Forbidden Passion

The sky was clear that day in L.A.  In all of my 21 years of living, I had grown accustomed to this existence - one unmarred by worry or regret or a heavy sadness, since I was in my prime.  Although my temperament was beginning to reveal a side where passion, angst, and naivete would soon clash and produce a madness within and without, it had not proven ambitious enough to overtake me, yet.  So, I was relatively content.

I had just rented an apartment in a humble neighborhood not far from the middle class place I grew up in.  All seemed satisfactory, and I was beginning to think my future secure.  It began to change, though when a cacophonous sound came bellowing out of the apartment next door.  It was accompanied by a distinctly Southern voice that was uttering words of hatred.  Suddenly, the relative peace I thought I could maintain was being challenged.  My body began to feel rushes of cold then hot.  A fear gripped me the likes of which I had never been exposed to.  I had just discovered I was living next door to Neo-Nazi's.


I wanted somehow to find a way to quell the anxiety, shame, fear, and pain I was experiencing.  I needed solace.  I wanted to run but felt I couldn't.  I needed to hide but quickly became aware that I was like a mouse caught in her first trap.  It was useless.  The only way through was to face it.  To deal with this insanity I had to do something or nothing or whatever I had to do, but I felt a bit unclear.


That's when I saw him.  I peered outside my door for only a moment and saw a real live skinhead.  He was standing right there in front of me.  In all my years of being in Los Angeles, I had never seen anyone so amazing.  I had no idea why, though but I found him beautiful.  His skin was bright white.  His arms were like layers of fine silk, and his veins were barely contained within.  At once I was terrified, but at the same time, I was in love.  I dared glance at him in what seemed like an instant, and I understood for the first time that I knew nothing of what it meant to love, hate, or feel anything at all.  He looked back at me, though and I knew I had somehow offended him.  I really had not said anything, though as my body stood there, frozen.  To this day, I have never been so mesmerized by anyone.


He wore black pants and a small white shirt.  His outfit looked like standard military issue that was slightly out of date meaning at some point he had been in, but he'd grown out of his pants, at least.  Oh yeah, and he had patent leather shoes, too.


All I know is I wanted him.  I needed to touch him, but I knew it was not my place.  My head started to sink, but I fought it, because I'd never been this close to such danger, such sumptuous, tempting, but treacherous lust.


We stayed there for many moments looking at one another, and then I saw he'd been holding onto a ball.  He bounced it hard on the concrete, and I shuddered, because his anger was right at the surface.  There was no hesitation in him, which is why only seconds later, he decided to throw the ball at me forcefully.  I reacted hesitantly, because I was in a trance having an awareness of what I was now in the middle of.  The words that might instinctively come to my lips weren't there.  My anger welled up, nonetheless.  How dare anyone, even a gangster do this to me?  Who did he think he was?  He enjoyed my reaction.  A reaction, surely he had planned on.  I picked the ball up and threw it back.  He caught it and threw it back just as hard.  Unbelievably, I'd just learned that we were of like minds, but how could this be?  I'd been adopted by my Jewish mother and had faithfully, proudly embraced a liberal, mainstream, culturally Jewish philosophy.  Although I'd not grown up in Synagogue, I had fallen in love with Jewish men and had dated other men of color.  My world view was shaped by visits to Museums of Tolerance, and I'd never imagined I could feel this way about any kind like his, yet I was fascinated.  It was love at first sight.

Days went by, and we lived in this space together as I felt my mind slipping.  I cried myself to sleep every night.  My body was awash with a mix of shame and the amorous feelings I was having for this strange man.  I lived there for a total of one very unusual year, and at the end of it, I finally got up the courage to see him again.  He still intimidated me, but I realized I couldn't go on without showing him how I felt.  So, I asked around for his address and went over to see him one night.

He opened the door, and I walked in.  Before I knew it, we were lying side by side, and all night long he touched me.  He moved his hand over all of my body for hours, and slowly this frightening yet beautiful man brought me to the edge of orgasm moment after moment after exquisite moment.  I now know that he made love to me in the style of Tantra.  It is one of the most elegant and elevated ways to make love.  The only regret I have is that I did not reciprocate, but this simply suggests to me that someday, we will meet again, and I will give to him the same gift he gave me when I was young and in budding lust with the sexiest man I've ever met.