Encounters: The Sapiosexual

 

There was a spark of hope that I had been seen and loved when the black and white artistic nude he took of me went up as the head of his blog template, in spite of my imperfections. And yet I remained invisible.

Because the conceptual man he aimed to be , the educated gentleman, is not someone who is in any way willing to see anything as sexual in the primal sense, he thought of himself as above anything animalistic. He sees ethereal shapes and beauty, and his awe is altruistic while proudly ignorant of the person underneath the geometry of their bodies. 

He isn't at all affected by their pair's humanity and how they might relate, but is moved by how they embody his conceptual, metaphysical standpoint. My body in tentalizing shades of grey as the material manifestation of his, in his own opinion, superior intellect, his impeccable taste. His own body just the means through which one could interact with the divine which lies beneath and me, a husk sabotaged by its content.

That was ultimately what I thought was love. And it was. To me, having understood myself as a complete waste of a being, having at least some sort of relevance in anyone's life was overwhelming acceptance. But being seen is a little bit more than not being immaterial anymore. 

And secretly I longed to have even the tiniest amount of what he somehow knew to be abundant in himself. I longed to have ideas and to raise hypothesis that were at least heard before they were dismissed with a mocking laugh, a kiss and a hand reaching for my ass.

 His eyes incapable of seeing himself through his veneer of superiority. I had accepted his hand and the pact that guaranteed to save me from the wilderness of the world in exchange for submission to the role of Home decor. My duty to relieve him from his own impurity, to get out of him what clouded his judgement. 

The difference, you see, when I looked at him with desire, is that, as dirty as I was told to feel, I understood I had that desire, and that however much I wanted to be filled by his cock, was never able to dissociate it from his personality, his ideas, his idiosyncrasies. The difference, you see, is that looking at him I wanted it all. The difference, you see, is that I could lose myself between his thighs, and feel some sort of weird earthly completion with his dick down my throat, while him pleasuring me was only the first part of a transactional interaction that ended up with him cuming and leaving. 

- Whose hole is this? He asked me once. 

- It's yours, I said as I dissociated and stared blankly at the dark circles that hid the baby's eyes in the print of Caravaggio's Madonna of the Pilgrims above his bed and Alexa played Bizet's Habanera. 

What a ridiculous cliché of a man. Something was (surprisingly, given his inaptitude) stirred inside of me and I didn't look for him for a while afterwards. And I wasn't looked for. And then I texted him : 

-it was really uncomfortable to walk after that. 

Weird patterns we repeat to have some crumbs of attention. I didn't lie, actually, but I knew he would take it as a compliment. He typed a laughter while surely remaining stoic in person. 

-When are you free? I chanced, feeling it was only reciprocal that I also used him. 

-What's your name again? He replied. 

OK Mr. Ikebana, Mr. White collar, Mr. Upper Middle class, Mr. tell the concierge to only let me up if the other guy had already left. 

-I was in your place a few days ago pretending I could see the intention past that god awful sculpture you made. 

-You see, many people were in my place this week, he replied unfazed. 

Clearly my expectations weren't aligned with his. 

-Come over, he says, I have a friend who I'd like you to meet. 

Was he joking about my name?! Maybe he was joking all along and now he'd be less guarded telling his friends about how wholeheartedly he feels for me and how moved he was by the texts I sent him. I rang the bell, the door opens and as soon as I walked in, he hugs me from behind. 

-Do you feel that? 

I did, hard and clear, but I didn't feel anything else, no interest, no surrender, no spark. What am I doing here? I asked myself. He said his friend would be over later, but meanwhile I'd supposedly love to suck on his balls. 

-I got this new soap bar, he proceeded, they smell like ice cream, my balls, I mean. 

-Isn't it just vanilla? I'm getting vanilla, I said. 

Mr. Impeccable taste turned stern. 

-No, Stracciatella. 

Interesting that sometimes a gag reflex is triggered by something totally unrelated to a body. 

He held my head. 

-I'm close!

 And I was tucked far away, somewhere even the choir of voices in my head had ceased. We stared at the ceiling. Maybe he'd be vulnerable now, and I reached to caress his chest. 

 

 - So, this friend you were talking about? Why do you want me to meet him? (Maybe to discuss a short story about loneliness , I'd have taken that) 

-Oh, he's not coming anymore. I told him we could take turns with you. You know... Sex. 

-Wait, you told him he could...? 

-I know how much you like it. But you're gonna have to go, I told my mother we could go for lunch if the meeting I had scheduled finished early enough. Will I drop you at the subway? 

It did finish early enough, I guess. He brought me to the subway station. 

And the car stopped. 

-See you, bro. He said.

I slammed the door. 

Maybe he knew about Rachmaninoff, but he didn't know my name.