We met at a little local restaurant. George introduced me to his tourist clients, saying that we met through a mutual friend. We then had a few beers and then went home, except for me, since I went to his place instead.
In contrast to the discreet George that was shown in the public, the George in his room is a total contrast. This George would take no time to take off his clothes, kiss me deeply all over and then get down on his knees. There was once in the balcony, while I was smoking, wearing nothing but a Burmese sarong and he would get underneath the cloth, doing his thing, his George thing.
For the first time, I let George, or any man, inside me. I watched with my eyes slightly open, seeing him kissing my legs with eyes closed as his hip moved slowly back and forth, knocking on my door, the door that had never welcomed any men before. It wasn’t there all the way, which I know was what you wanted, but that was all that I could take.
Our sleep later was rough. He got a sudden cold and kept on shaking tremendously right after touching the floor on foot. I hold him all night, patting him by his golden brown hair among which a few silver lines stood out, indicating the time that went by. I felt bigger and helpless at the same time since there was nothing else that I could do.
And then when it was finally our time to leave the bed, George said he didn’t want me to go out until people had left, which meant he didn’t want me to be seen leaving his room. Those people were just his tourist clients. He was just their guide. Why the need to cover up?
In the early morning, when the mist was still surrounding the ancient church area, George was packing his bags, clearing every trace of any love affairs that had been made there, putting on his Jean Paul Gaultier that I fell for for the first time I met him, while I was sitting on the balcony railing smoking alone, looking at him through the glass windows, feeling I’d been an outsider all along.
And then Jewel’s Foolish Games came in, and George sang along to every heart wrenching words.
“… And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart.”
And then we said goodbye, he on his scooter ride to the bus station, without any hugs or kisses, for the exact same reason: the people, those people that George felt the need to justify his personal life to. All that he left behind were 2 extra pairs of dirty socks, a forgotten pack of Winston cigarette and me, once again, deep in this brokenness.
I wonder if he ever knew that it was not just a sexual experience for me but it was me giving everything that I am, even when what I gave him wasn’t exactly the thing that I would enjoy. But I guess for the first time, I didn’t just care about my pleasure during sex but about his as well. It was bigger than the self greediness that indulged me all along. And I wonder if he ever noticed that, and realized how much I felt for him. Possibly, in a long time, “love” had found its way to me again. But just like the last time, it wasn’t a well ended story.