…Captured In A Touch
It should first be made clear that I am not now, nor have I ever been the type of shrinking violet who is easily flustered or knocked out of my own sense of personal balance by the advances of any interested suitor. That being said, this is the story of the one time I was.
Brock had been going through a fair amount of restlessness in recent months and had been feeling like he needed to be spiritually refreshed somehow, although I don't think he really knew exactly what it was he needed; but maybe more had a general idea that he would know it when it hit him. After participating in the Larkspur Renfaire, where he got an itch for the general vibe of the circuit, and moved on within the same state to Denver Renaissance, he hooked up with a games hawking company, and decided to go on the road, traveling with the group to their next stop at the Minnesota Festival. His parents tried to talk him out of it, sure that there was no legitimate reason for him to go searching for something intangible so far from home, and his commonlaw partner, Molli didn't really understand, either, but when he gets his mind made up that he needs something — and he most definitely did need something — there’s just no backing down from it for him, so he made arrangements,* and off he went.
*As to how all that came about, as it's a rather interesting story, and he's great at telling it, so I’ll leave that part to him for another time.
I can still recall our first encounter in vivid detail. It was opening day of my second year with the company, before I’d undeniably established my place as indispensible to the post that would later become my permanent home, and I was hawking a pirate dart booth with another gal who was handling the money and prizes... I have a preference for playing with actual people over cash and toys. She was young and cute and shy, which made her not nearly as intimidating as the boisterously brazen buxom broad cat-calling outfront to sailors and harlots alike, and I'd become accustomed to tolerating young men stopping to chat with her, occasionally reveling in the opportunity to poke at them and have my way with those few who were inclined to run scampering at a femme phenom who had enough presence of mind and command of language to do more than flutter her lashes and giggle girlishly, though I truly delighted more in the occasional residual schmooze with those precious few who didn’t. So, naturally when our station was approached mid-afternoon by this crazy looking dread-headed hippie with a porcupine quill in his nose and half-pair of glasses, I’m sure internally I must have been sporting the most mischievous grin while the impish red devil on my shoulder practically danced a right giddy jig, and I prepared to dole out a fair heaping helping of hardcore razzing. But, much to my surprise, the tattoo-covered misfit completely ignored my adolescent counterpart, and made a beeline straight for me.
He introduced himself as Brock, and said he too had been working with our head schmuck in Colorado, had just arrived in town, and would be starting here in MN the following day. He mentioned he would be looking forward to working with me. Why me, specifically, I had not the thought to wonder. We held each other's gaze for a few minutes, and chatted about a few other niceties I can barely remember now, as I was mostly just taken by his overall presence, and the conversation our eyes communicated to each other belied anything we were actually saying with words in our first polite chat. I’d never before been so caught up with such an overwhelming feeling that someone I’d just met was as familiar as a familiar, reuniting from a lifetime of intimate history from eons since before I was born. I don’t even believe in past lives. Yet, standing there for but the slightest fraction of an hour, barely a speck on the timeline of a life, I felt completely removed from that moment, as if the two people talking in that space were wholly comprised of only empty shells, mere puppets conversing in hollow vessels, while our very essences embraced elsewhere in some otherworldly place, both of us locked in a synchronized domestic tango through an endless aqueous expanse of the other’s eyes.
When he walked away, I found myself completely addled, and had to sit down to catch my breath.
The following day we worked in relatively close proximity to one another, in that he was nearby enough to periodically sashay through my general vicinity at odd intervals, managing to show off more than a few Capoeira moves throughout the day. I'd like to say I wasn't impressed by any actions a man would take to deliberately impress me, but what could I do to help it... that boy could move! Over the next few weeks, I maintained a relatively routine schedule of weekends out at Fest, working and meeting people, making new friends, getting better acquainted with the old ones, etc. Brock, I think, kept an eye out for opportunities to make conversation, and I enjoyed getting to know him in small doses here and there at before/after-workday meetings, during the occasional break, and sometimes, even, on moments he'd make special arrangements for, like the time or two he met me on the way to my car, and walked me all the way there, just to be in my company for that much longer.
