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Forty Years Have Passed

But Love and Lust Never Die

By Patrick M. OhanaPublished 3 years ago 39 min read
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Forty Years Have Passed
Photo by Pablo Heimplatz on Unsplash

Hello! How Are You?

Bonjour !

Bonjour !

How are you?

“Who am I speaking to?”

Jean-Pierre.

“JP?”

Yes! It’s been a while.

“Yes.”

Is it a good time for us to talk?

“Yes.”

I thought of you often. Especially in the past few years, and many years ago.

“I thought of you too.”

Did you, really?

“Yes.”

Recently?

“Yes,” she lied.

I’m glad. I was thinking that we could continue what we had started close to forty years ago.

“I don’t understand.”

Our love affair. What could have been a love affair.

“Are you serious?”

Yes.

“But you’re my cousin, and we were kids.”

I’m glad that it’s the first thing that came to your mind. Yes. You are my cousin, and we were teenagers. But we are adults now, and relatively free, and I didn’t ask you to marry me.

“Oh my God, you are serious.”

Yes. I want to get to know you better.

“I can’t. We can’t.”

We can. The only question is whether you want to. I do.

“Oh my God! No!”

Are you sure? I always loved you, and you loved me then, from 1980 onwards, till I don’t know when.

“Yes. I loved you. For many years. But not in that way.”

Come on! You were the first girl in my life. And you know what they say. One never forgets the first one. We didn’t go all the way, but we got pretty close.

“I don’t remember anything.”

That’s what you told me when I brought it up thirty years ago. Do you remember that?

“Yes.”

I wasn’t free then, but I’m free now. I’m free to love you and much more than I did before.

“We’re related for God’s sake, and I have a child.”

Yes. Your mother is my aunt. And I’m glad that you only mentioned the child.

“And you don’t see any problem with that?”

That you only mentioned the child?

“No.”

I may have then, and unconsciously at that, but not now. I only see all the love that we could give each other.

“Come on, JP! It’s impossible.”

When there’s love, there’s always a way.

“We barely know each other.”

I can remember our few weeks together in 1980, and 1979, as if it were yesterday, and the day before.

“What do you want from me?”

I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.

“It’s impossible.”

Let’s meet in Ottawa or Paris and discover if it’s impossible. I’m sure that you’ll change your mind.

“JP, please, no.”

I want to make love to you.

“Oh my God!”

Again, and again. Day in and day out. Night after night. For the rest of our lives.

“JP!”

Yes, my love.

“You’re crazy.”

Crazy for you.

“We can’t.”

We can and we should.

“You’re my cousin.”

You’re my cousin.

“I don’t know what else to say.”

Ottawa or Paris?

“Ottawa, of course. Paris would be difficult. Oh my God! What am I saying?”

Ottawa. Very soon, please! We’ve waited most of our lives.

“I’ll call you before I leave Paris. Oh my God!”

I’m looking forward to seeing you soon. All of you.

“Oh my God! JP! I can’t believe it.”

It’s the only thing I can believe in.

“I don’t know what to say. No!”

Yes.

“No, JP.”

Yes, my love.

Forty Freaking Years

She called him from the Charles de Gaulle airport on the morning of June 29, 2019, just a few days following their first phone conversation, arriving in Ottawa some long hours later. He had called her a second time the following day to drum his desire in her ears. “I love you too,” she had said to him at one point. “You could probably do with me whatever you want. I’m yours.”

What did he say to her? Did he hold her to it? How could he? Enough with the questions! He picked her up at the Ottawa International Airport. He did, but it felt as if he was the one being picked up. Her smile upon seeing him reminded him of a similar embarrassed one that she had expressed when he had brushed his fingers against her pussy almost forty years ago. None of that blushing, he thought, as he kissed her passionately, until he heard her whisper, “Let’s go home.” But home was wherever the heart was. In the car, where he wouldn’t let go of their embrace. In the elevator, where he tried to swallow her tongue. In the apartment, where he fell to his knees as soon as the door was closed, peeling her panties off with his teeth and sliding his nose and then his tongue into her pussy.

“I want to wash first,” she whispered.

Did anyone touch you in the past few days?

“No one touched me in the past two years.”

There’s nothing to wash, then. Your blissful smell hasn’t changed. But her smell did change. It wasn’t as sweet. Memory is a bitch and a bastard.

“Did you smell me when we were kids?”

Only your panties following your showers, and my fingers the few times that they had touched your pussy.

“I’ve never felt this way before. It must be wrong, JP.”

