I was only using you to get to me
I looked into her shiny blue eyes and saw the reflection of my own blue eyes and although in those eyes love I felt an uncontrollably love, I often wondered if it was myself, I had fallen in love with. I remember at the cinema when we were grasping one another’s hands I started to kiss the bluey shadows between her knuckles and sometimes in the clumsiness of lust I found myself kissing my own knuckles and rather enjoying it. When she put her hand on my knee and covered hers with my own hand, I stole a few strokes of my own thigh and encountered an excitement I had rarely experienced. In the glass pane background of our love-making our silhouettes were musical eels writhing in a sweaty fervour, but it was on my own movements I was fixated. The fine tapering, the pure symmetry held me in febrile lust. I was exotic to myself, unreachable, untouchable and thus an even deeper erotic allure. It was at her niece’s christening that Cindy first got wise to my perversion. The family were gathered around the alter, I stood apart by the lectern. While the priest was presenting a merry little service, I was caressing my shoulder as if soothing an ache. However, I got a bit carried away and let my hands wander all around my neck, down to my chest, slowly, sneakily unbuttoning my shirt to get a sly old feel. Cindy glared at me in anger and utter bewilderment. Of course, after the service, I hugged her tightly and made a fuss of her, but even then, I let my fingers interlock with hers and rubbed my thumb all over my forefinger, stroking it, loving it. It wasn’t right.
Know what I mean?