I should insert here a bit about me, that I’m not generally one to get caught up in talk of metaphysics, mindreading, astrology or astral projections, tarot, runes, or other divination devices, nor “auras,” “majick” or other such non-standard ways of thinking in connection to concepts more theoretical in nature. I’m not even pagan. In fact, I don’t readily consider myself fully adopted to any specific religion or system of beliefs. But, neither do I disavow any, either, and, under a perfect storm of circumstances, I can at times be convinced to remain receptive to enduring the benign proselytism of more adamant believers. One naturally expects a fair amount of this in environments such as Renaissance Festivals, and either learns to smile and nod with patience and deference, or expects to be shunned as an ignorant misanthrope by the greater portion of one’s faire-residing community.
…So, of course, you can imagine my surprise when, on one routine morning that I found myself milling aimlessly in casual social interaction with my coworkers as we collectively awaited our morning sendoff, I more felt than heard my name being called, reverberating inside my own head, echoing louder than my own internal voice, bouncing around the walls of my conscious, like someone had rung a bell with it, shaking all my thoughts loose. Even more perplexing was the immediately apparent reality that no one I was in direct communion with just at that moment had obviously been speaking specifically to me. I imagine I was visibly rattled as I turned to search for what transcendental presence had managed to disturb my private mental wavelength on such a distinct and personal level. There was Brock, jaw dropped, eyes wide as a deer caught in headlights, too stunned to look sheepish, but obviously guilty.
“Did you call me???” I asked, more accusing then questioning.
“Um… sort of?” he answered, more like a question than an admission.
“Well… what??!” I demanded, flabberghasted, and a touch annoyed.
He fumbled for words, dumbfounded, seeming to look all around for something to latch onto.
“I… uh… wanted to tell you… Nice -- belt?”
He would later tell me that he’d been experimenting with communicating telepathically, and that he hadn’t actually spoken my name aloud at all, but had “directed” a message to me. I can’t speak to any truth in that matter… I only know how it felt, and that it goes down in my own historical records of as one of the more bizarre moments of personal exchanges I’d yet experienced in my (then) nearly three decades.
On the Sunday morning of the third in our seven-week stretch, the Labor day holiday, as it'd been damp the previous evening, and everything was still a bit wet, our boss told us the hawking award for the day ($10 cash) would be given out to the hawker who demonstrated "best use of mud." Lucky for everyone, it rained that afternoon. Brock was shirtless, and had covered himself from head to foot in earthen grime. He was fond of hawks that included calling himself a "dirty, dirty man." With arms outstretched, he'd swiftly approach a gleefully disgusted crowd of passersby with the comeon, "Play my game, or I'll HUG you!"
At one point, another couple of workers started mud wrestling, and Brock was only too happy to pitch in, offering a hug to the both of them, which he promptly converted to a capoeira move that knocked each of their feet out from under them, and brought them both down on their backs in a giant slovenly puddle. Drenched in gobs of slime and lost in laughter despite themselves, they declared him the last minute winner. As consolation to them for not having made himself quite nearly as encrusted, however, he righted the scales by doing a running belly flop headfirst into the same puddle, not thinking, of course, of the consequences that the rocky terrain might have on his Chihuahua-thin skin.
Stationed at a booth not far away, I'd watched his antics throughout most of that day. Afterward, my maternal instinct kicked in when I saw what he'd done to himself, all scraped up and bloody from his ill-conceived mudslide. I think I actually found myself cooing and clucking over his injuries like a mother hen. His only response to the unsolicited attention was simply to watch me and grin like a cheshire cat. I might even have blushed momentarily, but suddenly remembered myself.
Leaving that night, a little downhearted that it was the second day in a long weekend, and no one had asked me to participate in any nocturnal revelry, I said goodnight to a few coworkers as I headed for the gate to my car, and did get invited to hang out by a fellow from a neighboring collection of games. He had a few last minute closedown procedures to complete, to the tune of about 20 minutes or so, he said, and suggested I wait for him until then under the pavilion, where it was dry.
Which is where Brock found me.
He was on his way back down to the campground, soaked to the bone and shivering like a windup set of walking teeth. I was just sitting there, probably looking a lot like a loiterer, and he stopped to chat with me while I waited. Somehow he managed to mention that he needed a ride up to the holiday station for a shower, and of course I suggested I could take him, since I obviously wasn't doing anything else. I hollered to the guy that had me waiting that I would be running Brock on a quick errand, and would be back shortly (or so I thought!).
