Caring?

«Caring?»—he replied, confused. It wasn’t a word most people used to describe him.
«Yes. Caring and loving,» said the man, legs wide open as he pushed himself in.

«All those other guys—they never hold me like you do. You embrace me with both arms and caress me delicately, your hands moving slowly through my neck and hair.» The gorgeous man on top of him was too beautiful to believe this was really happening.

That was the moment he realized he wasn’t really looking for sex. No foreplay, no position, no thick or thin lips, no long, wide, short, or curved dick could satisfy his longing.

This thirst wasn’t carnal. It couldn’t be silenced by the scandalous moans of countless men. The ache came from within his core. Sex was inadequate to do the job—a pleasurable placebo, barely pacifying a quarter of the deepest longing.

Connection. The word blossomed in his mind while he lay there, naked and sticky.

He had been searching for connection all along, wandering through the foggy halls of hedonism. He had devalued his body as currency, hoping to find that one pair of eyes that could look straight into his and recognize his soul. He had been looking in all the wrong places, in all the wrong ways. But now he knew what he was after.

«You see—you’re kissing me while exploring my face with eyes wide open, slowly tracing your finger from my left eyebrow to my temple. You’re sweet,» mumbled the man without stopping.

They finished, neither truly fulfilled. «Give me your number. I want to meet again,» said the man. They exchanged numbers while dressing, then opened the door and stepped back into a screaming world.

The sun was out now. Few pedestrians knew that the building they had just passed held the breath of hundreds of bare souls gathered in darkness, only illuminated by flickering red and green lights. Have you ever smoked a damp joint? The smoke made up of all sorts of body fluids.

All that ache for love, for touch—encapsulated within those steamy walls. Outside, the streets were silent, calm, detached from the wildness of liberated souls running desperately free, as if chasing true freedom.

He walked home the only way he knew how: shamefully. He smelled of sin. When the cold morning breeze stroked his hair, the fragrance of cheap shampoo filled his nostrils—and yes, he knew, he had sinned.

If his family only knew, they would be so incredibly disappointed, he thought. But they wouldn’t understand, would they? They wouldn’t know that God had challenged him in the turbid waters of a jacuzzi. They wouldn’t know he had asked God to end him right there and then. The shame.

I must make amends with my sex, the thought corralled his mind on the way home.

At his apartment, he was anxious—and would be for months. It was 7:00 a.m.; the city still slept, though not the birds nor the sun. He hid beneath his silky bedsheets and, for a moment, he felt safe. For a moment, he believed no consequences would follow him. For a moment, he wished he had a normal relationship with his nature.

He fell asleep and, deep inside, that morning at least, he was okay with the idea of not waking up.

A few days later, he texted the man who had called him caring and sweet. He waited for a reply—minutes, hours, days, weeks. On WhatsApp, the man was online—but never to him.

Connection, he remembered the word, and thought, silly me.