On the contrary, it must be right. It’s perhaps the only thing that’s right.

“I want you inside of me,” she started to whisper and then screamed, surprising herself beyond measure.

I want to be inside of you too, but not so quickly. Let me taste you first; kiss your skin and then, lick every part of you! I want to survey you.

“JP! I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m yours to do whatever you want. But I’m not fifteen anymore.”

I’m not sixteen either. But I think that our desire hasn’t aged. It only got a small taste of what it could have gotten, and it never forgot. It got repressed, especially by you. I remember all my dreams of you. Waking dreams, for the most part, in which we went all the way when you returned in 1981. But you didn’t return, and I was powerless, and then life happened with all its monsters and princesses. I was lucky for a while, but all good things come to an end. I want this good thing to last. It has a chance now, which it may have never had before. You can’t go back to Paris and I can’t stay here without you.

“Oh, JP. I never held much hope for this. Everyone would have been against it. We had no chance. You knew it better than I did. But as you say, we may have a chance now. Do we, really? I still can’t believe it. And everyone will still be against us.”

I don’t care and you shouldn’t either. We only have one life to live, and if not now, when? When would I bury my face in your hair? When would I lose myself to you? When would I die in you?

Maintenant, mon amour, et quand tu voudras et où tu voudras.” (Now, my love, and when you’ll want to and where you’ll want to.)

I want you all the time, even in my dreams. I want you to be the first thing that I see when I open my eyes. I want you naked most of the time and to undress you when you’re not. I want to be your chair. I want to be your floor. I want to be your bed. I want to savour you. Our forty years in the desert have come to an end. We have reached the promised land.

Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,” (I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you) she shouted.

Je t’adore, Rachelle (I adore you, Rachel), he declared. He thought of taking her in his arms all the way to bed but remembered that his back could not bear all those years. He would have to carry her in parts, or roll her in the desk chair, sitting upside down in the nude, with her beautiful toes rubbing against his drowning face.

What is left of our loves?

What is left of these beautiful turns?

A few memories, old decay

Of our youth.

What is left of the children’s games,

Of the months of August barely triumphant?

Memories that are chasing me

With little relentlessness.

Those lyrics, some of them from Charles Trenet’s song, Que reste-t-il de nos amours (What is left of our loves), ached in his heart. But it wasn’t the pain of losing someone. It was perhaps worse. It was the aching involved in not getting to do something that should have been done. A missed act, and in this case, of extreme love and pleasure. She was giving herself to him forty years later. He wanted to bawl for all those lost years, most of their lives. Where would they be today had they stayed together? He would have seen her every year from 1979 onwards, and more frequently as the years rolled on. They would have made love in secret until her 18th birthday, at which point they would have tied another knot and moved to Australia or wherever else she would have liked.

Love and Lust Never Die

They made love for the first time. It was like going home; for both of them. She cried and he licked her tears. He cried and she nipped his ears. Que reste-t-il de nos amours replayed in his head incessantly, so he played it on his iPad and they cried a little more. He then played, changing many of the words, Smokey’s “I’ll Meet You at Midnight” and life stood still.

“Je t’aime,” (I love you) she cried in his ears.

Je t’aime, he whispered, burrowing underneath her.

“I’ll do anything for you.”

Leave him?

“Of course! Definitely! In a second!”

And the child?

“I’ll take him with me. It’s my child.”

What if I ask you to leave him behind?

“I would without looking back, but you wouldn’t ask me to do that.”

Part of me wouldn’t, but part of me would.

“Which part are you going to listen to? I’ll listen to it too.”

Are you sure?

“Yes. I told you already that I’m yours and that you can do with me whatever you want.”

I love you and couldn’t ask you to abandon your child.

“I know but I would if you asked me to. I know that you resent him. At least the part that comes from his father.”

Yes. I do. Immensely. From that soiling arse.

“Soiling arse?”

Dirtying pimp! Staining anus!

“You do hate him.”

More than anyone else in the world. He hurt both you and me.

“What am I going to do with you?”

Love me.

“That’s a given.”

Never leave me.

“That’s a given too.”

I wouldn’t be sure about that. Some people leave without planning to.

“I will never leave you on purpose.”

You’re going to leave me soon to return to Paris.

“Not for long, my love. Not for long at all.”

Unless you want us to live there.

“In Paris?”

Yes.

“No! I want us to live away from there.”

OK, my everything!

“Everything?”

Yes.

“I can see it in your eyes. Can you see it in mine?” she asked looking directly at his eyes.

Yes. I can see love.

