I'll be going home soon. It is late and I am tired.
Home, the word, has so many significances that it becomes tedious to disentangle, from the others, the one that is the most meaningful. Home is the place where a person lives – the physical structure. Home is where you have all your belongings, where there is comfort in familiarity. Home can also be another person – that one person and no one else who is there.
When I am away from home, I miss it. It beckons to me with the unencumbered openness of a friend; a place where I can cast off, like the city dust that settles on my overcoat, the stress and noise of the day, shed my suit, tie and severe public persona and just be me. I'll be there soon.
The structure of my home is nothing more of less than that of anyone else's. It is a peacefully situated condo, nearly paid for, in the suburbs of a large Canadian city. It faces east and catches the morning sun through floor to ceiling windows that span the entire living area and overlook a similarly broad balcony. Inside, it is spacious, having a front hallway that passes, in one direction, to the two bedrooms and one bath and, in the other direction, to the living room and kitchen. If I lived alone it would be too big but, in two, it is just right. We converted the second bedroom to a studio for both of us but we are more likely to be found, especially in the evenings, lounging, talking and listening to music in the large, open-design, living room. But my home is much more than just the way it was built – vertical white-washed, cement and plastered walls and stuccoed ceilings.
When we moved in together, still just dating but already certain of the course our lives would take together, we kept the decorating simple. That was seven years ago. Despite the fact that we both tend to collect eccentric, usually ethnic, decorative items, we have maintained the original concept of simplicity although, now, it is liberally spiced with intricately woven Bedouin cushions, Balinese masks, bright Thai wall hangings and the hypnotising geometric forms of Moroccan and Tunisian ceramics. We both enjoy the visual stimulation. We have our books which are always needing reorganisation in order to find sufficient space. Perhaps more shelves are required.
We have our own favourite things dispersed about the place. I have my electric guitar which I occasionally pick up and strum tunelessly when distracted or thoughtful, or slam out some some acoustic membrane shattering power chords when so driven by frustrations. She invariably escapes when I am so possessed, fleeing to the sanctuary of the studio at the far end of the apartment. She has her quieter and more feminine diversions; some long stocked plants that resemble palm trees that thrive with her attentions and her paintings, delicate floral, pastel creations that provide her a private inner peace.
She has become my home also. Hers is the scent which greets me when I enter and hers are the arms that welcome me. It is her voice, subtly accented from her childhood homeland, that lulls me. It is her body, a wisp of sinuous, female flesh which, curled against mine in the night, is comfort, security and a promise made of a life spent together.
I'll be going home soon. It's late and I am tired.
I'll be going home just as soon as I am finished in this other place, with another woman, younger, whose breasts are large and full under my hands, the nipples turgid against my palms. Another woman whose legs lock, animalistic, around my hips, forcing hers against mine and pulling me, engorged, deeper and driving me to near delirious heights of sexual passion. A woman whose mouth entrances me and makes my body hum with ecstatic tension. This is another type of home; our bodies locked together, rocking and straining, plunging and gasping for breath until release and collapse. I could find a home here with her, in her.
But it is late. My cell phone is buzzing again in the pocket of my trousers which lie crumpled on the floor. I'll be going home soon.
Soon.
thanks for visiting.
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