When the Music’s Over
The Doors – this was the music we listened to as we conducted our affair. I lived my irrevocable sin through the lyrics of Morrison and Krieger, letting myself become entranced, hoping to God we’d never be found out.
We didn’t waste our time with platitudes of love or conventional romance. We used each other for all we needed: sexual gratification and the type of detachment that neither of us could find in a real relationship. We used our bodies together. We’d fuck until nothing else seemed real. I’d allow myself to get lost in the intoxicating music that we filtered into the room. It was the best substitute I could come up with for facing up to the reality that I was being fucked by someone else’s partner. The intensity of the music distracted me from what we were really doing. I focused on Morrison’s voice and Manzarek’s quirky keyboards and let myself be transported by the energy of the music. It demoted you from being the sole focus in the room. In my body.
The spellbinding tunes and cryptic lyrics covered up all the awkward silences we would have undoubtedly experienced had we been forced to converse on these nights. We didn’t communicate verbally when it came to fucking. Everything was physical. You wanted to take me in all the ways you could and I allowed myself to submit. I let you fuck my body whilst Morrison fucked my mind. As I tried desperately to stifle my emotions. Play it cool.
I played the music loud to cover your guttural sounds as you writhed around on top of me during these stolen moments. I couldn’t run the risk of you hearing me whisper something in your ear that either of us would live to regret. I lay there allowing myself to be fucked by more than one man night after night. You, Jim and all the other strange men I let into my bed to make up for the fact that you went home to you wife. When all I was left with was seedy guilt.
We favoured The Doors because it was music that, spiritually we could get high to. On the rare occasions we could, we’d fill my bed-sit with the heady sounds of psychedelia and drink just enough cheap red wine to stain our lips and cloud our judgement. You always insisted on playing ‘Alabama Song’and ‘Love Her Madly’ even though the lyrics made me cringe. You’d lip-synch the lines ‘Oh show me the way to the next little girl’ and ‘don’t you love her madly, want to be her daddy’, leering as you’d find the excuse to highlight our statutory differences. I was the conquest of your midlife crisis and you wouldn’t let me forget it.
The photograph is a rare artefact that remains of the relationship. It’s one of the few things that keeps me from imagining that I made it all up. In the picture you’re staring out at the lake. It was the one and only time we ever went out on what could be construed as a ‘normal’ date. And even then we’d come up here to say our goodbyes.
You didn’t expect it. Neither did I, really, if truth be known. But you finally pushed me too far, suggested we take a walk in the woods, find somewhere ‘dark and secluded’. I was doubtful but followed you anyway. You led me to a quiet wooded area and you proceeded to fuck me on the earthy ground. It was swift and raw. It was the first time that I was able to convince myself that I was no longer into you. You pounded away at me and in my head Jim chanted the lyrics to ‘Yes, the River Knows’, freeing me from your defilement of my body.
Afterwards, we sat on the bench, still slightly damp from morning dew even though it was afternoon. We indulged in the mandatory, albeit clichéd post-coital smoke. And we looked at the leaves turning amber to crimson in the wise October sun. I told you it was over. You laughed, exhaled a thin wisp of smoke. You told me that I would never get over you. You told me you’d always have a hold over me. I stubbed my cigarette on the bench as I snorted my derision. And I walked away leaving you looking out towards the lake, surprisingly lost and alone. I felt very little. Just numbness. Something made me stop and turn back towards you. That was when I took the photo.