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Mons buy Ecstasy

We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use. I have no clear idea how this happened. Something about a friend of a friend. Something about a party. This was a terrifically inaccurate notion, but flattering, and certainly worth preserving. We must have gone to classes, though I remember now only the classrooms: yellow, wooden desked, and faintly diseased, suggesting privation, the loss to be swallowed on the path to wisdom. Wisdom was something we desperately wanted, from books and lectures and so forth. It sounded sexy and protective. We had, in other words, an authentic thirst for wisdom, but it had occurred to none of us that the acquisition of wisdom might entail loss. The real business of those years was experience: dawn confessionals and inside jokes, bouts of incompetent hedonism chased by flamboyant displays of empathy for the have-nots whoever they were. What were we hoping for? An end to the lacerations of self, I guess. An alleviation of guilt. A single moment of emotional extravagance that would allow us to believe, wholeheartedly, in our youth. It really happened only once, on the day we took Ecstasy, which was a new drug then, though old to the therapists. The blondes appeared at my door. They were smiling, all three of them in loose dresses, the tops of their breasts purring with sun. The other guys on the hall hung from their doorways, cursing me softly. Then a fourth woman appeared, and the blondes began singing. She was pushed forward, a figure as dark as me and nearly as tall, elegantly slanted, and smiling, but quizzically, as if she had walked into the wrong wedding reception. I looked at Solange, trying to look away at the same time. I was desperate in that moment not to fall in love with her; with the way she looked, her cheeks and heavy lips, her sloping hips, her feet — my God, her feet! With some awareness of how much I loved her, of how happy I would be to wake up beside her every morning for the rest of my life, both of us naked and smelling of sleep — with all this, I set out not to love her. The day was aimless beauty, the hill green and moist from the first rains, wisps of cloud above and softball players threading the fields below. We lay on the grass, touching at the edges. Dana ran her hands through my hair, which curled down my back in those days. Then the three of them smothered me in kisses. This was something they did from time to time. My role was to behave like a knickered lad beset by bosomy aunts. During the day, the blondes were mine. On this day, the day we took Ecstasy, I was fresh off a breakup with a girl named Temple: pale, blue-eyed Temple, pretty in a fragile way and scared to death of herself. Our last night together, she had shed her turtleneck and — in an approximation of passion much closer to rage — yanked up her bra, cinching the flesh around her ribs, a wire-rimmed cup cantilevered under her chin like a spittoon. Truth was, I was nothing much to look at. My nose was pretty solid, and I had the hair going for me. But my teeth were oversized and, no matter how much I brushed, slightly yellowed. Tiny blackheads pebbled the skin around my nostrils. According to the dermatologist, my pores were too large. None of this was about to matter, though. The blondes were still kissing me, laying their pretty heads on my chest and chattering. Without my quite noticing the change, I no longer felt I had to put one over on anyone to be liked. Maddie turned her face to mine and stroked my shoulder. That appreciation. The way you move, you know? That grace you have, the way you scissor along. The way you move — God, how delicious. Your ass does this thing. Maddie giggled and flopped, and Kath squirmed down her body and cupped a cheek in one hand, and I cupped the other, and we took the flesh into our mouths and pretended to bite her tush while Maddie, far away up her spine, shrieked happily. She looked like Claudette Colbert, impish and knowing. She kissed my forehead. Her lips smelled of grass. Then there was another laugh, a contralto, and Solange pushed her head around my shoulder until we were cheek to cheek, her smoothness making me wish I had shaved, though also making me feel rough-hewn and slightly dangerous. She turned to me, and her lips hung there an inch from mine, plump and arrowed. She had chocolate on her breath. It would be impossible — and sad, finally — to revive the entirety of that afternoon. We sat around the way people on Ecstasy do, in a kind of tantric spell, melting onto our tongues squares of Lindt chocolate, gulping ice water from a pitcher and talking about the experience of the chocolate and the water, scratching backs and massaging shoulders and praising each other ardently, without hesitation or guilt, a satisfaction of the harrowing needs toward which our bodies lunged. And Solange. I lingered over the word, let the syllables hum in my chest. She looked like her name: French and elegant, a long nose, snaggled teeth, green eyes flecked with hazel. And when she spoke, one sensed the sweet insecurity caused by her teeth, which made her smile feel like something bestowed. Her father had died when she was six, and her mother, though kind, had clearly been overmatched by the duties of love. Everything Solange said sounded a little lonely, a little hopeful. All afternoon, the blondes had been calling out to passing friends for refills of water, vamping like Blanche DuBois and Mae West. But now the afternoon was dimming, the light penumbral, and everyone was gone to dinner. Those words actually came from her mouth; they were not something I imagined, though they had the ring of fantasy, as did the vision of her falling down the hill toward me, a young woman torn from the pages of Victor Hugo, hair carried up by the breeze, her brown neck tilted, her hips wrapped in a red skirt. And her hand reaching for mine, shyly but without hesitation. Clark dorm was an old brick monstrosity where the frosh were packed onto damp hallways. We wandered in through the basement, where the laundry machines were, and dropped onto a sofa. Light poured through the window in front of us, turning everything golden; the shadows danced in sinuous rows, like Bedouins. We gasped, in unison, at the dusk. But not in the Hollywood sense, all that manipulating the past for sentimental effect. More like remembering things as they were, another time. We were sitting side by side, our legs laced, the ticklish flesh of our feet brushing down below. I breathed in the smell