“Yes!”

I can also see lust.

“Oh, yes!”

Which cannot wait any longer.

“It almost hurts.”

I know what you mean. I feel it too.

Fais-moi l’amour,” (Make love to me) she urged.

He kissed her until she gasped for air, and then buried his face between her thighs. She moaned, telling him that no one else will ever touch her again. She even asked him to finish her off, since life could never get any better. He cried between her breasts and then kissed and suckled on each nipple, almost falling asleep. But then he felt her feet rubbing against him, at which point he was ready and eager to die.

You can finish me off too, he told her. This, all this, is the meaning of life. You are the meaning of my life, he avowed. To think that my meaning of life reappeared when I was sixteen, he then thought out loud.

“My meaning of life appeared when I was fifteen,” she countered.

You’re not my cousin. You’re my raison d’être, which dwarfs anything else.

“You’re not my cousin either. Were you ever? You’re my heart, my lungs, my brain, my breasts, my pussy, my ass. Not my ass!”

I’m your ass too. Sit on my face!

“No!”

Come on, sit on my face! I want to feel the warmth of your ass against my face. Stand up above my face and slowly lower your ass onto it! I love your ass. I saw it for the first time when I was fifteen and never forgot it. You can say that it was imprinted upon me for life. I was already yours at that point, and you were only fourteen. I remember everything about you.

“I can see that, and I remember so little.”

You must have repressed it at some point.

“But why would I? Why would I repress my love for you?”

Because it was unfulfilled and impossible.

“You didn’t repress it.”

Yes, I didn’t. But I suffered a lot for it. I imagined us together for years, unable to do anything to make it real. It was hell for a long while.

“My poor JP. It’s finally over.”

They fell asleep, her head against his heart, his left hand against her ass, and their sweat evaporating ever so slowly in harmony with the new morning’s dew.

When he opened his eyes a few hours later, he couldn’t believe that she was asleep beside him. He wanted to bite her to make sure that she was real but kissed one of her breasts instead.

“What a great way to wake up!”

I was making sure that you were real.

“I’m real. Are you real?”

I think so, but not in every sense, I’m afraid.

“You can see me.”

Yes.

“You can hear me.”

Yes.

“You can smell me.”

Yes.

“Oh, I must smell bad.”

You smell wonderful.

“You can taste me.”

I did just now.

“And you can touch me.”

I am.

“What other sense is there?”

Time.

“Time?”

Yes. Time.

“I understand. Forty years is a long time.”

Yes.

“And we’ve been together for less than a day,” she murmured.

Yes.

“You’re breaking my heart.”

I don’t mean to, but reality is horrible.

“I know. I’m here now. And if we’re lucky, we could be together for forty years,” she said.

Women are really optimistic.

“We are. It beats being pessimistic.”

I agree. But isn’t it true that optimists are unaware pessimists?

“Maybe,” she replied laughingly.

And I’m not a pessimist.

“What are you, then?”

A fatalist.

“Isn’t it the same thing?” she asked.

Not at all. A pessimist tends to perceive the worst aspect of things and or knows that the worst will happen. A fatalist knows that all events are predetermined and therefore inevitable.

“Isn’t that a religious belief? And I was told that you were an atheist.”

I am an atheist, and science, quantum mechanics specifically, has demonstrated it repeatedly. All events are predetermined and consequently inevitable. But enough with the end of things. I want to concentrate on this beginning, on you, dear Rachelle. Especially on your lips.

“Let me brush my teeth first.”

I meant the other lips.

“They also need some washing,” she begged.

Just a little kiss.

“No!”

A quickie, then.

“OK!”

Being inside Rachelle felt like much more than going home. For JP, it was like seeing everyone that he had ever loved at the same time. Mozart, Beethoven, Nietzsche, Freud, Pink Floyd, Charlie Chaplin, Woody Allen, Philip Roth, Christopher Hitchens, Robin Williams, his father, all in the same room. Furthermore, the ejaculation wasn’t the best part. The almost mechanical to-and-fro movements within Rachelle coupled with her almost mute melodious mouthings equaled Mozart’s Requiem’s intensity and pain. Yes. Pain. So much pain. A mountain of pain. Weakened with each to only to be strengthened with each fro. To and fro. To and fro. To and fro. To and fro. Almost ad infinitum. Trying to prolong each to; her with her thighs and arms pushing him further, the furthest possible, holding him in with tears in her eyes; him almost wanting to disappear within her, to become an ovum, her only ovum, her last ovum, looking at her face with awe. There is a god — God — it’s Rachelle.

They took a long bath together. She wanted him in her mouth but he refused.

“Why?” she asked.

You’re my goddess and I’m your slave, not the other way around.

“You’re not my slave. I love you.”

You’re my goddess and I adore you.

“I want to taste you too.”

It’s salty and disgusting, and they have tails.

“I don’t care. I want you in my mouth.”

No, my love!

“Please!” she pleaded.

Please, no! he insisted.

She took his penis in her hands, gently pulling it towards her and saying “It’s mine; it’s all mine.”

It’s yours. I’m all yours. I was always yours, except that we didn’t know it.

“I never thought that I could love someone this much, that love could be this strong.”

I knew that it could, but I didn’t know that it would be you. My aunt’s daughter, and my favourite aunt at that. It’s extraordinary. But I think that I loved you before loving your mother. And thus, did I love your mother because of you?

“I don’t know, my love. And I only care that you love me.”

I do, and it hurts. I think that Nazareth sang it best. Listen to this song, he said, getting the iPad and selecting Love Hurts.

After a nutritious breakfast, they were back in bed. How nutritious? Each one ate a cup of cooked hemp seeds with half a cup of almond flour, numerous blackberries, an assortment of nuts, a tablespoon of freshly ground flaxseed, and a teaspoon of ground cinnamon, all mixed in a bowl, accompanied by a green-leaves tea with fresh mint and a teaspoon of erythritol. Nutritious indeed. Especially before going to bed with someone you love, and want to sleep with. Indeed!

They made love again, and again, and again. There were many years to make up for. After all, quantity wins over quality in the long run.

Nothing new, then. Just more. You assume wrongly. Tell us, then! I’m not sure that I should tell you anything more. Come on! What happened next? They made love again, and again, and again. Details, please! It’s all in the details. I guess that I could articulate some of them, but not everything. Anything will do at this point.

Everything Is in the Details

He looked at her naked on the bed, noticing a trace of embarrassment when she tried to cover parts of herself. There’s no reason to cover any of your perfections, he said, uncovering her. You’re a feast for my eyes and for all my other senses, he added, kissing her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth, her mouth again, her chin, her neck, her breasts, her shoulders, her arms, her hands (putting each of her fingers in his mouth), her stomach, her thighs, her pussy, her legs (gently turning her over), her back, her buttocks (gently turning her over), her feet, and her toes (licking every one of them, again and again), and reaching for every other part of her that he had missed. He then took his iPad and asked if he could film her nakedness.

“Please, no!” she pleaded.

You’re going to leave me soon, and this footage will keep me sane.

“OK, then! How can I help?”

Caress your miraculous breasts and gently pinch the nipples! Wow! he exclaimed while filming her. Now, slowly spread your lovely legs! Incredible! he declared while filming her. Now, gently spread your impeccable pussy with both hands! Amazing! he conceded while filming her. Now, lift your mind-blowing pelvis! I’m going to faint, he said while filming her. Now, turn onto your right side and lift your mouth-watering thigh as high as you can! Remarkable! he stated while filming her. Now, turn onto your stomach and tenderly spread your breathtaking buttocks with both hands! Mesmerizing! he affirmed while filming her. Now, in the catty position; I don’t like dogs; she laughed; arch your back downwards! I’m dying! he cried while filming her. But it would be the best death. Kill me, Rachelle! The pain is unbearable, he begged. She embraced him, dropping to her knees, trying to put his penis in her mouth. Please, no, he pleaded. You’re my goddess and I don’t want to feel it in your mouth.

“But I want to so much, she urged. I also want to love every part of you.”

No, Rachelle! I love you to no end and seeing it in your mouth would debase you. I want us to enjoy your nakedness, not mine. You’re my goddess and I’m your slave.

“But I love you too. You’re not my slave. You’re my man.”

Exactly! I’m your man, not your god.

She pushed him onto the bed, climbed on top of him, and put her ass against his face. He kissed it and bit it and then sucked her clitoris. She moaned and suddenly dropped her head onto his penis and sucked it obstinately, refusing to let go until he ejaculated in her mouth. He protested throughout her lustful offensive but felt overwhelmed by the blissful aroma and taste of her pussy and the ancillary pleasure that she was exacting upon him through his penis.

At least don’t swallow my sperm, he shouted.

“I won’t,” she mumbled but swigged a bit of it to taste the sperm of the love of her life and have more of him within her.

He lay, his head upon her stomach, listening to a rhapsody in ewe. Rachelle, he called to her.

“Yes, my love.”

I love you, Rachelle.

“I know, my love. I love you too. I also feel the pain of our lost years. Four decades of separation. Forty years away from your love and embrace. Can we make up for so many years?”

We’ll do our best, Rachelle. Rachelle. Rachelle. Rachelle. I love to say it out loud. I want to scream it in the streets. And when they ask me what’s wrong, I’ll tell them that I have Rachelle fever but that it’s not contagious. That I’m the only one in the world blessed with the disease.

“Je t’aime. Fais-moi encore l’amour.” (I love you. Make love to me again.)

I’m always making love to you. I did it in my dreams and I’m doing it in reality. Are you real, Rachelle?

“I’m real,” she screamed, “and my heart is going to explode very soon.”

He kissed the left side of her chest, concentrating on the breast and especially the nipple: the doorway to the elixir of life, the most beautiful part of any woman, who is blessed with two, one for each hand, one for each mouth, since upon seeing the breasts we suddenly feel that we possess two mouths, and we want both breasts at the same time. We push them together to make them one. We insert our penis between them to become one with them. It’s the second most intimate act after penetration, the greatest undertaking some say. JP gently sucked Rachelle’s nipple and wouldn’t let go. How could he? Her heart was at stake.

When she fell asleep, he looked at her toes, her utmost perfection. Her toes? Yes. They were perfectly proportioned in both feet — a miracle — and part of the perfect feet par excellence in terms of their size, arching, skin tone, and even attitude. They were perfect and they knew it. Even the white nail polish complimented their perfection. He kissed them one by one, thinking that they should be copied and affixed to doorposts instead of the mezuzahs. He could pray to them, the toes of his goddess, asking to be touched by them, asking her to make love to him with them. She had noticed his fascination with her feet, and opening her eyes for a moment, saw him enamoured with them.

“You really love every part of me.”

I do, Rachelle. I do. Your feet may have been my first love at first sight. Perhaps because I used them to masturbate when you were asleep.

“Oh my God, JP! You were a pervert.”

Once a pervert, always a pervert, he replied with a smile.

“Do you want me to make you climax with my feet?”

Would you?

“Of course! I’ll do anything for you.”

There’s nothing else.

She rubbed her feet against his penis, the soles of her feet and all of her toes, stroking the tip and the testicles, watching his engorged penis pulsate and his face take on the colours of the rainbow. His sperm spew onto her feet and bedsheets at which moment he cried, I love you, Rachelle. You are the only proof of a god since no natural process could have resulted in you, he added after a few seconds. She took some of the sperm from her feet and rubbed it on her nipples. That was by far, at least for JP, the greatest human act of all time. She even looked into eyes, licking her fingers dry, and then embracing his slightly trembling body in her arms while holding his penis. Is there anything that I can do for you? he asked.

“No, my love. I feel fulfilled.” However, she made the following observation less than an hour later. “I noticed that you love my ass as much as the rest of me. Well, maybe not as much as my feet,” she added tittering. He had to kiss her for that laugh. “You caressed it. You kissed it. You fumbled it. You squeezed it. You pinched it. You bit it. You licked it. You hugged it. You fingered it. You even talked to it.”

What did I say?

“That you loved it, of course.”

I do.

“I know that you do. But you didn’t penetrate it. You brushed your penis on it and pushed your erection against it from every direction, but you never entered my ass.”

Did you want me to?

“Not particularly! I was just wondering why you hadn’t.”

I don’t think that it should serve for that purpose. Maybe once or twice out of curiosity, but never alongside the pussy or instead of it. It’s the reason why I’ll never understand the male homosexual. Lesbians I admire. Hell, I would have become a lesbian had I been a woman. Rachelle couldn’t stop laughing. I’m serious, he said. Who in their right mind would desire a penis over a pussy? They can suck each other dry and excel at it, but penetrating the ass, the bacteria-infested hole from which shit enters the world, is simply ridiculous and revolting. I can understand that sexual desire can make one go for any hole, but the asshole isn’t that inviting. It can be cute. Yours is beautiful like the rest of you.

“I love you,” she said.

But thrusting a penis into it because it’s often tighter than the pussy is plainly wrong and unfair. It’s almost like cheating. And to think that some people go for the ass-to-mouth so-called novelty. It’s disgusting, to say the least. The ass to pussy too. Unless the colon is emptied and the ass goes through a serious enema, ass-fucking is freaking foolish. But I would penetrate your ass if you wanted me to. Your wish is my command.

“No, my love! I was just curious, and you answered my question thoroughly.”

He lowered his face toward her ass, parted the cheeks, and half-whispered to it, give me a sign if you want me inside of you. I’m sure that your bacteria are beautiful too.

“Kiss me!”

He kissed her for a long time. Since we were discussing various modes of penetration, there’s also the issue of the forceful fellatio where the penis has to reach the throat and beyond, he said as soon as their lips parted. Deep throat, they call it. How unpleasant it must be! Why would some men, hopefully not most of them, want to practically suffocate the individual whom they love or even just fucking? Is that meant to be love? or lust? I don’t think that they love or lust for anyone during that throat rape. It’s reprehensible.

“I agree. How can I leave you even for a day? You are right, JP. We were robbed of forty years of togetherness. I can’t bear to think of it. You have to return with me to Paris and wait for me to make all the arrangements. We’ll see each other every day. I want you with me. I want you in me at least twice a day. We can’t waste any more time.”

I agree, my queen.

“I prefer queen to goddess. And you are my king,” she added, kissing him and rubbing her feet against his.

I guess that I won’t need the footage of your glorious figure, after all.

“You won’t, she replied. I’ll always be near you.”

Chelle

Chelle! I need somebody.

Chelle! Not just anybody.

Chelle! You know I need someone.

Chelle!

There was Dolores and now there’s Rachelle. Jacob may have worked and waited seven years for Rachelle, but the idea of JP may have waited for all of existence for Rachelle. At least Jacob may have had the chance to love her a few years later. JP had to wait very close to forty years. What if something had happened to one of them? What if Rachelle had said no to their union? What if she had said no? No! No! No! No! Like nails on his coffin. Would he have killed himself? Some of you may even have wished it, are still wishing it. Do you, really?

Rachelle was famished. JP was too, but he didn’t care. He had been eating her. He prepared more nutritious food: a romaine lettuce salad with endives, baby spinach, baby arugula, and a dressing made of garlic, lemon juice, almond flour, nutritional yeast, and Dijon mustard; an orange lentils soup with red onion, celery, tomato, and cremini mushrooms, seasoned with pink Himalayan salt, cayenne pepper, turmeric, and black pepper; black olives with garlic and artichoke hearts, seasoned with olive oil and cayenne pepper; cocoa cake made with organic eggs, almond flour, erythritol, cocoa powder, and baking powder; and green-leaves tea with fresh mint and erythritol.

She observed him cooking for them while still watching every movement that she was making, as if he was recording her life, alert to every one of her actions, no matter how minute. He stopped cooking from time to time to kiss her or caress a part of her body as if his senses of touch and taste were demanding it, jealous of the other senses that were feasting on her so effortlessly. He even fed her some of the food when they were eating.

“Come on, JP!”

You’re my queen.

“But you’re my king.”

The queen is more important than the king, and the reason why I don’t like chess. She laughed heartily.

“What else can you do, JP?”

If there was only one thing that I could do, I would hope that it would be that of loving you.

“Please, kiss me,” she beseeched.

It’s so difficult to stop when I do.

“I know. I never knew such love. Did you?”

No, he lied. My heart begins to race when I see you. I long to touch you. To hug you. To kiss you. To die.

“In me?”

With you.

Je t’aime, mon JP” (I love you, my JP).

Je t’adore, ma Chelle (I love you, my Chelle).

“I love it. Please, call me Chelle from now on.”

Please, Chelle! I want every part of you, not just your heart.

“You have them, JP,” she said laughingly. “I’m all yours. Every cell.”

The bacteria too, he demanded.

Fais-moi l’amour,” (Make love to me) she cried.

I’m making love to you all the time.

“I know. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. It’s as if you’re making love to me without touching me. I feel you in me. And when you’re really in me, I feel you fighting with something. Fighting with time. Claiming all the lost years. Stretching time as much as possible. Consuming every second with me. Crying both inside and outside. Loving me endlessly. I’m afraid to move at times, feeling that any movement would hurt you. You look so absorbed in me, by me. You don’t forget any part of me. You look at me as if I was the entire world, as if I was all that there is. You are my happiness with a capital h. My perfect happiness. I love you, JP, and I will love you until my last breath. And my love will beat death. Every one of my cells will fight for you. Even my bacteria will join them. Je t’aime,” she shouted. “Je t’aime à en mourir,” (I love you to death) she cried. “I have always loved you. I remember now. And I was right to have loved you because you have always loved me too.” She kissed him passionately, sucking his tongue, but he quickly sucked hers, not letting go, swallowing her saliva until her mouth was dry.

Loving you hurts, he said.

“I know, my love. I can see it in your eyes.” She looked at his iPad and asked if he knew the French singer Juliette Armanet.

I love her, he replied.

“Is she on your iPad?”

Yes.

“Oh my God! Please, play her song, L’Indien!” (The Indian) she implored. (It’s him, the love of my life, I know that it’s him, everything tells me so. In him, everything is infinite, the day as the night. I’m his.) “C’est toi” (It’s you), she whispered throughout the song. “Tu es l’amour de ma vie,” (You are the love of my life) she said when the song ended.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to love me. I still have a hard time accepting that it’s real. I see you. He looked at her intently. I hear you. Tell me that you love me! “I love you,” she said. I touch you. He touched her face and kissed her. I taste and smell you. He licked her pussy. And I still have a hard time. Forty freaking years will do that to most people, and I’m no exception.

“It’s real, my love. I assure you that it’s real. I love you with all my heart, with every part of me. I’m yours entirely. I’m your missing link.”

You are. You are my missing link, my everything, he replied. He then kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed every part of her, especially her mouth, which embraced four of the five senses, though some argue that the mouth can also see.

C’est toi (It’s you),” she sang to him with gleaming eyes.

He kissed her repeatedly and then lay his head on her stomach to listen again to her rhapsody in ewe. He must have fallen asleep because when he awoke a couple of hours later, she was still dreaming and he was on his back a few inches away from her. Had miles separated them, his heart wouldn’t have ached any less. He quickly moved towards her, gently kissing her shoulder and smelling her hair, and then sitting on the bed and looking at her longingly. She was there, in front of him, his, and he still longed for her. He was looking at his cousin and feeling that she was the last woman on Earth. He then felt pain in his chest. It was intense, like the pain of losing someone you love. He lay on his back and started to sob. He couldn’t control the flowing tears but did his best to remain silent.

“Why are you crying?” she suddenly asked, worried.

Because, because, because I’m happy and sad at the same time, and I don’t know which is stronger, and it hurts, it hurts within my chest, similar to the pain that I feel in my ribs when I have a bad cold and I continually cough from my chest.

She kissed his chest and put her warm hands upon it, thinking to herself that life was a bitch and a bastard. Her phone had rung a few times, but she hadn’t answered. It was her son. She had called him when she arrived to Ottawa before meeting JP. When JP seemed better, she called her son again to say that she loved and missed him and that she had fallen asleep after the flight. She asked him a few questions and hung up after promising to call him early the next morning. She then looked at JP and told him that she loved him even more.

Come on! A mother always loves her child and especially her son more than anything else in the world.

“Well, this mother is different. Remember that she loved JP first; three decades before having her son with the soiling arse.”

You were a teenager and it was consequently a teenager’s love.

He was a teenager too, but too immature to comprehend it, and fearful of the consequences of loving his cousin. She was more mature than him. She knew what she wanted before he knew what he wanted. She even took the initiative on most occasions, gently pinching his ass or pulling his penis. No matter! She can’t love him more than her son. She can and she will. Don’t you mean, she can and she does? Yes, but I’m not sure beyond any doubt. Ah!

You don’t have to love me more than your son, JP replied. It’s not the same love. He loves you, but I get to love every part of you. You love him, but you yearn to love specific parts of me and for me to love your entirety. Romantic love has no equal since it involves all the senses and all the organs. Even your toes, in my case. Every one of them. Equally. On both feet. And it’s not a fetish. They are part of your perfection. I look at them with love in my heart, not in my penis. Even your mouth, your breasts, your pussy, your ass, trigger love in my heart before anything else. I look at them and immediately want to kiss them, touch them, caress them, taste them, and see and feel you having pleasure. I would die for you, instead of you, without a second thought. You are my other half, and without you, I could only be incomplete, half a man, part of an individual, since an individual is an oxymoron in the realm of romantic relationships. You are all that I want and all that I ever wanted. You are the one and you were always the one.

She looked at him tearfully, but they were tears of joy, tears of triumph over time and everything else that stands in the way of love. She embraced him and wouldn’t let go, except that he wouldn’t let go either, breathing her into his chest, breathing her instead of air, and kissing her and kissing her and kissing her and kissing her any which way he could, mumbling, I love you, between kisses, and at one point, biting her ass and leaving marks.

