The Disappointing Love Story of Mr. Emanuel
Emanuel did not know that he had finally met The Woman until late after the party at his best friend’s house in Phoenix, Arizona.
At the party he behaved as usual, reserved, courteous and always complimenting the older ladies.
That night they had exchanged a lot of polite smiles, and when he left, she leaned towards him, touched his hand and almost purred, “I regret that we did not have time to talk at all tonight, but I hope we will meet again soon.”
Was it the purr, the smile, the whole woman? That he didn’t know. But he kept thinking of her and his interest erupted weeks later when they had met again; this time there was a strong physical component. Suddenly, Emanuel just wanted that woman.
Almost overnight she became such an obsession that he could not focus on anything anymore. He could not even call her by her name; when he thought of her, he thought of “The Woman”. To Emanuel, she embodied everything: the body, the social grace, the feminine spirituality.
The first dates were intimidating for both of them. Emanuel refrained from talking anything but weather and gardening while The Woman would bring up neutral and safe topics like choosing the right pet or the visits to the neighborhood Bible reading group.
Time had flown by and before they knew it, hot topics like the latest fashion trends or men’s favorite pastimes would be touched upon.
“Will we ever have sex?” Emanuel asked himself, after one of those endless nights when the intense arousal prevented him from sleeping, causing both involuntary and voluntary muscles in his body to twitch.
The following morning he looked at the calendar, noticing that ninety-three days had already passed since he met The Woman. At first, he freaked out. But then he applied two cold patches on the bags under his eyes and realized that he was a strong man. He would wait. “What’s wrong with a little bit of mental foreplay?” he thought while inhaling chamomile vapors. “What’s wrong with a little bit of playfulness?” he pondered while building the strength of the mind and body under the cold shower.
After many long restless days and nights, Emanuel finally had reached the conclusion that he actually enjoyed this situation that would only serve to spice up their eventual love making.
He even started keeping a diary, an almost daily log of their encounters and the emotions that those meetings had triggered; an interpretation of what he had perceived as being mysterious mating signals sent by The Woman in his direction.
Winter had passed and so had Emanuel’s hopes of mating.
Now and then he would open it randomly as if waiting for a higher power to change the disappointing entries he knew too well. But there was no higher power, and the entries remained the same.
Yesterday while eating popcorn, a naughty piece fell off my hand; when I tried to catch it, I accidentally touched Her hand. She shook it, as if a venomous snake had attacked her, and she looked at me with surprise and outrage. Yes, she is right. What is this be-ha-vior?! What is this be-ha-vior?! What is this lack of control? Where is this impatience coming from? Love is there, attraction is there. I fear nothing.
She explained to me that Love is like a delicate seed. Planted in a fertile soil, it will only grow strong and healthy. And while feelings and emotions are good fertilizers, instincts are not. Aha, now I see.
While she was explaining the essence of Love to me, she stretched her legs slightly and arched her back like a beautiful big cat. Is this a sign or…?! Are we get-ting clo-ser?! Are we get-ting clo-ser?!
I need to put on some ice to survive the night.
Brunch at Aunt Isabel’s. I noticed a shy smile on my Woman’s face while passing the olives. Maybe the Time has come? I cannot decipher the full meaning, but I feel that something is going on. Something is indeed going on. Something. Going. On.
Flower offering in front of her house. I am on my knees, humble and praising her beauty. She picked the flower and bent over, allowing me to see a half of a third of her left breast. Is this what I think it is? Is this what I think it is? I hope so. By the way, who is the tall dark guy, leaving the house just as I get closer? Oh, the gardener. That makes sense.
Conversation with my friend, Alois, a dedicated hunter.
His view: women are like prey. All a man needs to do is to observe, gather information, wait, draw conclusions, plan his attack and then take his prey down. Patience is of the essence.
Sounds simple. Alois might be right.
My beloved went to the hairdresser three times last week; however, she had her nails polished only two times. I try to reach my friend, the hunter and ask him “How should I interpret this priceless piece of information?” He does not answer his phone. I leave five messages. Tomorrow is another day…we shall see.
Five more messages for Alois, no response yet. Maybe he went hunting?
|Three more messages for Alois. Maybe his answering machine is broken? I do not want to be too compulsive but I have to make sure he got them. If I know he got them, I will wait patiently for an answer.
After not hearing back from Alois, tired and suffering from a nasty depressive episode, Emanuel had decided to grab Love by the horns.
He brought up the hot topic during one of those dinners, when he would skip eating and stare at her neckline speechless, scratching his thighs with anxiety.
Emanuel’s question did not seem to surprise The Woman. She smiled, somewhat amused at his impatience. “You are such a kid,” she said, gracefully folding the lace napkin. Then she looked him boldly in the eyes and continued: “There is a precious moment of togetherness that can be achieved by a man and a woman. Since what we have is very special, I decided not to spoil the depth of our relationship by bringing on pure instincts. We are not animals,” she continued, letting go of her shawl and thus uncovering her nearly perfect porcelain white shoulders.
Emanuel found that just sipping his coffee could be a very challenging enterprise. He started practicing control by focusing on the tiny yellowish bubble in the middle of the beverage. He even tried to blow air from the right side, to see where the bubble goes. “Will the bubble survive?” Emanuel asked himself.
He felt like an animal. How could he not see it? That night, the entry in his log read:
Yes, she is right. True passion can and will wait. I will endure until she will open the gates of her amazing body to me.
Now it’s time to get some sleep. How many sleeping pills? Eight? Nine?
Emanuel’s state of mind was bouncing from extreme aggression to extreme shyness. Some days were lighter but some were unbearable.
People would talk to Emanuel but their words never reached him. He was oblivious to his surroundings, preoccupied by only one thing: how to get to the physical closeness he had been yearning for so badly.
The glorious moment came unexpectedly, so unexpectedly that he did not have time for a professional entry to his log but for some illegible sounds, scribbled in between a detailed shower and a series of exercises meant to channel the masculine vigor in the right direction. Her direction, that is.
Whoa! Wow! Yay! NOW! It is happening! Hahaha! Babababa! Meow!
Emanuel flew to The Woman’s chic house as if possessed not by one, but by an army of devils, an organized army, led by a strong, undefeated general. He bumped into people, almost got run over by a truck driver, and stepped on a cat. His three hundred twenty seven day old arousal could not be controlled anymore. As he was scrambling to get to her as fast as he could, he held the invitation to his chest…right there, on the impeccably white and pink paper, her handwriting “You and I… tonight…my place?”
Just seconds later Emanuel was breaking through her doors like a victorious Spartan, whose endurance had finally paid off.
Emanuel woke up in great disappointment. The sun was high on the sky and the birds’ love songs were inviting; yet in a cruel way the joy of the outside world contrasted brutally with his state of mind. And body. Emanuel had a big problem.
Sex was so bad that he actually could not remember a failure of similar proportions; not even the cross-eyed prostitute he had hired five years ago in Puerto Rico and who proved herself to be the biggest turn off ever. And not because of her crossed eyes; he liked women with small physical imperfections. He was equally intimidated and attracted to them.
Yes, The Woman who was lying in bed next to him, with stiff hips and cold like a corpse was the worst he had ever tasted. The cross-eyed Puerto Rican had to step down to being “Number two.”
“Why was the sex so bad?” Emanuel asked himself.
All those hours of expectations, prayers, and visualizations…All this ordeal of the senses… the mental connection…all this hell…
Emanuel put on his clothes aggressively and left the house without looking back, picturing imaginary worlds, where men and women skipped the three hundred twenty seven days of torture and moved to discovering each other faster, sparing themselves what he hated most: the Guessing.