The First Supper

Thank you Lord for what we are about to receive.
For the lovely food, company and conversation.
Thank you for enabling us to speak the truth and unburden our minds with those closest to us.
Thank you for opening us up to the possibilities of the universe and for setting us free within ourselves.
Amen

There's something interesting about meeting your friend's boyfriend for the first time. It's somewhat more interesting when the boyfriend is trying to learn about his girlfriend through you. And even more interesting when a) he thinks you may infact be attracted to his girlfriend and b) has come to realise that you probably know more about his girlfriends deeper thinking than he does.

So there we were, Myself, Desdemona and Othello. And it was great. Eating fish and talking fish.

Othello is the sort of guy who, if you saw behind a bar, might make me you wonder what he's like between the sheets. You know precisely what i'm talking about. The kind of person who looks quiet from the outside, but who you might be forgiven for thinking was a vulture in the bedroom. I think what we have in fact is a vulture in the making. I think what impressed me most was that he could handle Desdemona rather well (or atleast give the impression that he could). Now Desdemona is by no means the easiest girlfriend to have. She is greedy and hungry and there is a constant current pulsing through her body. So Othello seems to found a wave of calm in amongst the tsunami that is Desdemona.

'I don't like looking into his eyes when we're having sex' proclaimed Desdemona as she tore open her calamari with the end of a fork. I tried to explain (and I did a lot of this: sounding like a sexual therapist...yikes! A Virginal Sexual Therapist. Can't even begin to imagine what a dangerous thing that might be!), that perhaps the reason she refused to look into his eyes was for fear of what he might see when she was at her perhaps most vulnerable state. And she agreed. In fact, she knew full well why she didn't enjoy the fixture of the eyes mid-hump. And this had me thinking. A book i'm currently devouring puts it rather well..

'It was never just sex. Even the fastest, dirtiest, most impersonal screw was about more than sex. It was about connection. It was about looking at another human being and seeing your own lonliness and neediness reflected back. It was recognising that together you had the power to temporarily banish that sense of isolation. It was about experiencing what it was to be human at the most basest, most instinctive level. How could that be described as just anything?'

-Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire.

Perhaps this explains why Desdemona thinks of all sex as 'fucking' whereas Othello prefers there to be a clear distinction between that and 'making love'. Words aren't like water. They won't wash away the dirt of what you're doing. Calling something love doesn't make it cleaner. Does it?

Perhaps Desdemona isn't, as her sexual cravings and eagerness to talk about might suggest, as confident as she sometimes comes across. Maybe the hidden self is somebody quite different. Maybe. And this is where you need to understand just how alike Desdemona and I are. Our physical cravings are out there for public consumption. We can talk the talk and if we had to, walk the walk, but refuse to let anybody pierce out veil. The plastic bag wrapped to tightly around our hearts. And it's sad, I suppose. But it makes me feel better that a fellow plastic slag (rhymes with bag) exists. Ofcourse, you realise what this may mean. The moment someone fucks our heart, we'll have made it. It'll be there with the best things of this world. We'll spring open like a whore in the box. Only to never quite fit back in.

I feel as though this evening I've found something out about Desdemona that she didn't really want me to know. Almost like a sexual secret she promised herself never to divulge. And it's out there. And it would be so easy to reach up and pluck the fruit from the tree. It's just that as I reach out, It seems to be moving further away.

There was rather a lot of arguing this evening between Othello and Desdemona. It was the sort of sexual frustation that bubbles to the surface every three weeks and stays there a while before overflowing. But it's what they wanted. They wanted to be honest and they were. And, as we all know, the sex that comes after a fire is often magical, heaven touching, toe curling. And i'm sure, as dedicated a fan of this blog as Desdemona is, she won't read this until the morning. For right now, or in a wee while, she'll be having the orgasm of her dreams. And in that moment, when nothing and everything happens, lies her happiness. There. Like a ring of water on a coffee table.