Latin serendipity, Part III

This is the third part of the story I wrote under the theme of this blog "NYC Romance". Now, things are getting more concrete. We get to know the mental of the heroin a little more. How she's torn between her lost love and her will to move on, to get her life going again. As the night evolves, so do the roller coasters of her emotions. She's on the dance floor and ....

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Photo from http://ilricordoperduto.wordpress.com/2011/02/14/e-cio-che-voglio-e-lamore/

I couldn’t help myself but gravitate towards the center of the room, close my eyes, and lose control of myself. At that moment, I was back in front of my computer, dreaming about his words whispered to my ears, his hands firmly grabbing my body. At that moment, I was completely his. And I danced, I danced away all my pain. Nothing else around me mattered. Then I felt his presence physically pulling me. I didn’t want to open my eyes, the illusion was sweeter than any possible reality. I could feel his strong chest pressing against my nipples, hardened by the arousal. The music was enchanting. I put my head on his shoulder and I hang on to him as though my life was at risk, as though letting go would have made him disappear. 
I started shivering ; every part of my body was now awoken from centuries of forced coma state. I was forced to pretend I didn’t love this man ; forced to pretend all this was just a game that had no consequences ; forced to disclaim I was ok. One simple song revived my tamed frustration. I was not ok. At night, I still longed for him. I had dreamt about his lips discovering every inch of my intimacy ; braving all the obstacles of my chastity. During those cold winter nights, my bed felt heated, as though the radiator was on too high, as I imagined his embrace.

As the song faded away and a new beat emerged, I started to come back to my senses. I felt subtle breathing on my neck. Suddenly, my eyes opened. I felt his body walking away from mine, and my hand desperatly trying to hang on to the touch of his fingers. But HE leaves.

Who’s HE ? I’m shaking. What just happened ? Did the dream morphed into reality ? I felt a man’s body against mine, holding me, dancing with me. His presence felt effortless, natural, as though I’d always known him. I must have been going nuts with my mind creating situations that I thought were truly happening. I looked up, and it seemed as though the roof was twirling around. I had to find a chair and sit, without making a scene. Noone had to see something was wrong. But someone always does notice. Jenna was just there and she watched the whole thing. She asked me what was going on, why was I stumbling. « What’s wrong babygirl ? You need some water ? Come, sit here ! »

« No, no. I’m ok ! » I moaned.

« Come on, none of that with me. You look so pale. You must be dehydrated. Hold on !»

She came back with some San Pellegrino and handed me the cold glass of water.

« That’s all I could find that has no alcool in it. » she said to me, worried.

I drank, I drank, I drank. I was thirsty. That’s probably what people feel when they’re in the desert, desperatly looking for an oasis. They just make it up to help time fly. 
My oasis was Riccardo and I had just made him all up all the way here, to this party. I really had a fertile imagination. An Italian, dancing some caribbean slow music to perfection, that can only be true in the mind of a sick person like me, wishing so much for lost love that she had to dream it for it to become a fact. Well, it isn’t a fact. The proof was that I was still here, all alone, unstable and heart broken. Then, after only a few instants of rest, a few drunken friends called my name aloud so I would get up and go back to dance with them.

At work, I met many international people, and I was lucky enough to have found a nice nest of close African friends, people who could relate to my situation – being an African girl, alone in New York, trying to create a good life for herself. Even though the continent is big, and many times, we culturally didn’t have much in common, except for the color of our skin and our obvious attraction to rythm and spicy food, it still felt reassuring to know that I wasn’t alone and that I could count on them at anytime. So, I stood up and went dancing with them, singing along the words of a classic coupé décalé song Premier gaou. 
As our habit in Africa, and I think this is something common in most of our countries, from up north all the way down south, we formed a circle of people, joyfully dancing, and taking turns to go in the center to show off their moves on the dancing rink. As bizarre as it may seem, I felt like someone was watching me, almost spying on me. I put that on the account of my limitless imagination and continued with the indigeneous tradition. A couple of hours later, I had proven that I was indeed a proud African girl. I had shaken my butt all over the floor and I was exhausted.

