Babel III

You have never offered a declaration of love and I have never demanded one. Though we both enjoy the satisfaction of cheap romances where secretaries conquer billionaires, we understand the slipperiness of fiction. Were you to love me like a character in a Barbra Cartland novel, I might revert to the Jackie Collins character I’ve never been.

Dare I confess my fantasies run to Harold Robbins’s anti-heroes?

* * *
You once told me that being naked was a weak metaphor for intimacy. It came, you said, from a culture that took clothing too seriously. I’m still not sure what you mean.

Perhaps you wanted to remind me not to misread the banal for the meaningful.

Still, I like to think you might be wrong.

* * *
We have never shared our fantasies.

At least not in the sanctioned tell me yours fashion, followed by scripted performances. It has never seemed important.

It might be, as friends claim, that we are two uncommunicative men engaged in a long experiment with silence.
* * *
Yet we both adore mystery and surprise, embrace the effusiveness of the Victorians, refuse to believe de trop has any relevance to our lives, have claimed that excess is never enough.

Might we embody the hedonistic sublimation of our time? Should we get t-shirts emblazoned Perverse Prudes?

* * *
I have never claimed to be a poet. You have never wanted me to be one. We are far more comfortable in the undefined world of short sentences, with intention.