Luckily, he had enough fresh food for about a week, since there was no conceivable situation that would have enabled them to go outside even for a short while, at least not during the first few days. They were living an instantaneous honeymoon without a view of the ocean or any other natural or unnatural wonder. She was the view and she was the wonder. She didn’t seek to visualize the view from his balcony because he became all that she wanted to see, observing this new man in her life and biting her lower lip from time to time to remind herself that it was him, the love of her life. She loved the way in which he beheld her, removing his eyeglasses and then approaching her to gaze upon her from up close without that artificial assistance. He needed to touch her as much as he needed to breathe. Back in the bathtub, he had washed her, starting with her hair and then proceeding throughout her body, kissing it following every partial rinse and at one point losing himself in her pussy, unable to let go even after she had orgasmed. Her eyes were the only part that he couldn’t kiss, unless she closed them, which wasn’t the same. He loved her eyes even more because of it. They were the only untouchable part. But he managed to kiss and touch all the areas around them like a blind man tracing and memorizing a face. He loved her face. What didn’t he love about her? He came up empty. He thought about it at one point and couldn’t come up with anything. Remember! She represented perfection, at least to him, and it’s all that mattered.

While it’s true that she didn’t attempt to contemplate the view from his balcony, she did raise the curtain in the bedroom at one point and looked outside. She had his v-shirt on but nothing else. He was in bed observing her when his eyes caught her splendid ass: two beautiful balmy buttocks separated by a still-any-heart slit. He swiftly got up and joined her, his erection finding refuge along that split sanctuary.

I remember doing this when we were kids, except that we weren’t naked, he said. I vividly remember that you felt my erection against you, turning away with a smile to look at it projecting within my shorts.

“Lucky you. I don’t remember much if anything.”

It may be a good thing.

“What?”

Not to remember. I remembered everything, picturing every precious moment and often cursing my acute caution. You were ready at fifteen and I wasn’t at sixteen. Thank God! most would have said and still will say. Fuck it! I thought and said and still will say. We only live once. I should have listened to your hands and eyes and smiles and made love to you, as well as your advice to be gentle when I pinched your ass, these buttocks that I love with every fiber of my being. He dropped to his knees and kissed them copiously. She lowered the curtain and looked at him.

“What do my hands and eyes and smiles tell you now?”

The same thing but with more confidence.

“What are you waiting for, then?” she said with a smile. “I can’t see my life any other way,” she told him after they had made love. She had grasped his penis, hers from then on, in one hand and his testicles in the other, asking them whisperingly if they were ready for more? He replied for them, that they strove to be always ready for her and only her, and that notwithstanding their readiness, he was always ready to replace them with his lips, tongue, nose, and fingers. “I never even imagined that I could be loved so entirely and so strongly. Did you?” she asked.

I may have imagined it to some degree but not like this, never the way it is with you.

“I’m, we’re in our early 50s, and it pains me that you never got the chance to make love to me before,” she said, slightly lowering her head. “Il n’est jamais trop tard pour bien faire,” (It’s never too late to do right) I suppose, she added, looking into his eyes.

I would have loved you at any age. I even remember when you were four or five and I was six or seven and we played doctor and I was the patient. You examined me, asked me to lie on my stomach and lowered my briefs to listen with your toy statoscope to my buttocks of all places. I may have already loved you then. It also pains me that we have lost so many years, but at least we haven’t lost all of them. We have some time left and I’ll love you during every moment of it. Will you be mine?

“I was yours when you kissed me at the airport. I’ll even marry you s’il le faut (if need be),” she declared. “Je m’en fiche de ce qu’ils penseront (I don’t care what they’ll think). Je t’aime et c’est tout ce qui compte pour moi (I love you and that’s all that matters to me),” she asserted.

What about the soiling arse?

“We’re already separated as you know.”

I didn’t know. Since when?

“For over a year.”

Had I known, I would have certainly contacted you sooner, he said, chagrined. I speak to your mother somewhat regularly, and she never mentioned it.

“The bitch. But I think that I understand. Well, I think that I do. I’ll tell you about it one day when I’m sick and unable to make love to you. Mon JP. Je t’aime à la folie (My JP. I love you madly).”

Where do you want us to live?

“Anywhere would be fine as long as we’re together.”

I agree. But I’ll let you choose the place. You have a child to think of.

She didn’t reply, putting her head over his chest where she could hear his mounting heartbeats and then lowering it onto his stomach where she could listen to his rhapsody in crescendo (Dear Chelle, my belle, are words that go together well, so well together).

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About the Creator

Patrick M. Ohana

A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. All my stories (over 2,200 pieces) are/will be available on/via Shakespeare's Shoes.

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