Confessions of a Voyeur

Trina Talukdar

Have you ever felt someone was so beautiful you couldn’t touch them? That they were too pure, and you too dirty. And corrupt. He is innocent, untainted, sparkling spring water,virgin snow. I once bit my lip so hard, a drop of red blood fell on the white, snowy nape of his neck, and it just stayed there, a perfect sphere, like a ruby glinting, red and fresh, a pomegranate seed. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, or I would’ve sucked it away faster and never let my filth touch him.

But under the neon light he’s not white at all. Once the harsh glow of the tube lights is gone, and the night lights throw criss-crossing patterns of shadows and light on his naked back- he is yellow, like melting butter. Warm and salty from the sweat of his labours.

The scar on his arm is the one, single thing that punctuates his perfect marble body. White and polished, all except for the bloody gorge in his arm. He’s my Frankenstein, and I his corpse bride. That scar- it excites me. It reminds me of his intensity, his madness, his wild passion, aggression. It reminds of the times he clenches his teeth, and narrows his eyes, and rages like a bull- forward, destroying all in his path, and getting thorn-cragged, bloody gashes on his arm. I want to be in his path then. I want him to rip me apart, make me groan in pain, make me howl and cry. I want him to destroy me.

When I run my hands down his side of his torso, they slide down a perfect V, no bumps, no indentations, smooth, like I’m kneading whipped cream, and the cream is getting under my nails, oozing out from between my fingers. And when I pull him to me, and our stomachs touch, I can feel his pulse against me. His stomach tight, not stony and muscular. No, he’s not cold marble. But satin, pulled tightly over the bed- taut, but soft, smooth, so my finger glides down to his navel, and rests on the indentation for a moment. A coma, before it slides further down.

But then I stop. Because he’s so beautiful I can’t touch him anymore. I feel like the tip of my finger will leave a dark spot on his perfect white skin. My finger will sear a burn into it everywhere it touches, like holes burnt into a starch white sheet of paper with a cheap wax matchstick.

I watch him curl up amongst his white sheets, which look grey and dull under his glowing pearly skin. The insides of his thighs, whiter still, untouched by air, dust, sunlight, civilization. Pure as the first drop of rain. I know it would melt in my mouth like a snowflake. But I just pull my knees up against myself, lean against the headboard and  watch his eye lids drop, his eyes lashes flutter a few times before falling into a heavy daze over his large cow-eyes.

 

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"Confessions of a Voyeur" by @bongbuzz

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