Page 15 of Searching for Hope

I’ve developed my own version of his life, imagining what he does in the time he spends away. I imagine he doesn’t have many friends, that maybe there’s something strange about him, the way he looks, the way he acts that people misunderstand. Something that keeps him from forming friendships and stopped his family from loving him. I know his family have hurt him from the way his voice changes when I ask about them. It turns bitter and cold. As though he truly despises them at the same time as loving them deeply.

He only visits during the day occasionally, so I assume he’s got a job. Something to do with computers maybe, or money. Something that involves sitting down without much manual labor. Something indoors. His hands are much too soft for it to be anything else. But now, as I explore the shapes and contours of him, there’s a strength to his frame I hadn’t expected. He’s tight and taut.

In my version of his life, he doesn’t have a wife or a lover. Nor does he have any children. He’s too young. He talks to me about books and movies, often bringing his favorites for me to indulge in too. I read aloud for him, or we watch a movie on the small screen he brought down to surprise me one day.

I’d cried and threw my hands around his neck. It was only after he left that I felt pathetic for the gratitude I showed him. The screen doesn’t show any television stations, but he brings me movies that I watch over and over again until I know the words by heart.

As my hands travel down his torso, he sucks his tummy in and puffs out his chest, pulling himself straight. It’s only when my hand brushes over the flesh of his thigh, I realize he’s naked.

I snap my hand away.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

But there’s something erotic about this situation that hasn’t been here before. Other times I’ve touched him, I’ve told myself it’s to earn something, something I want. It’s an exchange and nothing more. But this time it’s different.

In order for me to get the little cooker, I slid my hand down his pants and wrapped it around his hardness. He’d leaned against me, head on my shoulder as I worked him up and down until he grunted and groaned and my hand became covered in his sticky mess.

In exchange for the pack of cards, he’d asked me to bare my chest to him. He never forces. Never insists. Just gives me the option of obeying him in return for something I want. But at the same time, there’s guilt in his eyes when he asks it of me. As if his own actions disgust him.

I’d sat on the bed as he stood over me and lifted my t-shirt, slowly drawing it over my head. It was his own hand that he touched himself with that time. Still hidden in the confines of his pants, he’d worked himself furiously, once again grunting when it came time for his release. Then he’d turned and left without a word, shame and regret stooping his posture.

This time he hasn’t made a bargain with me and yet I didn’t question it when he placed my hands on his shoulders. It’s like the darkness has blanketed us, hiding our true selves and allowing us to unravel parts of ourselves we’d kept hidden.

I rest my hand on his thigh. He’s sitting in the same position as I am. Cross-legged on the bed. We are facing each other, only the bend of knees touching. Removing one of his hands from my shoulder, he lifts my hand and places it over his heart. I feel the racing beat of it pulse under my touch. He trembles and pushes the palm of my hand harder into his chest, as though he wants me to be able to reach in and tear his heart out.

“Can I touch you?” His voice is desperate and torn. His remaining hand trembles on my shoulder.

I swallow, not wanting to say the word about to come out of my mouth at the same time as being desperate to say it. “Yes.”

There’s a shudder of breath before his hands drop away. I keep mine pressed against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart increase.

“Take off your clothes.” It’s said as an order rather than a request. The first time I’ve heard any authority in his voice even though it shakes.

I remove my clothing, pulling my t-shirt over my head and peeling my underwear down my legs. The darkness allows me to pretend. Pretend I’m not a prisoner. Pretend he’s not my captor. Pretend this is my choice, that it’s what I want. Nestling myself back on the bed opposite him, again nothing touches but our knees.

My body tingles in anticipation. It feels as though every part of me is on fire, just waiting for the extinguishing comfort of him. It’s mixed with guilt. Guilt that I want this. Guilt that I’m allowing this man, whoever he is, a little part of me. It’s not as though he’s demanding it. It’s not as though he’s taking it against my will. He asked. And I said yes.

But as soon as he touches me, those thoughts flee my mind. His finger brushes over my left nipple. It’s a gentle touch, a soft touch, and it sends a shudder of desire to my core. A tear slips down my cheek as he caresses my breast, holding the weight in his hand.

It must fall onto him because he says, “Are you crying?” And his hand moves away. “Am I hurting you?”

Reaching out, I fumble in the dark, searching for his hand. When I finally grasp it, I pull it back to my breast. “Please don’t stop.” The words disgust me as they leave my mouth and more tears fall.

He groans as I encourage him to massage my flesh, keeping my hand over his as his fingers poke and prod. He rolls my nipple between his finger and his thumb and the sensations that crash through me cause my tears to fall even harder.

They are tears of sadness and they are tears of joy.

They are tears of confusion and tears of clarity.

Tears of aching loneliness.

Tears because my heart is soaring even as it’s being ripped to shreds.

“Hope,” he breathes my name again as his exploration of my body becomes more fervent. He’s pushing me back on the bed now, his body clambering over mine.

The tears are falling freely now, but they’re silent and he can’t see them. He doesn’t know the torment going on inside me. The twisted emotions, the confusion, the guilt, the fear, the longing.

“Please,” is the only word I manage. There’s no qualifying its meaning, whether it’s, please stop, or please don’t stop. It’s a request, but even I don’t know what for.

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