I tried a writing prompt tonight that said to write 500 words of story in the imperative, only.* I came up with this, and then of course I had to go try it with Erik. I think it would be better, actually, with someone who isn’t my partner; the intimacy then would be more noticeable, more uncomfortable, and possibly more interesting.
Look up. