Gallery Carre
Going Home
Mar 23rd, 2006 by Holiday
The train took an hour to reach King’s Cross station in London, yet those minutes passed at double speed. Adele waited for my arrival on platform seven, and I intercepted her as she cut through the scattering morning crowd at 8:30 a.m.
Adele was simply beautiful. I adored her … I loved her … and now: I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Standing in the midst of the train station, we were surrounded by thousands of people and yet we existed in beautiful isolation from the disordered pretense of society. We existed solely for each other, and this indulgence was wild and irrational and intoxicating and hedonistic and so perfectly natural to us … just us.
I had anticipated this first encounter with Adele for months, and there was not one second of disappointment; only elation and the affirmation that our connection was as genuine as everything borne out previously in 600-plus letters, countless text messages, untold MSN dialogues and regular phone calls.
We left the station and walked together along Euston Road, as naturally as any long-time couple. Our destination: a hotel north of Russell Square on the edge of Bloomsbury.
As we entered the immediate neighborhood, I knew I was going home because home would always be wherever Adele resided – no matter where, and no matter for how long.
I belonged with Adele … I belonged to her … I belonged inside her. It’s just the truth.
How long does 24 hours last? In pure sequence, one measurement is 1,440 minutes.
How big is a room? Relatively speaking, the physical dimensions are clear-cut: perhaps 9 ft. by 12 ft. – maybe larger, maybe smaller.
In a 24-hour period, I remained with Adele for days and for years. Everything counted, and everything had to count. When would I see her next … this exotic woman from the Middle East?
I would gladly see her every day for the rest of my life. If only …. if only circumstances permitted. And they very well may. I am a dreamer. I am an optimist. I am a romantic. I am so in love with this extraordinary woman that every thing else drops and fades to inconsequence.
In a modest hotel room, I remained with Adele in a world large enough to accommodate our passion and appetite for life. Everything counted, and everything had to count.
Do I need to be salacious and confirm that we fucked and fucked countless times in this room of intense desires?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I confess everything. I confess my love for Adele. I confess my lust. I confess my need. I confess the ease of stripping myself bare for Adele, and letting her see me: so ordinary in appearance and attributes, and letting her know my proclivities for sex with men, the fevered arousal of being cucked by her infidelities, my slight neurosis … all the secrets and fears and contradictions … just everything.
Yes, we fucked. Gloriously. With animal abandon. With gentleness. With love.
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