On the short trip there, Brock and I talked more personally than we had before, and wouldn't ya know, the subject of his comfort with nudity came up (don't ask me how... I didn't plan it that way!), and I confessed to my own sense of identification with more natural raiment as well. So it only seemed to make sense, then, when I found that there was a line for the shower that would put his turn about 30-45 minutes out, that I should have one too, as otherwise it would be almost two hours before I could get out of my own wet clothes, and into the dry set I just happened to have packed along with me. And, to save time and money, I was glad that he saw the logic in doubling up and sharing a shower with me. (Not to mention that, yes, I couldn't say I'd have been disappointed at the prospect of being able to appreciate the opportunity to be naked with him.)
I'll break in again here to admit that I love to flirt. I flirt with men, women, dogs, little old ladies and grandpas. And because I understand the joy of being flirtatious by nature, I never assume that anyone who flirts is necessarily intent on being taken seriously, or expecting the libidinous exchange to progress to anything beyond friendly coquettish, if lascivious banter. So anyone flirting with me automatically has a natural out, and no need to fear that I might become too forward, or presume too much. I take each moment in the moment, as it comes, and leave it there.
When it came to our turn, we'd only one sample sized slab of cheap motel body cleanser between us, and only room for one to stand under the water at a time, while the other waited on the sitting bench on the interior, which made for a convenient perch to watch, and I didn't mind at all letting him go first as I sat back and took him all in. Realizing that he'd missed a few spots, I volunteered to help him get the mudslicked areas he'd otherwise have a hard time reaching, and then, at his request, worked the tiny swatch of soap into his dreaded hair (this is apparently done best with soap), and gave him an overall scrubdown.
He was indeed, a dirty, dirty man.
For a moment, I was a little disappointed to realize that any supposed opportunity for romance I might have thought there could have been for the two of us was probably imagined on my part, as there was a decided lack of physical response on his part to my contact with his body. But then, in a twist of turnabout, though I hardly needed it, with what little soap was left – scarce more than a shred of ivory in the palm – he returned the favor for me (sans soap in the hair, of course), in idle, lingering fashion, in ernest and with reverence, tenderly caressing his gentle stroke over every morsel of my flesh — even those I had no trouble connecting with on my own — until the water ran tepid, even cold, as I shivered in the chill, and he vigorously rubbed my skin warm from crown to tail, and tail to toe. I tried not to forget myself, but it was all I could do not to moan softly.
Although I was polite enough to not make a point of it then, I was glad to note that it was obvious that putting himself in a position of service to me had made quite a favorable impression on him — even more so than my utilitarian touch — but waited until we were both getting dressed to say so. He merely beamed back that brilliant grin I'd come to know so well.
While helping him pack up his wet clothes, I volunteered to take them home to wash and bring back dry for him to wear the next day. He was all too happy to take me up on the offer, and went so far as to inquire if it would be possible for him to come along with his clothes, just for the evening. That's when I found out that Brock didn't actually have a place to stay on the weekends, only during the week, when he slept in a tent belonging to a weekender (local faire participant who only camps out on weekends).
I was more than happy to oblige, but explained that I didn't have an extra bed, although I didn't mind giving up some space in my queen, if he didn't mind sharing. He agreed, and we headed out.
Arriving at home, I spent the evening getting to know him much more personally, learning about his relationships in Colorado, about Molli & his daughter, Cassidy, his love of tarot reading, and his concepts of spirituality. I was surprised at how much we shared in common, considering there was so much we didn't. He gave me a tarot reading, and while I didn't normally put much stock in such augury, the connections he made to the cards and to me seemed to mirror our connection to each other: passionate and deep, neither easily explained, nor understood, but impossible to discount. Before either of us had realized it, the better portion of the night had flown past us, and it was 6am, without so much as a thought from either of us about sleep.
When we got ready to go to bed, more out of a sense of necessity than actual need, I assumed by his comfort with nudity that he wouldn't mind if I slept in the nude, as I always do, and indeed, he didn't, even thought it seemed like a good idea for himself.
We got to know each quite a bit better from there.
