The romantic side of me would like to assert the notion that it is his voice alone that makes me smile and fills me with so much satisfaction. But, in truth, I have smiled this way while lying in the arms of other lovers, in other times and places far behind. It is like a reflex. It is the mutated sound of a man’s voice, and the scent of his flesh as can only be experienced when I am laying in his arms, which produces a seemingly hardwired reaction in me. I feel safe. I feel loved. Better yet, I feel worthy of being loved.
This is the closest I think I have ever come to understanding what it must be like to have had a father. This, I believe, must be what it is like to be physically close to, and affectionate with, a man in a way that is not explicitly sexual, and to have absolutely no doubt of my entitlement to his positive regard. This is what it must be like, I think, to be Daddy’s little girl. It is how I imagine it would feel, anyway.
And so, briefly, fleetingly, I live this strange proxy of a happy childhood experience with every new lover that I take. It never lasts very long. It is, after all, a substitute. And, as each relationship runs it course, I am reacquainted with the certain knowledge that I am neither safe nor loved. He is not my Daddy. I am not his little girl. My smile is dead and gone, too insubstantial to merit a burial.
This strange and beautiful sensation that this distorted voice awakened may be a memory from my very earliest days on Earth. I do not know. I only know that the voice is silent now, and will not be heard again until I have a new lover in whose arms I may lie and listen and hope for a better end to the story that it tells.
Photo by The Arbini Family. It can be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/toddarbini/2243779116/#
