Tuesday October 20th 2020

“At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.” – Plato

Madame K is an international woman of mystery and writer of erotic fiction, who is eternally in search of the perfect mojito and the perfect orgasm, preferably at the same time. She fights for a world in which every woman can embrace their sexuality with honesty, humour, and oodles of enjoyment. This is not a sex health column, this is a sex mental health column.

The unimaginable torture of standing, in public, next to your lover, whom you haven’t seen for a month, but whom you are not supposed to even know…

We were normally so careful, and we did know we’d be uniting the following day. We were aware of one another’s presence in the same city, country, continent. Even that knowledge sent a tingling through my bones. But that was nothing compared to the jolt of catching sight of him through the crowd. Funny how the shape of the back of a head can be so well-known. And as the head turns…as the ear, the cheek, the jaw, the nose, the eyes, oh, the eyes, come into range. The fire as our eyes meet, seeing the recoil in his body as he struggles to reconcile my presence here without skipping a beat.

Apparently, I continued talking almost as if I were a normal human being, in a normal situation, and not a possessed woman consumed with a desire to throw myself into his arms – the only safe place on the planet. I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I turned my back to him, but I could feel his warmth moving through the crowd, I knew without a word that he was coming ever closer.

And suddenly his laugh. Like white hot flame through my heart. I cannot believe that I didn’t burst into tears, fall to my knees. But no, I continued to stand, continued to make small talk, kept something that passed for a smile plastered on my face. Shards of his voice: “yes, delightful”, “it’s been a bit of a difficult time”, and with a newly cracking voice “I’m really looking forward to tomorrow”. Is he talking to me? No, of course not, not directly, but he knows I can hear him.

It was too much to expect us to survive unscathed. We turned, unexpectedly, perhaps drawn by a force we couldn’t contain.

His arm brushed mine.

I felt the journey of every tiny hair across my body, the slight pressure of his muscle beneath the surface, the gentle silk of his skin, the goosebumps rising, mine or his or both, it didn’t matter, the electricity surged between us, and how could the whole world not see? He lingered a little too long. I glanced up to catch his eyes locked on mine. Our lips parted, and he breathed “my love”.

Someone called his name. He murmured “so sorry”. He walked on. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. It had been enough.

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