A Beautiful Long Erotic Tale

A Beautiful Long Erotic Tale

Should I recount the details of what happened between Karla and me—not once, but hundreds of times? Well, no; but if I didn't write it down, and no reader stumbled upon these words, then those scenes of when she and I made love would irretrievably fade into oblivion. Scenes of which I was the only witness.

Yes, Karla was there too; but her perspective was very different from mine, and she didn't perceive them in the same way I did.

Was it love, affection, or was it just sex? That's the question we all ask ourselves when such an intimate, frequent, and close relationship ends. How to put it? Where does affection end and love begin? How does tenderness merge them? Or at what point does sex enter the picture and overwhelm all the senses and all feelings?

And I'm not referring to sex as the act of a frenzied repetition of one body overwhelming another; No, because that's not love; and yes, it happens too, but it's not what makes you stay and remain.

Nor would I add eroticism as an ingredient to sex, because I detest that word. There's nothing so ambiguous and imprecise; you won't find it in any manual, nor is there a way to describe it. That's why Karla and I never called the act of being together in an intimacy that transcended time and place "eroticism"; we didn't call it sex either, and there was never any premeditated agreement to do so. It simply arose from the closeness we already shared, a closeness that encompassed everything, as if I were her pet who, whenever I was near her or felt her close, would feel compelled to be together, caressing each other; which aroused her desire, my desire, and our joy; and the contact with her body was something natural, whether it was holding hands, holding her waist, her hugging me, or me resting my head on her lap.

But I haven't even begun to describe what really happened when she and I made love. I'll start by saying that most of the time it was a natural intimacy, where there was no rush to get rid of our clothes, and most of the time we didn't do it alone or separately, but rather we helped each other or let one of us do it for the other, in broad daylight, in the twilight of the early hours of the night, or in its last, before dawn. We also did it in total darkness.

We came to know each other's bodies so well that with our eyes closed we could identify every part with the simple touch of our fingertips or the tip of our tongues; and there were no taboos or disdain for any part of our bodies, and if we felt like kissing or licking the roughness of her armpits, the hidden area between her legs, the beauty of her entire back, behind her earlobe, or delighting in the corners of her lips; We did it because no permit was needed anymore.

I was particularly captivated by sucking on each of her toes and the narrow space between them. And all because her feet were truly beautiful, tiny like fine porcelain pieces; but so were her calves and legs, her waist, and higher up, her arms, her neck, her face, and her hair. So, the journey of my hands and lips had no set routes or stops. That's why I now know that love doesn't begin with sex. Ah! But how good it feels when sex accompanies it.

What followed that prelude of caresses and touches also lacked order, frequency, or defined rhythms; everything happened casually, and there was no shame or embarrassment about what transpired between us, between the sheets, among the bushes, on the sofa, on the floorboards, or under the shower; and agreements were made tacitly, as were refusals, without any anger or resentment. There was no rule or preferred place for the time and place; well yes, the edges of the bed always left us with unforgettable memories.

First, we were young, then as we matured, we continued to find new flavors and ways to express our intimacy.

Were we perverted or perverse? Yes, we were; but we were also simple and innocent, and daring and promiscuous, whatever that means; and we went where not everyone goes, but we never blamed each other or regretted what we did, and if we enjoyed it, we repeated it as many times as we wished.

Did sex hurt and sometimes leave marks? Yes, sometimes. But that only made us miss each other even more hours or days later.

I will also say that when we finished making love there was no ritual, if by finishing you mean a few minutes or a few hours after the climax, the orgasm or orgasms; because there was no end as such; so sometimes, we would start again, as if we had forgotten that just a few minutes before we thought we had finished; and when the act of sex as such no longer existed, a hug, falling asleep next to each other or showering together did not mark an end, but a beginning of a closer relationship between those who have given each other everything to the point of satiety, those who know each other completely, body to body, and that body has revealed a soul, a soul known and ever new.

Going into detail about how it happened, what we did, and how we did it would be pointless; any book on sex techniques could serve as a reference, but even then, it wouldn't be enough. Because those books don't say how much love, tenderness, and affection are needed, nor for how long, nor where. That's why, when sex starts to fade, it's like throwing a bucket of cold water on love and affection. And that person who was your partner in intimacy drifts away, leaving you with only memories, like snapshots or short video clips, of how it was, what happened, and the sensations and feelings you experienced when your body, soul, and spirit, along with hers, touched.

That's how it happened between Karla and me, when we madero love. And although more than six years have passed, I still remember Karla well in private, as if only a few hours had gone by instead of those years; hours that have become an eternity to me.