I had lost track of Vincent for a while, and turning around myself to eye him, I noticed that he was standing next to the kitchen door, with a glass of red wine on his hand, talking to a couple of other people. One of them, a tall handsome man, dressed in black. When I say black, I mean all black. He himself seemed kind of dark. Mediterranean looking, with rebellious bangs partially covering his face, that he was nevervously pushing back with his hand. I couldn’t see much from where I was standing, but even his expression looked gloommy. That’s when our eyes met. He hinted a smile ; I looked down, embarrassed.

« Hey, Lila ! Look here ! » It was Vincent. He had seen me and was hailing at me.

Too late. I couldn’t ignore him. Walking towards the group of men, my heart’s beating got faster as I got closer to them. I felt silly to be so emotional. And this man, his eyes, I lost my concentration and exchanged it for a good dose of childish girly demeanor.

« Hey Vinc ! What’s up ? » I said, trying to look cool but definitely making a fool out of myself.

« Nothing. Was just watching you dancing. Girl, you tore that dance floor up, didn’t you ? »

« Well, what can I say ? I don’t do it on purpose ! »

This useless communication lasted a couple of minutes. It’s as though both of us were looking for something to tell each other ; as though we needed an excuse to keep talking. Why were we performing ? Who was the audience ? All I know is that as I kept blabla-ing, I couldn’t help but feeling the eyes of that mysterious man piercing through my skin, scanning through my entire body. But in no way would I show how disturbed I was, and look at him. I would simply pretend he wasn’t there.

« Well, it was very fun, but I gotta go, Vinc ! It’s bedtime for me ! » I finally said.

« Why ? The night’s still young ! Come on ! »

« It’s very sweet of you, but I have tons of stuff to do tomorrow. And I really had fun so… »

I stole a kiss from Vincent’s cheek and I literally ran out of the place.

* * *

End of part III

To be continued....

Latin serendipity, Part II

This is the second part of a story I wrote under the theme of this blog "NYC Romance". It's about the road to recovery after an internet romance. It's about the new type of romance that emerged with the ascension of the internet and new ways for people to meet and interact. The question is: Can a person's feelings be true and bearer of potential successful relationship, if there's no physical contact in the beginning?

***

Photo "Lonely Love" by AllSoCreepy
http://allsocreepy.deviantart.com/

Latin serendipity

From Astoria to Union Square

Part II

« Ding, dong ! » We rang the door at Vincent’s place. A jet black haired girl, very pale, with 50s inspired bangs, opened the door for us. She looked as though she could have been Amy Whinehouse’s friend, or least, that she lived in the same universer as the famous singer. She was obviously happy to be there, given the bright smile and welcome she gave us. My girls made scarcastic comments amongst themselves, probably criticizing the way that girl was dressed. I didn’t really hear what they said ; I was grabbed by Vincent who gave a warm hug.

« I’m so glad you decided to come ! We weren’t sure you would. Jenna told me that you had them waiting forever at the subway station. »

« No, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. There was problem with the subway back in Queens, and it took me forever to get here. » Yes, that was a lie. But sometimes, you know that you just have to tell people what they want to hear, even if they know, deep inside, that it is untrue.

I had never been to Vincent’s place. We’d been working together for almost a year. Like a lot of us working for the UN, he had a fascinating ethnic origin. A mix of Norwegan and Namibian, he looked more like an Indian to most people. I have to say that figuring out his accent was a subject of many bets amongst colleagues, with almost everyone guessing wrong. Vincent was a lovely person. Warm, funny. He was always in a good mood, always ready to give a helping hand. His tall and handsome figure was ideal and fit for a model or an actor but what most people would consider to be a great quality, turned out to be a handicap for him. Women had the tendency to be attracted to him, hoping for his returned attention. For many years, he’d felt compelled to pretend interested when in fact, he had been exclusively attracted to men since his late teens.  His partner, Larry, wasn’t bad either. A British humanitarian doctor, he was always travelling to some exotic destination, to save sick children in developping countries.

Vincent and I had walked out of work towards the subway a few times, and during these short walks, we were able to share intimate confessions about ourselves and our past. He had listened to me with a lot of attention, often asking me to repeat some details, especially about my internet relationship, the one that really broke my heart. He was probably just intrigued. These kinds of situations can be unsusual for some ; therefore, I understand his curiosity. Whether he knew it or not, talking to him about it truly helped me heal. Somehow, what felt sometimes like an unfathomable dream, seemed more real as I was talking about it.

The party at his place was a hit. A friend DJ  from Congo put all the world music we, foreigners, like to indulge in when we went out to dance. His compilation was the right mix of caribbean zouk, Brazilian samba, Central African Nbombolo, Ivorian coupé décalé, all on a bed of R&B and techno music. As the night evolved, my happy friends got even happier. The caipirinhas and margaritas were flowing. Everyone was cheering and dancing together on international hits we all knew the words of. As for myself, I was quite proud. I would make a good actress, after all, because I played the role of the ecstatic girl and I have to say that I was quite brillant at it.

« We’re so happy the Lila we know is back ! » a random person shouted at me while jumping to the beat of a song. I can’t even remember who it was.

All I remember is the sudden urge to run away and cry the comment gave me. And that’s exactly what I did. I could hadly retain the tears, pushing to drop down my cheeks. As I got to the bathroom, I hit the door closed and sat on the toilet, with only my hands to weep on. I wept, and wept. That bastard really crushed me. I feel worthless. Whomever he was, why would anyone be so crual to get someone to love them and then, cut them away like nothing happened ? A brutal bang on the bathroom door forced me to get up and get on with the party.  The night was still young and I still have my acting premiere to continue. I dried my tears off with my dress and I left the bathroom.

The living room had tranformed into a dance floor that would make Ibiza shameful. All I could see were hands up in the air, and voices singing along memorable hits. I had always been a very good dancer. As a teenager, I would sometimes go out at night, with my two best friends, and dance the night away. Our parents, of course, thought we were nicely sleeping in our respective beds at the time. That’s what made the experience so enjoyable. Though, despite our obvious weakness for techno music, never did we have any alcool, or any drugs for that matter. It was just plain old and clean fun. Dancing, I have to say, had helped me in many occasions. Often, alone in my bedroom, would I put music from my computer and just dance, pretending I was the queen of the night or re-living a romantic moment in my head. That’s something I did quite a lot thinking of Riccardo, the stranger of my computer. I would imagine him and me in the most delightful situations and I would dance to the sound of romance. Even though he surely wasn’t here with me, dancing could still be my gentle companion. That’s at the very moment I heard this song, a zouk song I used to listen to on repeat mode when I was connected to Riccardo.

Derrière l’écran je te devine,
(Behind the screen, I 'm trying to guess who you are)

Dans ma tête je t’imagine,
(In my mind, I'm trying to imagine you)

Es tu celle faite pour moi
(Are you the one for me?)

Celle que je n’attendais pas
(The one I was no longer hoping for)

Des mots si troublants,
(Words, so troubling)

Des Mots si envoûtants
(Words, so enchanting)

Je voudrais tant m’laisser aller
(I wish I could only let myself go)

Tant commencer à t’aimer
(And start loving you)

A t’aimer
(To love you)

Mais je ne t’ai jamais rencontré…
(But how, when I've never met you?)

The end of Part II

To be continued....

To watch the video of the song I'm mentioning above, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1G-eSdnXZM

Latin serendipity, Part I

This is the first part of a story I wrote under the theme of this blog "NYC Romance". It's about the road to recovery after an internet romance. It's also about true feelings, despite the lack of physical touch, so necessary in modern romance as depicted in the media. Everyone's looking for band-aid relationships, short-cuts and sex seems the easiest way to figure out whether the relationship will work or not. Whereas women have the tendency to find "sex" synonymous with "love", men - on the contrary - have the faculty to multiply casual partners without ever settling down (of course, there are exceptions). But this would be a great topic of another story. As for now, I hope you'll find this humble piece enjoyable!

