It had been raining all day, and we—two stray, bedraggled animals—had been wandering through the city for hours, through the waterlogged streets, past cars and people drained by a spring that refused to begin. March in Bucharest is like that—a month that should be put in parentheses, like the 13th floor in an office building.
We moved through the streets without speaking, without touching, with that dull, smoldering anger of people who should have fought but had no strength left. No "let’s talk," no "where do we go?" Just rain, silence, and that dirty electricity that builds up between two people when they both know exactly what’s coming.
She stopped first. Turned to me, her eyes heavy, sharp. Women, in moments like these, bite their lower lip—a final, silent signal of surrender. She just looked at me.
— What do we do?
I didn’t answer. She didn’t wait. She pressed against me, docile, calm, resigned. I felt her cold skin and her warm breath. Peace. War. Same thing. Then she took my hand and pushed it between her thighs. Through the soaked dress, through the nothing that still separated us. Hot and pulsing under my fingers. From that moment on, I was no longer human. Just something that took in air and wanted her.
No prelude, no flirting, no tenderness. Just need.
I pushed her into an alleyway, she leaned back against the wall, arched her spine. Her wet hair stuck to her face, her neck. She grabbed my shirt, yanked harder when I bit her cheek like a man possessed. She laughed, quick and sharp, because she liked feeling me desperate and unsure. A filthy game. No winners. Two animals tearing each other apart until there’s nothing left. She dug her nails into my neck and looked up at me, sharp, as if in that moment she was birthing me all over again, sculpting me into something else.
— Come on. Make me feel something.
No tenderness, just fists full of flesh and stolen breaths. I lifted her against the wall, buried my mouth in her throat, bit down—she moaned. Was it pain? Was it pleasure? Her body trembled in my hands, tightened, opened, clawed, pushed, fought, begged.
— Yeah. Like that.
Her sounds came out in ragged gasps, like broken prayers. She arched her back, twisted her fists in my hair, dug her knees into my hips, like she wanted to crush me inside her, to shatter me, to consume me whole.
It was dirty. It was holy. It was flesh, and it was God.
And me? I was nothing. Just a man burning up with fever, a body lost inside another body, a lightning strike hitting a sleepless, rain-soaked city. And when she tensed, when she threw her head back with a sound that wasn’t even human anymore—something primal, something from another world—I knew, in that moment, that we were both orphans of ourselves.
She stayed against the wall for a few seconds, like she was remembering how to breathe. Then she lifted my chin with her finger and whispered, hoarse, almost gentle:
— You’re gonna remember this night.
And I knew I would.
Like a wound. Like a hunger that never fades. Like a ghost that will haunt me until I die.
2. The Accidental Spectator
It had been a bad night. The kind of night that makes you want to throw yourself into a cab, crawl into bed with your makeup still on, and swear you’ll never expect anything ever again. Because hope is a luxury for other people. Not for you. Not after you sat there like an idiot in a bar, with your gin melting between your fingers, while the man who seemed to want something from you didn’t even bother to show up.
You walk through the streets without seeing them, your feet numb, your dress too thin for March and its damp chill—and then you see them.
You don’t want to see them, but you do. There, in that narrow alleyway. Not a place where people hide so they won’t be seen—but because they don’t have the time to get anywhere else.
And then you understand. Oh God, you understand.
That woman—she’s not prettier than you. Not more attractive. Not anything you couldn’t have been yourself. But she knows something you don’t. Something you haven’t lived. Something you never dared. And you look at her, and you wonder—could that have been you? Could you have ever been the one throwing her head back and moaning without shame? And you don’t know. You have no way of knowing. But something inside you says no. That you never were. That you were always afraid. That you’re still afraid now.
And yet—yet, your hand has already moved. Clenched against the wall. Holding you in place. And between your thighs, something you can’t name. Something you’re not allowed to name.
You should leave. You have to leave.
But you don’t.
3. The Late Lover
Not my fault. Oh no, not my fault. But what does it matter?
Took a right turn too late, some idiot slammed the brakes in front of me. Accident. Nothing serious. A scratch on my brow, blood on my coat, pulse a little too fast, but still alive.
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I looked in the mirror. Not exactly a great look—more "I just crawled out of a car wreck" than "Come home with me tonight." But fuck it, I was going.
I ran to the bar. Not there.
The waiter looked at me with disdain. That kind of disdain only a waiter can give you when you’ve left a woman to drink alone.
— She waited a bit, then left, he shrugged. You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.
I went after her. No plan. Just moving forward—sometimes the only way left to think.
And then I heard them.
A sharp, almost animal movement in the alley. The sound of flesh on flesh, fabric shoved aside, breath stolen.
I inhaled.
Shouldn’t have looked.
But I did.
Him. Her. The wall.
A dress hitched over her hips, a mouth open wide, a rhythm that couldn’t be mistaken.
I should have left.
But then I saw her. Not the woman in his arms.
The other one.
Mine.
Standing there, just a few steps away, caught between light and shadow. Bare shoulders, her expensive perfume lost in the thick rain-drenched air. One hand wrapped around her own arm, the posture of a woman who might have seemed defensive—if I hadn’t seen her eyes.
And I didn’t leave.
I stood there, letting the rain pour over me, wash away all the bullshit of the night—all the failed plans, all the desires I couldn’t even understand.
And maybe—just maybe—the hardest fucking erection of my life.
Fuck me.
The End
Ai citit Rosarium, mulțumesc! Ești deja un om mai bun. Postarea e publică, dă-o mai departe, nu ține plăcerea doar pentru tine.
