We’ve been texting for a while.
There’s a spark.
A spark that feels like the chemical light of fireflies.
Sharp intellect, elaborate language, two trenchant minds penetrating each other - but no warmth.
He’s well traveled, well educated, well articulated, well accomplished.
„I left home. Will be at your place in 20 minutes“, he writes.
I arrange Prosecco, berries, figs and pears.
Everything’s perfect.
We meet at the Lobby.
He’s looking good.
Too good perhaps.
He brings croissants. Two plain ones, two with chocolate.
Perfect, just like his haircut, his fingernails, his shoes, his shirt.
He disappears in the bathroom and washes his hands for at least two minutes before we share breakfast. I wonder if he’s silently singing „Happy Birthday“ like the old misanthrop in Woody Allen’s film „Whatever works“, to make sure he’s washing them long enough.
We talk for an hour, then fuck for three.
„I don’t even know your real name“, I say.
He laughs.
Authentically, yet controlled.
„Clément“, he says. „My name is Clément.“
Of course.
The perfect name.
He’s fucking me fast, diligently, confident, proud.
He controls my pleasure skillfully, like a well-trained craft.
„Four condoms on one morning“, he says with a smug smile before he’s taking a long shower and heads to his office. „That’s high score.“
„I thought this was your everyday business“, I reply.
I take a shower, too.
Then I walk to my nearby coffeeshop popup-office.
I take a moment to check in.
My cunt is well fucked.
My brain is amused.
My heart is indifferent.
My soul is untouched.
"Look how shameless I've become", I think and feel my sternum lifting. "I know what I want and how to get it. Then I go back to work. No romanticizing needed."
But wait.
Wait.
Where's that sadness coming from?
That subliminal tightness beneath that pride?
Beneath that pride, beneath that lifted chest, there's a little girl living in a tender heart.
A little girl that wants to be caressed and adored and smiled at - and, ultimately, to be seen.
"Don't be childish", my inner poly ninja says. "This ist not about love or romance. This is about pleasure with no strings attached."
But then, perhaps, that’s how fireflies make love.
Nothing wrong with that.
Unless you are a human.