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Photo "Disillusioned by the thought of flawless love" by Orangeya

Latin serendipity
From Astoria to Union Square

Part I

I had almost forgotten him. Or, at least, I convinved myself that such was the case. The invitation to a party came at the right time ; I was ready to go out and have fun. How long had it been since my friends hadn’t seen me ? In a city like this, there’s always something going on, and I had deliberately cut myself away from just plain old fun.

Enough !

Almost four months ago, he stopped contacting me. Just like that. Like I was nothing ; like all that we lived was nothing. He broke my heart. What do I say ? He broke me. My msn chat page suddenly said « ricc1 is now offline » and that was the last time that I had heard from him.

It’s about time I move on and turn the page and start on a new chapter. It’s about time I meet other people and see what’s out there. After all, everyone tells me that I am beautiful. Somehow, those words only made sense when it was him telling them to me. As a matter of fact, our entire relationship had been like therapy for me, and I think for him too.

Over the months, we had become addicted to our chat time. I remember so many times leaving work in a hurry just so that I would get home on time to get to my computer. I lived for those moments. Life had stopped making sense unless I had my daily dose of him. It all started almost by mistake. I had posted a photo on hi5 and I started reconnecting with old high school friends. I received a message from him. Apparently, he noticed that I had checked out his photos a few times and wanted to know me. He also mentioned something about my being from the same country as me. I admit he looked very good on the picture he had posted; though, something always kind of told me that it might be a fake picture, taken from the internet. He almost looked too good to be true, and blurry in some areas. And me, well, I was just regular me.

He sent me a few words, we set a date to chat. I was immediately under his spell. Some of my friends warned me about the internet, and people passing for who they weren’t. I had also heard of people getting hooked over the safety of hiding behind a virtual relationship. Supposedly, it prevented them from facing real life and getting hurt by real people. For getting hurt, it’s true that I had had my share of it. Also, I didn’t plan on finding love over the internet. I was not looking to get into any sort of relationship or any sort of trouble for that matter. But all that’s in the past now. It doesn’t matter anymore since it is over. I have to pick up the pieces (of me) and get moving with my life.

First step : tonight’s party. As I lingered in bed, my phone rang. It was Jenna. « Where are you ? We’re waiting for you ! »

My friends were waiting for me in Union Square so we would walk together to Vincent’s appartment. I rushed out of bed and got to the shower. No time to think about what to wear ; I just threw on a dress I had just bought at Forever21 on 34th street a few days ago that was still in the shopping bag, lying next to my desk. As a matter of fact, I’d just wear everything I got that day that was in that bag : a very light dress – almost transparent tropical forest green color with black glitter ; some fake gold leaf earrings and a pastel pink rose ring. My hair was its usual self, with irregular curls falling all over the place.

« What the hecK ? I’ll just tie it in a big messy bun ». Some creamy Stila burgundy blush, two coats of mascara and I was good to go.

I got my keys, my phone, some lipgloss… I put it all in a baguette and I was off. Out the door, I realized that I had no shoes on. A small detail that would make a big difference in the subway !

« I’m really out of it, » I told myself.

But no time to think. I ran back inside the appartment, opened my closet and grabbed the first paire of high heeled red shoes I found. That should be ok. My phone rang again. This time, I wasn’t going to pick up. I’d get there when I’d get there. Sorry for my friends, but there’s nothing I could do at this point except hope that the next subway train would arrive soonest.

After what felt like a gazillion years later, I finally arrived in Union Square. As I was quickly trying to head over the exit, I noticed heads turning to look at me. « What’s going on ? », I asked myself. Finally, I saw my friends, obviously not happy to have waited, but definitely relieved to see me.

« Wow, you’ve decided to make a remarkable entrance, haven’t you ? », Jenna  commented, raising a brow.

« Why do you say that ? » I replied.

« No, for nothing. Let’s just go ; we gotta grab some wine at a bodega before getting to Vincent’s ».

