One thing is sure Charlotte. I miss you.
Charlotte you don't speak english very well, but I don't speak well either right now, cause I am drunk. Not drunk, intoxicated. How we managed to communicate in Spain, it was a reasonable question on everybody's lips. So, you don't speak Greek and I can say only "voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir" in French and that's not enough now. Then it was ok, it was funny trying to convince you with my clumsy french to get in your pants, remember? We didn't use to talk a lot. But if you think about it, we did use to talk a lot but in a different, non-verbal and passionate way. We were using our body language, our body to have intercourse but now I don't want that, Charlotte don't let me be misunderstood, I didn't send you in order to schedule one sex rendezvous, we can't anyway, I am not that gifted and the distance between us, I'm afraid that, has sentenced us to eternal oblivion. That's why I am telling you this. I am more than sure that we are not going to meet again in the following months, years, so it doesn't matter if I am expressing myself in a romantic or brutal, indifferent or drunken way; it doesn't matter if my words will escort you until your final habitation or if they will be forgotten before the digital ink dries on my monitor.
I don't know why I am sending you from my blog or why I am sending you overall. Charlotte I am a petty liar. I know. I know that I miss you. I've already told you that. I miss you. Maybe I am saying that because I'm drunk and my tolerance is blunted right now. Maybe. But Charlotte even if that's true and my feelings are superficial, why is that bad? I mean, I really miss you. You were the first interracial acquaintance and after we lost control, my first interracial sex. Don't be flattered but with no doubt you were the best sex I ever had. Ok, ok, I know it, you know it, Ι lay it on a bit thick. But it was damn good. Two times I visited night clubs in Barcelona. The third, I met you before I got in. To be accurate, you met me. And you saved me. As a kind of compensation from fate, you saved me. I own you one. I would never had the guts to talk to you. You were so fucking beautiful. I saw you walking towards me, vulnerable and lost, lurching and smiling, smiling at me? Yes I was the one that you have focused your yearning. I couldn't believe it. I believed it. It was a tangible look that touched me as if it was a finger. I was touched and encouraged at the same time by your smiling; I came up to you. I came so close that I could feel your breath the time you started to fall; I grabbed your black hand before you got hurt. You raised your eyes and looked at me. The ebony colour of yours was irresistible. Your were so wasted, that in any other circumstance I would have felt pity for you. But you were not an object to feel pity for. Your were an object of desire, an exotic, beautiful dark skin creature tottering by the inebriation of that strange night of yours. My night was kind of strange too.
I didn't wanna come. Aman, Can and Veronica called me one million times. I was stubborn. I rejected their invitations with no excuses at all. But Kuba's arguement was the one that persuade me to eventually change my mind. "It's gonna be only one Wednesday 11 December 2013. Make it special, mate". So I left behind my unseperatable bag, I took my keys and my metro card, I purred some whiskey in my flask and closed the door behind me. I run down the stairs. My flask was full when the bus took me from Gran Via and empty when I finally disembarked. In the route I spoke with one guy from Lebanon who was talking to me in spanish, to me, who at that time could barely speak greek. I didn't want to talk to anybody, that's why. And he insisted on talking to me. In the end the cheeky bastard asked for money. The begging bastard. But he took my bollocks. Come on, you know what that means, I taught you that, remember? "Pare ta arxidia mou?" that was what I told him. "Go fuck yourself!". He changed seats immediately with a disgraced face. Poor guy! He asked for support and discretion and I made him look like a fool. No, I don't regret Charlotte, he got what he deserved. What you would have done? You would have showed sympathy? I bet that you would be laughing your ass off. And I am not against that. Cause you are so funny when you laugh. And so sweat. Sweat and vulgar Charlotte. Back then, I wanted to fuck you and treat you like a bird at the same time. That was a mistake. I should have shown less. You didn't appreciate my feelings. You flew like a bird two weeks after our first night. Why did you do that? Even now, even though you did explain crystal clear your intentions, I am not able to understand that choice. You threw our two exhausting weeks of sex in the garbage for one caprice. And then you came one month later, after Christmas holidays, after New Year's Eve, after so many changes in my life, after so many tears, after so many hard feelings, after so many mental attempts of suicide, you came to ask for my love. After of all this absence. You know the rest.
Now I could say, "I apologize for my behaviour" and shit like this, but I am not a bloody perfectman. You left! And she came again in my life, and she broke up with me, and she left me all alone in Barcelona's narrow streets drinking with no interest in life at all. I rejected you. I avoided you. It was fair! Don't say that I didn't have feelings for you. Sorry Charlotte. One million apologies, but I did have feelings for you. For the black you. I am thinking of you again Charlotte. I am turned on by you all over again. I want you dear. I remember you still as the woman I saw that night on my small bed, naked and smooth, lovable and serious, with the same clothes, worthy of an impetuous runaway slave, with mad turbans, earrings and bracelets made of bone, your necklaces, your rings with fake stones on every finger: a lioness lying in the bed of love. You were the true woman in my life and I see it now. I realise that now. However I am sure that I've sensed that feeling before I saw you, before we made love for the first time at that very first night we met; in the coolest night of spanish December. You were black, young, pretty, but I reckoned you as a whore beyond the shadow of a doubt. A whore? That was my first thought. But on the contrary: you were not only that contemptible to get paid for love but when you found your space, you rejected me from your life and returned back home. You algerian-french girl, you drove me crazy.
Oh what disappointment! I am drunk, I am stoned, I am still a soldier and tomorrow I am leaving from athens again. Write me back if you find some time.
