Erotic Angels (1)

Erotic angels are like other kinds of angels: their appearance is subtly different from the visits of purely human creatures, which is why you don’t recognize them at first. Non-believers are stubborn about asserting that in fact they are humans, nothing more, and that the serendipity associated with their presence is just coincidence. Such people only believe in what they can see and touch. You might as well say gravity doesn’t exist. Or love, for that matter.

Those of us who ponder our sexual selves, and who set sail to a sexual shore that will feel like an exotic, undiscovered land, and like home at the same time - we sometimes do find that harmony between our inner rhythms and the rhythms of our partners. Out of our experiences, our reflections, and from the cards fate has dealt us, we gather the past and present into our minor supernovas. Erotic angels, though, don’t come from the past like that; they visit from the future. They come from somewhere we haven’t been yet, and open the door to rooms we were unaware of. Nor do we realize, at first, that an erotic angel has visited. I have an erotic angel right now, for instance, but I was hardly expecting her.

My first erotic angel visited the summer after I turned seventeen. I was working just outside Montreal for the summer, speaking French all week, and on weekends I would go into the city and stay with a married couple who were distant friends of one of my teachers. I had a girlfriend, Janet, back in Ontario, and we had started having sex about eight or nine months earlier. Janet and I loved sex, it was new to us, and we had strong teenage libidos, but Janet was not an erotic angel. First loves are rarely erotic angels; most of the time they are just fellow explorers, and novices.

The couple, Frank and Melanie, lived in the old city, right opposite the old Church of Notre Dame. They were about ten years older than me. Frank was a movie director, with one documentary to his credit. Melanie was a model, who appeared frequently on television and in magazines. They were wonderful to me. They welcomed me into their bohemian apartment with open arms, and an open fridge. I would sit out in the square in front of the church, just below their apartment, and watch the sunny world go by. Frank was explosive and emotional; Melanie’s armour against him was her prettiness, which she wore with a smile, along with the detailed decoration of her painted fingernails, her carefully made-up mouth, and her silky skin.

Frank was in the middle of finding backers for a movie, and spent a lot of time interviewing set designers and camera crews and all the other people you need for a movie. He was hardly ever home, and when he was there, he was entirely full of his movie, how powerful it was, how ridiculous people were, how he was going to be brilliant. I had never really seen adults fight like they did. Tooth and nail, dishes flying, no surrender, grudges maintained for an entire weekend.

You have probably guessed that my erotic angel was Melanie. Because I had a serious girlfriend back home, I honestly wasn’t looking for sex. That’s often how it happens – you think you’re doing pretty well in your own sexual present, and then the future arrives.

Frank didn't come home for two weekends. The first of those weekends, Melanie pulled out some pot and we smoked. It was muggy hot as only an inner city can be in July. I remember clearly the Vivaldi violin concertos that flowed all around us, and seemed to sparkle all along her limbs as she did her impromptu dancing. The second weekend I was looking forward to smoking pot again, and I wondered if Frank would be there. He wasn’t.

Friday night I arrived, and Melanie greeted me laconically, her brow a thunderhead. It was impossibly hot again. I went down to the little corner grocery below their apartment and picked up a couple of Italian sandwiches. We ate them, drank beer. Then she rolled a joint, and we smoked it. She put on the Vivaldi again, and stood there moving randomly, swaying, her eyes heavy-lidded, a half-smile on her face. She extended a hand in invitation, which brought me to my feet, and we danced together in this odd, swaying, irregular improvisation. She said I was such a teenager. Those exact words: “Such a teenager.” She loved that, she said, and then she said, “don’t you want to kiss me?” She didn’t wait for my answer, but spread both our hands out wide so our chests touched, and brought her smiling mouth to mine so that our teeth clacked. I had never had a teeth-clacking kiss before, so it really sticks in my mind.

I was floating in a moist and pungent glowing cloud. (That’s another sign of the visit of an erotic angel, that cloud – I’m sure some of you recognize it.) Melanie was so pretty, and just started to open me up, unpeel me like an artichoke, scraping flesh from each piece of me she lifted away. She took off my t-shirt, kissed and bit my chest, my nipples. I had never been bitten before; Janet had never sucked my nipples, which were very sensitive. I realize now that Melanie knew I would cum soon after she took my cock out, which is what happened. Several powerful spurts of white cum over her silky legs as she stroked my cock gently with the prettiest fingers I had ever seen.

That was just the beginning. She kept calling me the perfect teenager, and I simply flowed against her, like warm plasticene, through the evening, and the weekend, surrounded by that sensual mist of hers. She pressed on my flesh with her fingers, strangely, as if she wanted to leave her fingerprints. She left several perfect sets of teethmarks on my chest, my stomach, my thigh next to my cock and balls. She sucked my cock assertively, instructively, as if to show me what lay in store for me when I went out into the world. She assumed I was a novice, and showed me how to touch her clit, how to suck it, how to fuck her on her hands and knees with my fingers, and then my cock.

I went home on Sunday evening, taking the subway to the end of the line. Sitting on the bus that would take me the rest of the way, I remember looking out at the failing light that was setting on Montreal, and trying to count the number of times I had cum. I kept losing count, because I would go through each orgasm and then get caught up in the recollection of one particular instance, and have to start over. It was easily at least twenty times, a number that seems absurd now. But that was the number I eventually arrived at. I am a bit of a stickler about numbers like that.

The next week, I quit my job at the cookie factory. I hated the job, and my girlfriend had found me a job at the resort where she worked in Muskoka. I stayed with Melanie one last night; Frank was gone for good. We were both very sad that Friday night. Melanie tried very hard to keep smiling, and she made me dinner, with candles. I felt a bit funny. Off-kilter. We kissed many times during dinner, but we didn’t touch each other sexually. After dinner I stood looking down at the evening light on the square in front of Notre Dame. Melanie came behind me, wrapped her fingers around me, those pretty fingers, and undid my shorts. There in the window, she knelt, out of sight of the street below, my cock also out of sight, and sucked me off. That set us off, and we retired to her bed where we fucked four or five more times before morning.

In the morning she came with me to the train station. It was crowded, and noisy. At the gate I didn’t know what to do, but she did. She turned me toward her and kissed me on the lips. As I descended the stairs to go down to the platform, I looked back and she was still at the top, in front of the rest of the crowd. She mouthed the words “I love you,” which froze me, then she waved, and the crowd got in the way.

After that, we exchanged exactly one card each.

In writing, we were too prosaic; her angel-being was gone. But that’s what she was, definitely, my first erotic angel.