Your light flashes green and I see white; I see the white of your skin almost translucent and the squeal of your flesh. I salivate and place my fingers on the keyboard.
“Hello.”, I type. Awaiting your response…
“Can I watch you for a while?” …still waiting.
While I wait I watch you in my mind, mixing the specificity of who you are in this moment with all the experiences that I have had of you before, all the desires, all the fantasies.
In my mind you are in the kitchen, your hair down and you are chewing on bread as you paint some yoghurt on the counter absentmindedly with a plastic brush. I watch the brush, it’s thick bristles bending under the pressure of your hand, delicate as it is. I imagine I am the counter, my body made of an immovable material, marble or stone, fixed in place with nowhere to go and no other option but to receive your caress; yoghurt painting my surfaces, cold on cold, soft on hard.
“Sure, I’ll call you, no sound though.”
I am brought back to my screen.
Answer call from ________.
I pick up and smile and turn my camera off.
You glimpse me briefly, your eyes catching mine through space and technology, sending a current through my spine just the same.
Your eyes linger teasingly on the camera, a gaze playful, desirous, coy; you blink twice, slowly and then turn away.
I have not always liked to watch, I like to watch you.
We decided to never hear each other’s voices from far away again, and so we play.
The furnishings of the room you are in are unfamiliar to me. The wallpaper is a purple/ maroon color with a pattern that surely comes from the 50’s and lacks elegance. There is a small desk and a carpet on the floor whose weight is tangible even in it’s two dimensional form. There is a christmas tree rug, a bonsai on the desk and a shelf full of books. The place is too full and strangely styled to be a hotel and yet I have the feeling no one lives there.
You sit on top of your background like a sticker. Unless I were witnessing it, as I see you now, I would never have imagined you in such a room. You are out of place clearly and I wonder how you got there, me peering through my screen into your habitat.
You walk away from the camera and sit down on the couch by the window. It is old brown leather and sighs as you sit on it lifting some dust to balance weightless in the air around your head. Now I can see all of you.
Your hair is tied back and you wear a flannel shirt and some pyjamas– they look soft I think, and as I think this. you drop your hand casually to your knee and pet the material gently.
Sometimes I forget how we got here.
I love to watch you, remembering and forgetting my gaze, caught up in the sensation and pleasure of existing; the way the body gets turned on by being watched, witnessed, watching, the three dimensionality barely containing the excitement of an aware surface of skin, a passage through the air.
You pick up a block of paper, the kind used for sticky notes and throw and catch it from hand to hand. The weight and rhythm of it as it falls begin to coincide with my breathing as it quickens, or vice versa.
Everything is connected.
I feel the spring in my own body as your muscles coil for a throw, your waking breath calm and clear as mine becomes shallow and heavy.
I am turning myself on, turned on by the perception of things. Fuck yes! This is where dances come from, from a body that loves itself enough to move, that lavishes in the layers of meaning, in the objects that are touched, in the way this wakefulness becomes only movement, an edible, indelible excitement for the sensation of being.
These are dances.
Later I will go watch the trees and they will turn me on too. What is more erotic than breathing in the wind?