dripping from within.
There is so little air in this room. What is that scent? Tobacco. The smell of smoke suspends itself, thick with cigarettes.
His face is a mask, but his fear shows through. Shines. Maybe it’s not fear. Maybe he’s excited. There it is, that thrum of anticipation. He’s eager for this. So are we. So am I.
“Go deeper,” I ask. “I want you to look. Look at me. See me.”
What will he find?
We have crawled up to him. We have reached the altar of his body. This temple of injured flesh and broken bones, healed now
but still hurt. Still holding onto all that pain.
Look at where the soul goes, how far it travels, in death. Only to return. Volleyed back to this vessel. Poor Jordan, all
broken. How empty he must feel now. How alone. To see the things he’s seen on the other side, such a long journey, then to
be expelled.
To survive. How lonely it must feel to live.
He doesn’t move, his back still pressed against the wall, head pinned in place. He may as well be a work of art suspended
from the wall itself, hung up for others to admire.
Let’s take him in. His broken beauty.
His knees are drawn to his chest, a bundle of limbs. One hand is wrapped around his shins, the other planted against the mattress.
He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. He won’t make any sudden movements. He knows there’s danger, a risk inherent in our proximity.
We sit upright, kneeling before him. His eyes follow us. He refuses to break eye contact, to blink, sensing we might pounce
at any moment. And do what? Rip him apart?
What does he assume we’ll do? What is it, exactly, that we want to do to him?
“I see . . . something behind your eyes.” His voice is barely there. “A shadow.”
“What is it?” we ask as we lean forward. “What do you see? Tell me, Jordan.”
“Something else . . . Something lingering.”
“Look deeper.” The distance between us dwindles even further, every inhale from his chest pulling us in closer, closer, riding the riptide right into his lungs. “What do you see?”
There is so little protecting him. His body exposed. Just skin. His flesh, the final barricade. He has rendered himself utterly
vulnerable to us. As an offering? A sacrifice?
Would we take it, this offering, if it were given willingly? Is that what we want? The alms of his body?
“I see . . . darkness. An abyss.”
Home.
We keep our eyes on his, our stares locked. “Are you afraid of what you see?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
Our hand lifts. We find his forearm. We wrap our fingers around his wrist and pull, and much like plucking the bow on a present,
tugging the ribbon until it unties itself, his arm releases its grip on his legs. Each knee tilts slightly, no resistance,
no longer held up.
He doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t push us away. Only his eyes remain locked. Focused.
On us.
We ease forward. Mere inches separate us. His breath becomes ours, sharing the same air. His chest rises, lowers. We can see
the thrum of his pulse along the side of his neck. The very palpitation of his veins. The frantic tattoo of his heart beating
out its rhythm.
We are so close to his lips now. See how they glisten.
Perspiration rises from his skin, summoned by our own body heat. Pebbles of sweat form along his brow and we find ourselves thirsty. We want to lick the sweat from his skin. We wish to drink every last drop his flesh has to offer, each pore a chalice filled to its brim.
His eyes still haven’t left ours. It’s disarming, his insistence. He won’t look away. He penetrates our gaze. What does he
think he’ll find behind our eyes?
He wants to see. See the demon within.
See . . . me.
“Can you see me now?” we ask as we tilt our head, whispering right into his ear.
“Yes.”
“And what is it that you see?”
“An angel.”
Our grip loosens, just for a breath. The sharpest gasp. No one has ever been aware of us. No one has looked. Only flesh and
bone. Only our bodies. Never the devil within.
It unmoors us.
Seeing us—seeing me—would be too much. Even for him. There’s no coming back from that, no returning to this. Where we are now. We like this.
We want to keep it for as long as possible. We remain hidden, slithering in this skin. But Jordan insists on seeing me.
Can we give that over to him? Open ourselves up?
Let him in?
Not yet. Not now. We want this. Want him. We run our tongue along the lobe of his ear. There is the salt. The brine of his
life. We want more. Crave more.
We lower ourselves to his neck. We find the jugular, the steady drumbeat of his pulse pounding now, deafening now, as we lick
along with the rhythm.
We keep our tongue to his neck, patient, lapping at his heartbeat. Such a thin barrier between our mouth and all that blood.
It could be ours. We could drink it. Bathe in it.
He doesn’t push us away. Doesn’t resist.
So we continue. Our tongue runs along his throat until we find his jaw. He hasn’t shaved. The sandpaper rasp of his skin scrapes against the tip of our tongue. We enjoy it. We could rake our face over his until our own skin is rubbed raw, sandpapered to the bone.
Jordan keeps still, so still, his body barely moving. He can’t find our eyes now. We are too close, exploring the tender hemisphere
of his face. He permits this expedition.
He breathes deep through his nose. His eyes are now locked on the wall at our back. Out the window. To the city. All of its
lights.
Let him in . . .