It was dark. But then, It was always dark. That was how she liked it. I could have her body but never see her face. Touch, but don’t look. The laws of childhood inverted, did this mean that childhood was over? Certainly, these secret encounters were not children’s activities, not normal children’s activities, anyway. For one whose childhood was nothing more than an adult battleground, as mine was, children’s activities were a rare, bizarre and unsettling disruption of routine. So, what did this all mean? These illicit, frantic, entirely one-sided affairs? She’s using me, she’s doesn’t pretend otherwise. I tell her I don’t mind, and strangely I believe it, but some part of me protests against the darkness. Because when it’s light, she’s my friend, my equal. But when the lights go out, the clothes come off, I become her plaything, her sexual servant, servicing her needs, practising my technique and ignoring the names she calls out.
In the darkness, sightless, I must use other senses to guide me. She is an easy target; my hands draw out gasps, moans, even laughter. Her scent hangs in the air like a web, drawing me in. I plunge into her, overwhelmed by sensation, and I sometimes forget myself. I look for her, or grasp her hand as the tactile interchange takes over. She allows these slips until they begin to interfere with her pleasure. And when she’s done, she rolls over, naked, and falls asleep. I turn on the lights and realise I didn’t even take off my shoes.
Ruth
