If I were go away somewhere, someday – before I’d once more let Dorian know how much I love her.

This will be my song for Dorian.

If it's wrong to love you
Wrong I'll always be
And though the world may scorn me
Darling, can't you see
If it's wrong to want you
When my day is through
Gladly I will pay for
All my dreams of you
And though we met too late, dear
And you'll never know
That without a right to
I have loved you so
I can't change my heart now
You're a part of me
So if it's wrong to love you
Wrong I'll always be

I love Dorian very much.

Some days, the pain is intensely physical. Every muscle inside my body screams to be set free. On such days, I know I have to touch Dorian or I wouldn’t survive. The intensity of the pain struggles with my soaked senses – senses that drip with the essence of Dorian. 


There are other days when I stay back home, alone – entrenched in an unnatural, all consuming fear. On such days I do not want to look into people’s eyes. I hate every and anyone who tries to strike up a conversation, however inane - with me. It’s not the insipidity of the conversation that gets to my nerves. It’s the overwhelming fear that they will read Dorian’s story swimming, unaware and child like inside my eyes.

I wouldn’t want anyone to see Dorian in her sheer, agelessly eloquent nakedness – the kind which feeds my mind with her tapering slender fingers – little delicious morsels of bewitching bothersome fantasies – every single one a story that whispers Dorian’s magic – soft and songlike, full blown in her physical closeness to me – driving me senselessly off the terrain of rationality and sending me careening down the highway of mad rush.

I don’t fear the loss of control. Far across in the distance I see Dorian standing, smiling back at me. Her arms, lightly raised, her head cocked and her hair flying about her – in sheer stark careless abandon – in my mind she’s a picture of exquisite disarray – Dorian waits for me to lend me one of her bothersome kisses.

Funny, how I’ve gotten to love being bothered by Dorian.

There are other times when I stare in to the mirror confused. I fail to recognize me. Every line that etches across my face – reminds me of the lines that I spend hours, carefully tracing up and down, Dorian’s face.

Sometimes, I feel so full that I fear I will burst. In such moments of intense chaos I feel suddenly so out of breath that I have to stretch out my hand to support my limp body against the wall.

I breathe in deep – in and out – I try to ignore the smells that assault my senses in reminder of her – in those moments, I have to concentrate to breathe – I sometimes forget to breathe. I sometimes even fear to exhale. Vapory, like a spectre, a shadow, a myth - I fear that a little bit of Dorian might flow out of me and dissolve in the air around me.

I’m so full of Dorian. It’s almost painful. But I don’t want to loose any of her, from inside of me.

There are things about Dorian that I love so much that sometimes I fear that if I love her anymore - I might hurt her. In such moments of sheer madness I want to possess Dorian so bad  - as badly as I want to possess an inebriated dream of vivid physical fantasy, where every promise of relentless pleasure is just about the promise of the beginning of another.

I want to hold Dorian down.

Just hold her – by the hand – barely touch her but touch her enough to feel her physical vibrations run up my spine and pacify the ageless hunger inside me – a hunger very angry and quarrelsome, but, all for Dorian.

Sometimes, I don’t want to stop touching Dorian.

I lie.

Most times – I don’t want to stop touching Dorian. But I try not show the clinginess I feel for her. Its not that I fear that I might suffocate her – I know Dorian wouldn’t last a day in peace if our fantasy was to ever be spoilt and stained with the vapidity of stifling emotions.

Dorian couldn’t live a day in the shot down wreckage of surreal ecstasy that runs like a spark of high voltage electricity between us.The silence that will ensue, when the quarrelsome hunger would stop whining – it will be too deafening for Dorian to handle; it would ravage her mind – it might even drive her insane.

No, I don’t fear if I will suffocate Dorian.

I only fear that once I touch her too much, I wouldn’t stop.

There are days when I just sit there – in Dorian’s house – and watch her go about her day. Dorian is mostly a silent woman. There is not much small talk that can hold her attention for long. She has her quiet moments. And I don’t mind them as long as I am permitted to watch.

In such times I just sit there – sometimes I even follow her around – as she mills and stares and sets things in place – or just sits down herself and gets lost in private worlds of thoughts and actions.

I stare hard at Dorian as I watch her sometimes mute – sometimes fully devoid of livid expression. I follow the movement of her eyes. Dorian speaks with her eyes. Sometimes I don’t want to stare into her eyes at all – they have this quality that make me feel naked – a strange sort of bare-ness that plunges cold spindly needles of revelation into my naked skin – making me twitch and slowly, like a wiccan charm – turn me into a transparent shade of me – see through, for Dorian to read me completely – not missing any secret – not even the ones I knew I was hiding inside of me – from me.

I follow Dorian around relentlessly.

There is a reason why I do that.

I wouldn’t want to miss any part of Dorian as she sheds her snake skin – every now and then – morphing and changing continuously – turning into a new woman every other second – like a whole vivid world of discovery for me – I follow her around – collecting the shed off skins that were once Dorian and carefully stuffing them inside my pocket – I know I one day when I have collected enough of her – I will build a Dorian of my own – with bits and pieces of her – the changed and the lost and the ones sacrificed for a simple pleasure or for a graver, mutinous wile of destiny – I will reform and rebuild – Dorian – with the shed off skins I collect as I religiously follow her around – and someday I will surprise her and show her, her – and say,

‘Look Dorian, did you ever know how beautiful and various you are?’

