Kissing Through a Pane of Glass (7 page)

When I entered Liana that first time, there was no resistance, no discomfort. It was almost as if our two bodies had been designed exclusively for this act, for each other. Liana raised her legs up, and I slipped into her so fully, so deeply, that my head swam. Every movement, every motion was charged with an intense determinism, as if there could be nothing else at that moment, no other way. I had never felt such pleasure - my whole body resonated with a deep, vibrant shudder. Liana let out a short, breathy gasp, dug her fingers into my backside, and tried to pull me in even further.

With each motion, to and fro, her gasps became louder, more urgent. She looked as if she were in some sort of possessed state, transported by the rapture. I thrust harder, fighting to hold back the climax that I knew was just moments away. Every sense became heightened; her odours overwhelmed me; her body seemed to glow with the molten heat of passion. She started to buck, her back arched - just as I had envisioned it that afternoon on the terrace overlooking the lake. She drew blood from my buttocks. She screamed my name.

When I came, a moment later, bright flashes of light erupted behind my eyelids; my body contracted in frenzied spasms, and my head felt like it might explode in a single, symphonic burst. Every nerve had been sensitised, and I could barely stand the intensity of the feelings. For a moment I thought I might pass out.

My God had kept his promise. I experienced euphoria - a sensation that I had not believed really existed - for the first time in my life. I burst into tears. Liana, her face flushed, her breathing heavy, whimpered like a child. We were saturated with sweat, exhausted beyond anything I had ever experienced. I could barely move; I felt empty, devoid of all energy and emotion. Everything that I was, everything that made me a person, an individual, a human being, had been channelled into a single act of lovemaking, and I almost wished that I might die, there and then, as I knew I had reached the pinnacle of human joy and pleasure, and that nothing could ever surpass it.

A moment later I realised that I was still crying and suddenly became worried that Liana might mistake my tears of joy for sadness. In an effort to assure her that everything was okay - and as I withdrew from her - I brought my hand close to her face, intending to stroke her cheek.

And that was when the bright shining beacon of my ecstasy was extinguished for ever like a spluttering candle flame in the rain. Liana saw my hand just inches from her cheek and flinched. Her expression turned to one of terror, a convulsion of fear and pain.

‘Don’t hit mel’ she screamed. ‘Please, Michael, don’t hit me!’

During the final chapters of my relationship with Joanne, when it came to making love, Jo expressed an increasing desire to be taken from behind. It was a position we both enjoyed, and I did not question either motive or reason. I found the sight of Jo’s rump, raised and inviting, extremely erotic. It was, in practical terms, a very comfortable position, as I could thrust more deeply into her this way. I never asked Jo why she found it so exciting; it didn’t seem to matter. Her response was sufficient testimony to her enjoyment.

Until one day, when it dawned on me that perhaps Jo enjoyed sex
a posteriori
because it meant that she didn’t have to see my face, she didn’t have to look at me. In other words, she could imagine that it was someone else making love to her, not me at all.

For a long time I dismissed these thoughts; Jo and I were in love, we were happy, we had a good, healthy sex life; why should she want to imagine someone else making love to her? After all, I never replaced Jo’s face or body with someone else’s, even when I closed my eyes. No, it could not be that. The reason for her enjoyment was simple; it was different, it made a change from the other positions.

But why was it so exciting for her?

Try as I might to ignore it, the thoughts began to play on my mind more and more. Jo was thinking of someone else; perhaps not a mythical figure at all, but someone she knew, someone from university. I found myself getting upset by this idea, then, slowly but surely, found distress turning to anger. If Jo suggested the “exciting” position (as she had begun to refer to it) when we went to bed, my hackles would rise. I would oblige, however, but my anger would manifest itself in the act of lovemaking. I would take her roughly, aggressively. I would thrust too hard, too fast, almost as if I wanted to hurt her.

At first Jo seemed oblivious to this anger. In fact, if anything, she seemed to find it even more exciting, further confirming my theory that, with me acting out of character, she could imagine even more clearly that someone else was making it with her. The vicious circle enlarged. I began to behave in odd, unpleasant ways. I would make love to Jo in this fashion and, holding back my own climax, wait until she approached orgasm, then distract her with petty, unpleasant moves. I would pull her hair, pinch her breasts, scratch her thighs. It was despicable, and I hated myself for it. But I could not help myself.

On the fourth occasion when I had used these distraction techniques, I went too far. Jo was just reaching her peak when I dug my nails into the insides of her thighs, and she cried out in pain, pulled herself away from me and started to cry.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she cried. ‘What have I done?’

Embarrassed, I feigned ignorance. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh Michael, don’t do this to me! Tell me what I’ve done! ’ She was sobbing pathetically, but still I held my ground.

‘Really, Jo, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You
hurt
me.’

I blushed. ‘Oh honey, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I lied. I should have been struck down.

I held out my hands to her. ‘Come here. Please, love, I m sorry. I must have got carried away. Here, let me kiss it better.’ Jo moved, reluctantly, towards me. I could see the blue-black bruises already forming, scored with red fingernail marks, the damning evidence of my cruelty. I felt sick.

I stroked her hair, I cuddled her and tried to comfort her. I apologised again and again. I promised her I would be more careful, that I would never do it again.

I kept my word. I never did hurt Jo again. We abandoned the position, and with it desire seemed to fade. Before long, all the pleasure and excitement had disappeared completely.

Two weeks later, we said goodbye for the final time.

