personal blog: simon

the common hum carries from the fridge as the icemaker fills with water. I toss my house keys into the basket. small knickknacks and change take occupancy in it as well. Kevin settles on the leather armchair yawning, reaching for me in the darkness, only to catch a sliver of my shirt. I squeeze his shoulder and vanish into the kitchen, pop a gel Tylenol into my mouth, and sip the running water from the faucet.

the moon glazes the room, highlighting part of Kevin’s cheek, a glimmer. I am too tired to get into a fight and fall exhausted onto the adjacent couch. “seemed like you were having fun.” I mutter summing up the evening.

“and you didn’t.” his words dispense softly, not an accusation, but concern.

“you’re young. you should have fun.” I expel with exhaustion, arching my neck and breathing in shallow.

“sure, old man.” Kevin teases. “twenty-nine doesn’t make you old.”

“thirty does.” I argue, although my argument is quite weak.

“okay.” another agreement and a gentle grin and I cannot but examine Kevin’s burrowed eyes, the moment of inaudible understanding, or at least an attempt at understanding each other. maybe it’s more of a defeat, realizing it’s enough of fighting. shifting, he wedges between a decorative bowl and a pile of magazines, settling down on the coffee table, and leans towards me. his hands dance to my knees, up my thighs, behind my knees, and pulls my body down, closer.

“Kevin.” I jadedly moan, entirely not in the mood.

“yes.” he answers, as if not understanding the tone of my voice, as if not deciphering the intent of calling his name. enticing, coasting over seductively. his stare hovering over me, an invitation, a moment of truce. Kevin’s hands drifting from my lap to my abs, pressing gently into them. nuzzling, burrowing his face to harmlessly nip on my neck, the scent of smoke lingering in his cloths, like the stench of my father’s jackets.

Kevin whispers into my ear, so harmlessly, rather it makes me quake not with pleasure, but an agonizing pain, like being struck with a bolt of lightening. my expression, blank, a sub-zero exchange. my arms motionless, lankly resting to the sides, refusing to move, refusing to shove Kevin off me, letting him to pursue.

“hey,” he finally takes a break, dropping his grin.

“hi.” I whisper unmoved, my stare firm, undefeated.

“you’re beautiful.” like a scrape to my ears, a compliment, an attempt to retrieve any form of reaction. I give none. I am frozen. but, I know exactly what he wants. I know exactly what I must do to let this pass. giving into Kevin. giving into my hate. I force myself and elevate my head to oblige his moist mouth, ambling my fingers into his hair, tugging weakly and parting. giving my last remaining strength. my anger upsurges and I fall back to the cushion repulsed.

I could have so easily pushed him off me. I could have so easily started another argument. I could have waged another ‘no’. I could have told Kevin the truth how at times it’s so difficult for me to be intimate. how difficult it is for me to be free and open. yet, it was so natural for my brothers to talk about sexual encounters that they had with women with such frankness and vulgarity. I have never shared that equal appetite, not because they talked about women, but because of the voracity about the subject, as if it was a trophy, a collection of badges… and our father healthily laughed at the matter, encouraging such behaviour. a behaviour I didn’t want to partake in.

yet, here I am whispering with amalgamation of annoyance, resignation, and final ingredient, kindness, “thank you.” as if it is all relevant, yet I secure a forceful hold on Kevin’s wrist, ceasing his wandering hand, ceasing him.

he doesn’t fight me; although seemingly satisfied, his sudden and rigid roll from me tells a different story. “good night,” a frigid huff and Kevin shuffles off, disappearing into the corridor.

and that is how it ends. Kevin, angry. I, feeling guilty and humiliated. no one wins.

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© simon whittle — second act