Along with Jenna, there were also Svena and Naomi ; all good friends from work. They were talking, excited about going to the party. I just smiled ; actually, I was not exactly in the mood for all that. I’d rather had stayed home and watched some good old TV. A re-run of Keeping up with the Kardashian would have made for an entertaining evening. Instead, I was heading to a place full of loud music and people ; I have to say that it wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

But what if everyone was right ? What if it was about time I got out of my shell and forgot about a man that actually never really existed. It was true. There was no proof that he was who he said he was, that our relationship was even true. Did I even get dumped, or did I just dream up the whole thing ? In my head, all that was left was blur. 

***

End of Part I

My NY stories

Writing about love moments with New York as the background scenery comes naturally to me. Most of my adult life, I lived in the big city that never sleeps. I don't need much more than the thought of the City's mythical neighborhoods to find myself in a universe filled with movie-like romance plots. Some of them, inspired by true stories of myself or stories I heard of, some that are just the fruit of my imagination.

Growing up in Africa, talking about emotions and sexuality was taboo. Hence my reluctance to put down these thoughts that sometimes haunt my soul. Somehow, I have to find a way to let them out - what a better escape than the internet, then? An open space made for strangers to allow their truth to be told without the fear of having the whole thing blow up and create scandals. On the contrary, a forum where many are searching for fame in the midst of a boundless crowd also yearning for glitz and glamour.

To become known coms with a prize; and any celeb would admit despising the paparazzi; yet knowing that the day the world would stop caring about their every move, every new found or failed relationship, every stop-by rehab... that day, it'll mean that they stopped being important. So it's a love and hate relationship: hating the paparazzi, but being conscious that without them, they are nobody.

I don't know why I'm talking about that... is there a similarity between those people exposing themselves all over the media and someone like me, who wants to express herself freely, yet not wanting to be found and judged by those who know the "everyday me" and who might not understand my choice of expression?

That question will remain unanswered.... well, until this whole thing blows up. Until then, I will allow my stories to take life.

My next post will be a story that I'm still writing. I'm having a hard time posting the first part of it, without knowing where and how the story will end. It's rather long; well, longer than the two other stories I already posted on this blog.... Maybe I'll do it in several parts (Part I, Part II, Part III...).

To be continued....

Morning (personal)

ugh the window, and blind me. I try to get up; my body’s aching. I pull the sheets over my head to cover my face, and I curl up. The bed is cold. 
The place where he usually lies is empty. 

Has he left already, like that, without a kiss goodbye? I close my eyes and I tell myself: “Just breathe, breathe!” But I have to go to work so I gather the courage to get up. I wander like a drunk man around the apartment and it’s like my feet are not touching the ground. It is true, he’s already gone... unless he never came back home last night. No, it can’t be. 

Strangely, I can’t remember last night, though. I mechanically walk towards the bathroom. My head is pounding. I’m in the bathroom, over the sink, with my eyes half closed. I don’t want to look in the mirror; I must look awful. I turn the knobs for cold water and slowly bend over to wash my face. I take the water into my hands, pour it over my face. Refreshing. 

But… “Am I late? What time is it?” I tell myself. I think I’m awake, but somehow, despite my efforts at coordinating my movements, I’m moving in slow motion and everything around seems surreal. But wait, there’s noise. It’s the front door opening, closing. It’s Him. It has to be. Am I dreaming? I’m confused. The face still wet, I walk out of the bathroom and finally, He’s here, staring at me smilingly. But then, he immediately looks worried. 

“Honey, you’re awake already? I wanted to surprise you,” he says.

He’s wearing an earth-color tunique-style shirt and blue jeans. The shirt is buttoned at the top, allowing me a subtle view of his chest. He looks incredible. I feel so lucky to have found the love of my life. But, all of a sudden, I feel dizzy. I can’t be attractive and it annoys me a little. 

“A surprise? What is it? Don’t you have to work today?” I reply stiffly. 

I clumsily try to arrange my hair and I smile nervously. I walk towards Him, and Him towards me. I notice that he’s carrying bags. His lips come to meet mine. At this very moment, I love him more than I ever did and my entire being belongs to Him. It scares me; can a love like the one we feel last? It never does, doesn’t it? Finding out that he was not by my side this morning, something inside of me was worried that I would never see him again. I’m probably just over-dramatic but I can’t help but feeling a poignant pain in my chest. 

My head is spinning.