Liana turned away, buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

Some people manage to live their entire lives secure in the knowledge that the world behaves in a certain prescribed fashion, that there are rules and regulations, that everything has a set pattern. These people may occasionally be surprised, but they are never shocked. Even when they see a news report that ten thousand people have been killed in an earthquake in some remote Latin American country, and they tut-tut and say, “Shocking”, even then they are not really shocked. They know about earthquakes, they know about Third World countries, they know that these things happen. They are not shocked; if anything, they are grateful, grateful that it didn’t happen here.

But that too is the way their world works; earthquakes happen in remote Latin American countries, not in downtown Surbiton or Purley. The sun rises in the east, leaves fall off the trees in autumn, the price of cigarettes always goes up after the Budget - this is their world - they have no concept of shock, knowledge of what it is like to have their world give up any pretence of familiarity; for the earth to give way beneath their feet, metaphorically or literally; for the rules to stop applying; they’ve never suffered emotional earthquakes.

Lucky bastards.

Liana was crying; not just crying, but sobbing, and I was scared. Not just scared; I was terrified. I did not know what to do. Suddenly I felt like a small, pathetic child; I wished there were someone I could turn to for advice. But there was no one. I was all alone, six thousand miles from home, in bed with a complete stranger, and I was completely helpless.

I had no idea what had brought on this outburst and even less idea of what I should do to console her. How she could have imagined that I might hit her was beyond me, but such was the fear in her eyes that I did not dare touch her lest she interpret this as a further threat.

I lay there for several minutes, totally baffled, motionless, whilst the beautiful creature who had been my path to ecstasy sobbed like a hurt child.

This wasn’t what I’d expected, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, this wasn’t in the rules. My heart was beating too fast, my palms were wet, my brow cold and clammy, my mouth dry; reactions that were not so dissimilar to the rush of lust I had experienced earlier that day when I had first laid eyes on her, only now these feelings were not of delight but of fear. My overriding response was that of an unhappy little boy; I didn’t want this, I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t...

I don’t know how much time passed before I eventually summoned up enough courage to whisper her name. It may have been minutes, it may have been as long as an hour. Either way she did not respond but her sobbing had abated, so very gently I placed my hand on her arm. She gave a small shudder but did not pull away. I left my hand there, applying only the merest hint of pressure, hoping this might comfort her. She said nothing; the occasional sniffs and swallowing noises were the only indications that she was awake, even alive.

What else could I do? I was still so scared; what if she suddenly became completely crazy, started flailing at me with fists, broken glass, anything she could get her hands on? You think I was over-reacting? Why? I didn’t know the first thing about her. The rules and regulations had been abandoned; I was floating, drifting. I was in shock.

For an hour we maintained this position, until I felt sure Liana was on the edge of sleep. I collected a sheet from the floor and pulled it up over us. Shortly, I could hear the deep regular breathing patterns of sleep.

I watched Liana the whole night. I did not move. I kept guard, a silent, lonely vigil. When night broke and the first light brought stirrings of life to the lake city, I was still awake. At about eight o’clock, Liana opened her eyes and yawned. She shifted around, looked into my eyes and smiled. She reached out to me and kissed me warmly on the lips.

‘Mmmm,’ she hummed. ‘What a wonderful way to greet the day.’ Her expression was untroubled, her demeanour calm. She snuggled up close to me, kissed my neck a few times, then found my hand and brought it between her thighs. The intimacy of the gesture and the moist warmth beneath my fingertips had me aroused in a moment. Liana stroked me and smiled.

‘Well well,” she said, the trace of a giggle in her voice. ‘And a very good morning to you, too.’

There was a gentle passion to our lovemaking that morning, a cooler fire, whose flames crackled and licked around us for several hours, during which time Liana showed not a hint of terror or fear, or gave any intimation of what had happened the previous night. She was, once again, the calm serene beauty who had walked into my life the previous day and set my whole world on fire. Once again I felt those strange, unique sensations. I gazed at her and every ounce of my being ached with desire. I dismissed the night’s outburst without further thought. It was nothing. I had to believe this. I responded to her as if nothing had happened, as if it had been a mirage, a dream, an episode from someone else’s life, not mine. Just a little misunderstanding; just a mistake.

By midday exhaustion had overtaken me, and I collapsed back on to the mattress, no longer able to fight sleep. I did not know it then, but I was in serious trouble. I had discovered, or so I believed, the true meaning of love. I was in love, hopelessly, helplessly, and it was the warmest, most exciting, most glorious of feelings. I had tasted freedom, and now I was king of the world, emperor of the cosmos. I had enticed, aroused, possessed the most beautiful woman in the world. She had wanted me, she had taken me, she had loved me. And I had been the first. There could not, I thought, be a happier being on earth. And this was only the beginning.

But it was not the beginning, at least, not the beginning of the brave new world that I imagined lay before me. It was already the end. I had, unwittingly, built a cage out of my desire, locked myself inside, and thrown away the key. I was trapped, restrained, a victim of my own passions, and I was too young to understand that I had just sentenced myself to a lifetime’s imprisonment.

Richard once gave me a lecture on the subject of love. His opinions were straightforward, unequivocal and concise.

‘There’s no such thing,’ said Richard.

Love was a construction, a mirage, a figment; it was a false emotion. Only people who were insecure, frightened of being alone, felt love. When people say to each other, “I love you”, all they’re saying is, “You take away my feelings of isolation, my aloneness, and that makes me feel safe”. It was all bullshit, said Richard. No one can take those feelings away, and to put that sort of responsibility on to someone else’s shoulders was not only foolish but dangerous. No one can make you feel safe, said Richard, it was all just an illusion. Face facts. You’re alone. No one can see inside your head, no one can see through your eyes, no one can share your thoughts. You are a self-contained, hermetically sealed package, and the best thing anyone can do is admit that to themselves and get on with living.