of pink detergent. The dryers softly droned. I watched Solange in profile, the way the tip of her nose dipped when she spoke:. This lake we used to go to with my dad. Being a little kid running around naked. And I used to sneak into his study and sniff the lining, just to smell him. She frowned, as if I might be giving her too much credit. She says my father hated the beach: all that sand and salt. She says I must be thinking about going to the Long Island Sound with my stepdad. I had the feeling she was going to lower her head onto my shoulder; the wish that she would. My mom gets mad when I bring it up. I put my hand on the nape of her neck, and my fingers made circles on her skin, which was dusted with salt. She hummed a pleased hum and let her head droop, hair falling across her shoulders. Outside, the copper sun was dipping behind the hill. I could smell both of us, ripe from our day in the heat. So brisk. I love her. The drug had simply wiped away the inhibitions, the fears that normally curb our tremendous natural affections. We were just who we were: two young people yearning after possibility. Or me in his lap at the lake. That feels good. I could feel the cords of her neck under my fingers. The room was darkening, the laundry smell rippling against our own sweet reek. Her right leg rested atop my left, her skirt rolled up and her kneecaps shining like plums. She lifted her head and looked at me. My hand fell down her back, landing on the swell of her bottom. We leaned forward, and our chests pressed against each other, just our chests — her breasts, my boyish muscles, each of us licking our lips, looking at the other, the miracle of mouths and eyes. Mom teaches special ed. My older sister is in divinity school. Good people. Good suburban people. Everybody kind of does their own thing. I thought for a minute. I must have been eight or nine. My parents were at some conference that weekend. And all I kept thinking was how much I missed being at my house, with my family, you know? I had this mental picture of all of us sitting in the living room, real cozy, reading or playing a game, whatever. But the crazy thing was, we never did that kind of thing. The whole parlor scene. My folks were tired all the time. My sister was always off with her friends. It was just some idea I had of the way things could have been. And it was. It was. Maybe I just needed too much. Solange lifted her leg off my thigh and swung herself around. Then she brought her hand to my cheek and moved her face in front of mine. I leaned forward too quickly, and we bumped foreheads, a dull little pop that made us both giggle. She ran her fingers through her bangs and took a deep breath. I lay down, my head cradled beneath her belly. I could feel the swell of her mons pubis against my cheek, and I caught a musky smell: amaretto, her body lotion, her body. She told me she wanted to raise her kids in the country, that her dream house was all mapped out: a renovated old barn with exposed beams and a mud room and a potbellied stove and the master bedroom in the grain loft. We agreed on everything, even the small hardships of the place: snowdrifts and muddy roads. But my longing was not just for her; it was for the story she told and my place in that story. Solange was not a simple woman. She was deep and troubled, and she needed me. And I needed her. That was my idea of love: two people who fix one another. The light had nearly fallen away. I began playing with her knees, testing her reflexes with the side of my hand. She kicked her foot out. The pitcher tumbled. Up we leapt, taking the stairs two at a time, holding hands, like characters in a bad musical. We collapsed against one another and kissed deeply, our mouths open. I ran my tongue along the silk of her gums. Her neck was warm and salty. A clamoring group of frosh appeared at the end of the hall, back from dinner. I was ready to wait ten years, twenty. We were worried that the blondes might have gone to eat. Someone had brought them a blanket, and someone else a bowl of fruit. Dining-hall smells hovered overhead: calico skillet, roast chicken, mashed potatoes with brown gravy. Then Kath and Maddie climbed to their feet and tackled her. They had it down to an art. Solange tumbled, her skirt rising so that I saw the shiny swell of the backs of her thighs and a flash of purple underwear. She squealed and kicked her brown legs as if she were juggling a beach ball with her feet. Yer staying put, where ye belong! The sky was turning dark, and a breeze came up. It suddenly felt like autumn again. But the drug made sorrow difficult and beside the point, and Solange herself seemed more heartbroken than any of us. There was no intense departure scene, no anguished violin notes or faces pressed against glass. Solange and I hugged, and then she disappeared onto her bus, and the blondes and I shambled back to campus to eat dinner and let our high taper off. I woke the next morning fuzzy-headed, vitally bled, and certain that my vertebrae were grinding against one another. The blondes were still young and beautiful and gay. They were trying to buoy my spirits, I suppose, or expressing the hope of matchmakers — offering her in place of themselves. I never figured it out. I knew only enough to recognize that I was a kept man, and this knowledge was all it took to break the easy rhythm of our days and set me adrift. I suppose it might make sense at this point in my life — with a wife and a son and long afternoons of contentment drawn around me — to disavow my passion for Solange. Or, at the very least, to relinquish her memory. The heart writes in indelible ink. And no matter how long you live and whom you love next, you are also there, all those years ago, with your head in her lap, your cheeks pressed against her thighs, her eyes and your eyes, and the future hung like a pear between you. Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? Accept Deny. Contact Us Subscribe Submission Guideliness. The blondes laughed musically. Kath reached over and rubbed my belly. A hop-skip. She tapped my thigh. No, nothing asleep. You were a little kid. We can talk some more. A swimming hole. Dana tossed me a pear. I looked at the pear. She was talking to Solange, who looked suddenly stricken. Solange nodded. What Do You Think? Poetry Insomnia Poem Lou Lipsitz. Related Selections. Quotations Sunbeams. Restricted Content You must have JavaScript enabled to enjoy a limited number of articles over the next 30 days. 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Mons buy Ecstasy