Charlotte you don't speak english very well, but I don't speak well either right now, cause I am drunk. Not drunk, intoxicated. How we managed to communicate in Spain, it was a reasonable question on everybody's lips. So, you don't speak Greek and I can say only "voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir" in French and that's not enough now. Then it was ok, it was funny trying to convince you with my clumsy french to get in your pants, remember? We didn't use to talk a lot. But if you think about it, we did use to talk a lot but in a different, non-verbal and passionate way. We were using our body language, our body to have intercourse but now I don't want that, Charlotte don't let me be misunderstood, I didn't send you in order to schedule one sex rendezvous, we can't anyway, I am not that gifted and the distance between us, I'm afraid that, has sentenced us to eternal oblivion. That's why I am telling you this. I am more than sure that we are not going to meet again in the following months, years, so it doesn't matter if I am expressing myself in a romantic or brutal, indifferent or drunken way; it doesn't matter if my words will escort you until your final habitation or if they will be forgotten before the digital ink dries on my monitor.
I don't know why I am sending you from my blog or why I am sending you overall. Charlotte I am a petty liar. I know. I know that I miss you. I've already told you that. I miss you. Maybe I am saying that because I'm drunk and my tolerance is blunted right now. Maybe. But Charlotte even if that's true and my feelings are superficial, why is that bad? I mean, I really miss you. You were the first interracial acquaintance and after we lost control, my first interracial sex. Don't be flattered but with no doubt you were the best sex I ever had. Ok, ok, I know it, you know it, Ι lay it on a bit thick. But it was damn good. Two times I visited night clubs in Barcelona. The third, I met you before I got in. To be accurate, you met me. And you saved me. As a kind of compensation from fate, you saved me. I own you one. I would never had the guts to talk to you. You were so fucking beautiful. I saw you walking towards me, vulnerable and lost, lurching and smiling, smiling at me? Yes I was the one that you have focused your yearning. I couldn't believe it. I believed it. It was a tangible look that touched me as if it was a finger. I was touched and encouraged at the same time by your smiling; I came up to you. I came so close that I could feel your breath the time you started to fall; I grabbed your black hand before you got hurt. You raised your eyes and looked at me. The ebony colour of yours was irresistible. Your were so wasted, that in any other circumstance I would have felt pity for you. But you were not an object to feel pity for. Your were an object of desire, an exotic, beautiful dark skin creature tottering by the inebriation of that strange night of yours. My night was kind of strange too.
I didn't wanna come. Aman, Can and Veronica called me one million times. I was stubborn. I rejected their invitations with no excuses at all. But Kuba's arguement was the one that persuade me to eventually change my mind. "It's gonna be only one Wednesday 11 December 2013. Make it special, mate". So I left behind my unseperatable bag, I took my keys and my metro card, I purred some whiskey in my flask and closed the door behind me. I run down the stairs. My flask was full when the bus took me from Gran Via and empty when I finally disembarked. In the route I spoke with one guy from Lebanon who was talking to me in spanish, to me, who at that time could barely speak greek. I didn't want to talk to anybody, that's why. And he insisted on talking to me. In the end the cheeky bastard asked for money. The begging bastard. But he took my bollocks. Come on, you know what that means, I taught you that, remember? "Pare ta arxidia mou?" that was what I told him. "Go fuck yourself!". He changed seats immediately with a disgraced face. Poor guy! He asked for support and discretion and I made him look like a fool. No, I don't regret Charlotte, he got what he deserved. What you would have done? You would have showed sympathy? I bet that you would be laughing your ass off. And I am not against that. Cause you are so funny when you laugh. And so sweat. Sweat and vulgar Charlotte. Back then, I wanted to fuck you and treat you like a bird at the same time. That was a mistake. I should have shown less. You didn't appreciate my feelings. You flew like a bird two weeks after our first night. Why did you do that? Even now, even though you did explain crystal clear your intentions, I am not able to understand that choice. You threw our two exhausting weeks of sex in the garbage for one caprice. And then you came one month later, after Christmas holidays, after New Year's Eve, after so many changes in my life, after so many tears, after so many hard feelings, after so many mental attempts of suicide, you came to ask for my love. After of all this absence. You know the rest.
Now I could say, "I apologize for my behaviour" and shit like this, but I am not a bloody perfectman. You left! And she came again in my life, and she broke up with me, and she left me all alone in Barcelona's narrow streets drinking with no interest in life at all. I rejected you. I avoided you. It was fair! Don't say that I didn't have feelings for you. Sorry Charlotte. One million apologies, but I did have feelings for you. For the black you. I am thinking of you again Charlotte. I am turned on by you all over again. I want you dear. I remember you still as the woman I saw that night on my small bed, naked and smooth, lovable and serious, with the same clothes, worthy of an impetuous runaway slave, with mad turbans, earrings and bracelets made of bone, your necklaces, your rings with fake stones on every finger: a lioness lying in the bed of love. You were the true woman in my life and I see it now. I realise that now. However I am sure that I've sensed that feeling before I saw you, before we made love for the first time at that very first night we met; in the coolest night of spanish December. You were black, young, pretty, but I reckoned you as a whore beyond the shadow of a doubt. A whore? That was my first thought. But on the contrary: you were not only that contemptible to get paid for love but when you found your space, you rejected me from your life and returned back home. You algerian-french girl, you drove me crazy.
Oh what disappointment! I am drunk, I am stoned, I am still a soldier and tomorrow I am leaving from athens again. Write me back if you find some time.
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