- “Hey, what’s wrong?” He catches me, preventing me from fainting. “You’re burning!” says He, abruptly dropping the bags on the floor.
- “No, no, I’m ok. Just a little migraine! I’ll be fine”
- “Come, come to bed. You need to rest…”

Each step toward the room becomes heavier. I can see he’s talking to me, but I can’t discern what words come out of his mouth. I smile and say, to reassure him, “Don’t … don’t worry. I’m … euh… I’m just exhausted from work.”

We reach the bed and he helps me lie down.
“Can you stay next to me until I fall asleep, … please? I just need you… just hold me until I fall asleep.”

Why does it feel so good?

A bit of a background: This is a text I wrote a few years ago. It was part of an old blog I started a few months before leaving New York and moved back to Africa. 

Note: The stories I write are not (necessarily) auto-biographical. 

Photo by NYC photographer Lolita
http://lolitalens.com/

W hy does it feel so good, when you know it’s not going to last. His tongue in my most intimate parts, I am ready to believe that it is love that I am feeling when my body shivers at his touch. Just like that, I am ready to give him more of me than he actually asked for. 

We shared moments that were romantic like hallmark-post cards. Was it too good to be true? Not really. He never made any promise he never kept. None, except that he never called as he said he would or we never spent all of our week-ends this summer like he said we would. I wanted to believe him, because my ears were enchanted by the lyricism of his words. Some of his habits quickly drove me crazy, like his tendency to tell me what I was to do at any given time. Yet, I was rejoicing at the idea of being annoyed at him for the rest of our lives.

Why does it feel so good when you know it’s going to hurt, hurt so bad. I had promised myself not to close my eyes when his lips would lock onto mine. But silly me, I closed my eyes. I closed my eyes and I moaned at the sweetness of his warm nectar. He tasted like a summer fruit warmed by the rays of the sun. How could I not fall for him? 

“When I’m with a customer, I just do it like a machine. I don’t kiss with the tongue, ... except with you, of course.” Isn’t that what Julia Robert’s character Viviane says to her more-handsome-than-thou love interest, the undeniably sexy and reluctant Edward Lewis played by Richard Gere in “Pretty Woman”? I am Viviane. We, women, are all Vivianes. We make the same mistake again and again, with the hope that this time around, the outcome will be one of true and lasting romance. We give ourselves at half-off price to men who are less than deserving of our affection. Then why do we expect them to treat us any differently than a bargain item?

Early on, the little voice in my head told me that he and I were too different. I told myself, “Great! Things will never work between us”. He was righteous, controlling, extreme in all aspects of his life. He was a workaholic, religion maniac, logical and controlled in his reactions. I am warm, spontaneous, loving. The only addiction I could ever claim is that of love and cuddling. And then, I gradually tolerated his condescendence; he probably saw me as naïve and juvenile. And it is true. I was juvenile. The proof of that fact is that I fell for him. I convinced myself that there was charm in this man in control. On the same token, I failed to realize that he also controlled the rhythm of our expiration-dated relationship.

At the end, he got too much of me. "A bargain goes a long way!", shall one say. I was the gift that kept on giving, until it got thrown in the recycle bin for a new toy. Are our planets so far apart from one another that, somehow, Mars always orbits back to his initial place once he realizes that the heart of heat could burn him? 

I am infatuated and it is unbearable. I knew he wasn't not right for me. But then He left me. He left though I am the one who tolerated him. He left, and did not lend me a goodbye kiss. He knew he was not coming into my life to stay; barely to take, then leave. I allowed him to. At the end, I was devastated but I kept smiling at him when our paths randomly crossed, fighting the tear begging to drip down my cheek. Never did it cross my mind to be mad at him. I only asked myself what was wrong with me that he did not feel the need for my embrace any longer.

When I close my eyes, it still feels good to remember. It kills me to know that his tongue is now in HER most intimate parts. Just like I did, she also believes that love has knocked at her door, but she is mistaking visitors. As for me, in the shadow of my seemingly genuine smiles and my reason telling me I am better off without him, I still crave the exquisite sensation of his love between my legs.