Storytelling

They're laughing next door. Loudly--for that is how they do everything. One of them is recounting a sexual exploit; such conversations are the logical termination of their digressions. In them, the raconteur is suave, debonair, and skilled. His prey, some pretty ingenue, falls for his easy words. They remove themselves to a secluded room--always secluded, and always a room. They lie on the bed and kiss gently. Their hands begin to explore each other's bodies, and as he reaches that area just above the hem of her skirt, she whispers in his ear. "I'm a virgin." That, of course, does not stop him; it was not meant to, after all.

So gently, she trembles. So tenderly. As their clothes fall to the floor, she grows shy, but he holds her nevertheless, kissing her on the side of her face as she turns away, afraid or ashamed. Gradually they dissolve back onto the bed, and he gives her the greatest pleasure she has ever known.

It is unspoken, the truth--for what fun is the truth? What illusory solace can honesty provide? For they all know that he was not really suave, and that the beer, not his words, lured her upstairs. The kisses were not gentle, and the pace was far quicker. In reality, she did not tremble; she was too numb. His kisses missed her mouth because he could not find it. Their disrobing was entirely unglamorous, and the act itself...it was hurried, sloppy, and unspectacular. She laid back and felt nothing save discomfort as he spasmed wildly. A few vigorous thrusts and it was over. He was satiated, and she was shamed.

Of course, none of this is said--it makes for a terrible story. And so, they all go their separate ways, to their beds, where those few moments before sleep cast aside all pretense. In this limbo they remember their awkward patting gestures, made as she silently cried, platitudes grossly incapable of giving back what was taken away. In this insecurity they drift to sleep, and the morning will see them as gods yet again.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference...

... She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."

-T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land