Of course, I knew going to bed in the nude with a strange and beautiful man that I naturally invited a more carnal interaction, but I was as open to the possibility as I was to simply sharing a space to sleep with another weary traveler. When it was apparent, though, after a few moments of quietly listening to one another breathe that neither of us was yet the least bit tired, he offered to soothe my stiff and aching muscles with slow and tender kneading. He climbed over my back and sat up onto his knees, perched gently on my haunches, and stroked long and strong fingers into my shoulders, and up and down my spine. I could feel his dreadlocks dragging a ticklish sensation across my skin from the nape of my neck to the small of my back with every forward motion of his lean, sinewed arms. I could feel his confidence growing as it pressed against me.
He laid his body prone with mine, raising my arms over my head and delicately feathering his nails over me from my fingertips to my breasts, leaning over to breathe warmth onto my neck and shoulders, pausing to nibble my ear. I turned my face toward him, and he trailed his lips to mine; cautiously chewed silently on my bottom lip. I gasped. He drew back for an instant, and I rolled over. He devoured me in a kiss, and I responded in shocked desperation, as if each of us could pass into the other through the gateway of our desire. But he pulled his lips from mine, and ran them meticulously over all of me, as if he were once again cleansing every aspect of my essence. His warm breath and dewed caress sojourned at the foundation of my nature, as if his thirst could never be assuaged; silently he plundered my feminine nexus with every contortion, his gaze never leaving my awed attention, rapidly becoming more epicene with every passing inhalation. I could do nothing more than to whimper to breathe, and to want him; to need him. When he he sensed I could take no more, he came to me, and became a part of me.
If I live to be a hundred, I may never be able to accurately describe what happened in that instant. Every moment we'd shared in my home up until then, while special, was not extraordinary beyond compare, until right then. As he entwined with me, it was not his body connecting to mine, but our very core was linking into one another. All of reality evaporated in a flash, and we floated noncorporeal in the center of the universe, surrounded by millions of heavenly bodies, fireworks of solar flares in the kaleidoscope of a prysmic tinted nebula, tangled in the nucleus of each other's spirit, serenaded by a chorus of a hundred thousand voices singing praises to our union, chanting a chronicle stretching across antiquity, exalting our prodigal return to one another.
It shocked the shit out of both of us.
I nearly screamed, he jerked. We both gaped at one another in awe, barely able to breathe, shaking and unsure of our surroundings. When we each found a voice, almost in unison, we each asked the other...
"Did you just see that???" in uncertainty and confusion.
I shook the cobwebs out of my head, pulled him to me, and whispered,
"Make love to me."
This is not something I would normally ever say to a man I barely know, nor even, often, to one I was more significantly involved with, and, yet, given the setting, it was the most honest declaration I'd yet made.
And he did.
We both collapsed, exhausted, hours later, in fatigue, and woke at mid morning, feeling practically hungover, and very late to our daily craft. Too rushed to hardly speak, we hastened out the door, and only on the journey down, did we realize in barely spoken whispers we'd experienced the same vision, even sustained the same lucid dream while we slept conjoined.
In the decade since, Brock and I maintained an ongoing relationship that sparked in torrid flames throughout the weeks he visited my state's seasonal medieval celebration, always with heavy passion and strong emotion, though we never recaptured the same intensity of that first most intimate contact. But as his travels on the national circuit widened, his stopovers became fewer and farther between. I visited him in his home environment with Molli and Cassidy for a few weeks that first year, but his home became more transient as time went on. Eventually, the distance between us covered more than miles, as the hardships of the road wore more heavily on him with the passage of his years as a renaissance vagabond. By the last time we'd met, he'd become someone I barely recognized, who no longer shared similar values or principles, and we could no longer relate to one another or connect personally.
I don't mourn the passing of what we had. It was a moment, and moments will always pass fleeting throughout our lives; some will set down roots and dig in deep, laying a nest of future moments, conceived in hope, fertilized in alliance, harvested in time. But ours was not such an expectant moment. It was a glimmer of sunlight on the shimmer of a passing river, traveling towards destiny.
But I will treasure our moment to my final breath, celebrating the substance of a miracle made from an electric love.
We shared a glimpse into eternity, written on the stars, that will endure until the end of time.
LJ Idol | Season 8 • Week 14 - Topic: TWITTERPATED
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