When Dorian one day walked into my mind – just walked in, like she was a supercilious Queen who owned everything she liked – I think she liked my mind – she just walked in – and built herself her a spot of comfort – inside my head. I was past rebelling; her charms preceded her and did their job. I only motioned to open the doors of my mind for her – to let her in with her grandeur and mystique.

That day Dorian promised me that she only wanted a comfortable spot. That she would some days like to visit, sometimes even stay over for the night – inside my mind. She liked the view from in there, she later told me.

She wouldn’t encroach any more than I offered. That’s also what she’d told me that day.

But Dorian lied. Yes – Dorian lies a lot.

But you couldn’t hate her for her lies. They only brew a cloud of fascination – overpowering such that you would want to believe all her immaculate lies and hate it if the truths ever tried to pry open from the inside, the lid of the secret box they were stuffed in to languish and rot.

It’s the beautiful lies that explain and describe Dorian’s gypsy mind. The truths, they just strangle the soul of Dorian.

But I missed the point.

The point is that Dorian had lied again.

Dorian had no intention of ever just sitting there twiddling her thumbs in that reserved spot – Dorian’s intended to walk all over my mind.

She wants to bare the canopied secrets – she wants to unthread the stitched lines – she wanted to turn over, inside out - the fictitious remainders of my past – a past I couldn’t relate with at any level as of being my own – hence fictitious – she wanted to romp bare naked, clad in her dreamy, pointed, prying, deep watching stare feral and preying – Dorian intended to rule my head.

That’s how Dorian went on and built a ministry of lust inside my head – all for her.

And, I suspect that she did all this deeply subconsciously. If Dorian were to ever be accused of her transgressions – she would look on highly offended and say something staid and stiff like, ‘I’m deeply insulted…’

That – is the Dorian for the outside world.

The mysterious, fallen, gypsy woman from hell with ravage on her mind, Dorian – that one, she belongs to me.

There are days when I kiss Dorian. There are days when Dorian kisses me back. The days when I kiss Dorian are the days when I am all consumed by Dorian – and the fire that is Dorian – the one that hungers inside me – for a little more part of her – crawls all over Dorian to feed itself more on Dorian’s remains.

When Dorian kisses me back – its then, when Dorian becomes me – a sort of punctuated completion – doesn’t come ever so often – I’m mostly exhausted and overflowing with Dorian most times – but there are these days – sensual, wild and purple – streaked with a Technicolor cloud of smoke around us – wrapped around me – these days – Dorian becomes me.

I love to crawl all over Dorian. She is a magnificent woman.

There are parts of Dorian I love with love. There are parts of Dorian that I love with a vengeance.

Sometimes when I kiss Dorian on her neck, slowly, with my hands running all over her face – Dorian turns to look around, aside, and I ask her, ‘Do I make you nervous, Dorian?’

There are other times when I kiss her feet and run my fingers over the bare naked skin of the backside of her legs, that she bends low and holds my face in between her hands, pulling me dangerously close into her - and she whispers back, ‘No, you don’t make me nervous at all.’

There are days when I just want Dorian to sit there, and fry in heat – these are the aggravated times - the times when the need for Dorian’s touch is more overpowering than my love for her.

Such times I’m befuddled and incapacitated with her hunger – and I search for spots and parts of her that will pacify the raginginside me – born of her, but for her.

The spots and parts of Dorian – the tips of her cold fingers, the fleshy part of her palm – the insides of her wrists, the crook of her elbow – slowly climbing upwards, the fleshy inside of her arms, slowly moving upwards still, inching closer to her neck – then backing off and sliding down her collar bone and rushing down the slippery incline of her chest – heaving – nudging deeper into her soft flesh – the scent of her sweat – musk, her hands in my hair – the ragged, short breaths – her heart beating wildly, caged inside her ribs – I could stay there – listening to it mock at me because the ravishing hunger would only grow on me – like the captivity of an erotic disease - then down onto her stomach – huge fills of her skin – wet with moistened lips, a pert belly button like a yawning into Dorian – and the soft flesh underneath it – her legs wrapped around me – she would draw me as close as she could – me to her – maybe at such times Dorian understands that I need her more than just for survival.

Maybe it’s for the sake of sanity.

Dorian – she hungers inside me – now, a part of me.

Yes. I love Dorian very much. Mindlessly and past all regrets. Dorian, as I said is a part of me now – inseparable.

Sometimes her love feels like a wicked fantasy – and she comes across as a charmer. A Wiccan witch, bothersome, feeding off my mind – wrestling with it – and having it succumb to her lust.

Sometimes I wonder if I am so insensible to love Dorian the way I do.

Sometimes I feel that maybe I am just dreaming.

Sometimes – the unnerving times – I wonder if it is a condition, a sickness of my mind – to love Dorian, a woman, the way I do.

But then I stand up and go and stand before the mirror – the mirror that reflects Dorian swimming inside my eyes – funnily childish – past the blacks and grays and dilated pupils – I see her drawn up taut across my forehead.

I raise my hands and smell my skin and I smell Dorian off me.

Her sweat has seeped way too deep into my skin that I feel and smell the way she does.

I see her smile back at me, as I cock my head at an angle and smile back at my reflection in the mirror.

I see Dorian, the woman I love – smile back at me, through me – the woman that I am, myself.

Yes, I think I love Dorian way too much to go back now.

There is nowhere to go back to – than to Dorian, now, really.

Dorian is home.

(For Dorian)





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