Hello dear friends, with this post, I'm starting a literary series called SHE & THE BLUES written by me based on real-life events.
This first chapter called” Naked Thoughts, Questions, and Answers”
encapsulates an intimate and complex encounter between two characters, Stan and Stella, in a dimly lit room soaked in the scent of cheap rum and the aftermath of a failed attempt at romance. The atmosphere is charged with tension and vulnerability as they navigate their desires and insecurities.
Naked Thoughts, Questions, and Answers
The small room was saturated with the scent of cheap rum. Dim light streamed in from the street lamp through the open balcony door. The ashtray on the table beside the bed was overflowing. Half-empty glasses, the flickering light of a candle, and the aromatic incense indicated a failed attempt at romance. Clothes were scattered on the chairs, and an empty bottle lay forgotten on the floor. The room resembled a ransacked storage or a wardrobe.
Stan rose from beneath the covers, reached out, and felt for his cigarettes.
"Now... what? Are you leaving..." A hesitant female voice echoed in the darkness, outlining a figure that shyly tried to cover herself with the short sheet up to her chin.
"No, Stella, I'm not leaving. At least not now..."
"And... will you stay the whole night?"
"Yes, don't you want me to?"
"I... she would want you to stay."
"Why do you keep referring to yourself in the third person again?" He lit a cigarette, offered it, then lit his own. "We talked about this... I can't understand it... if it's from shyness, from concern... but I'm not a stranger... we were just..."
"This... feels... I feel more confident... otherwise, I'm uncomfortable."
He took a slow drag from his cigarette and hugged her.
"There's no reason for you to feel uncertain."
Her shoulders shivered upon his touch, then relaxed. She took a drag from her cigarette and began:
"She..."
"No, not she - you!" He interrupted. "Talk about yourself only in the first person singular, please."
"I... can't right now... let me say it my way or let's not talk."
"Okay. Tell me about 'her'."
"She feels insecure around men. Maybe because her father left her mother when she was little. Maybe because she's been lied to a lot... and most men haven't been gentle with her."
"You, I repeat, you're a beautiful and smart woman, Stella. You're not small, don't behave like a child, don't be afraid of me. I'm not rough with women or men. I won't hurt you. And I'll stay; I enjoy being with you."
"Really?" She smiled.
"Really. Come on, put on some music. Your choice."
"'Wearing the Inside Out'?"
"Floyd? Awesome. Let's go."
She wrapped herself in a sheet, reached the record player, and turned it on. After a while, the melancholic Blues filled the room, carrying scents of autumn sadness, cigarettes, whisky, and eternity.
He sat on the bed, gesturing not to move.
"Now is the perfect, downright beautiful moment to forget your fears. I want you to remove that sheet."
"If you promise not to look at her..."
"I won't..."
"Pass me the cigarettes."
He put the lighter in the box and tossed it towards her, and she skillfully caught it in the air. Then she lit up, and as she took the first puff, the sheet fell. Her body briefly appeared white in the sparse light before she sat at the chair opposite the bed, crossing her legs. He smiled. He knew that standing naked in front of him was intolerable for her, but also knew deep down that she wanted it, needed a reason to decide to do it, and... yes, she had decided. A misplaced compliment now would ruin the magic of the moment, so he asked nonchalantly:
"Do you know who plays the sax in this piece? There's no saxophonist in the original Floyd, yet without it, the piece wouldn't be half as enchanting..."
"Richard Perry," she murmured amidst the smoke.
"Not sung by Gilmour, right?"
"No. Rick Wright."
"I like that you're a fan, that you genuinely like Pink Floyd. Once, when I was moving into my apartment, the landlady suspiciously looked at my guitar case and asked, 'Aren't you some Pink Floyd...'"
She smiled, her teeth shining. She was close to bursting into laughter. Stan didn't stop:
"I said, 'No, ma'am, neither am I Pink Floyd nor the other hooligan – The Beatles.'"
"Ha-ha," she couldn't contain herself.
"I only like Vladimir Semyonich Vysotsky..."
"You didn't lie about it, you like him... not just... and she's Russian, you've certainly impressed her by knowing Vysotsky's middle name..."
She behaved entirely freely, as if she forgot her nakedness. He rejoiced inwardly. He'd wanted her to relax for a long time, and for the first time, he succeeded. Even while making love before, she was constrained, passive, accepting, submissive, lacking passion. Stan didn't fancy such sex at all. But he really didn't want to offend her; on the contrary, he hoped to awaken some sensuality, some passion in her. He thought she would relax under the sheets, but only now did he see her relaxed – naked and smoking at the table opposite him. Maybe that's what was needed. To conduct a sort of interview or inquiry without clothes...
The track ended. She quickly stretched and placed the needle on another song. Apparently, she had her own playlist different from the album's sequence.
"What are we listening to?" he asked.
"'What Do You Want from Me.'"
"Is that its name? Or are you asking me?"
"Both."
"I want you to relax," suddenly he realized that through the song titles, she was telling him something, "I want you to forget your fears, look at me."
"...okay."
"Alright, I want HER to hear me."
She raised her head and looked at him through the smoke. She was unusually beautiful in this posture. She reminded him of a startled deer.
"I'll ask her questions, and I want her to answer briefly and honestly," his voice was low but commanding.
She nodded and shook her hair.
"What is she most afraid of?"
"That he'll leave her... like everyone."
"Everyone? Let her explain. Who was the first? She knows what I'm talking about. Who disappointed her first?"
"Ashot. The Armenian. She fell in love like a fool. He... deceived her."
"And she's sure?"
"She caught him. A classic scene. With her best friend. In bed."
"Ha-ha, I know him, he's not typically sleazy, I'm even sure he felt uncomfortable..."
"He even fainted."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. They both mocked him... she and the other."
"Horrible. Let's leave that. Tell me about your...er...her dreams"
"Now? Or in general?"
"Now."
"That he'll call her. Right now."
"Alright, Stella. I'm calling you."
"Not me - her, Stan, her..."
"Alright. Let her come."
She got up and approached the bed. Her hands gently made him lie down, and her thighs enveloped him.
"Now?"
"Now, let him light a cigarette, and let them smoke together while he's in her..."
Stan was already intrigued. He was firm from the moment the sheet fell, revealing her body in the semi-darkness. She seemed like a different woman, not the same one he had made love to just a while ago. He entered her very gently, and while inside her, he lit a cigarette, increased the pace. It had nothing in common with the missionary act before. She was entirely ignited, moving her hips toward him. There was no trace of her previous inhibition.
His hands were crossed, confident and calm. Hands that gave. Hers were behind her, white, delicate hands that could draw, caress, comfort. Equally calm and confident. No one was rushing. There was no reason to rush. They exchanged the cigarette and the lighter, and smoke spirals outlined passion, dispelling the specters of fear, the shadows of doubt, as their simultaneous explosion turned them into primal beings, banishing them from paradise, knowing God through the tremors of their bodies.
ENG OF CHAPTER 1
Songs mentioned in the text:
Wearing the inside out by Pink Floyd
What do you want from me by Pink Floyd
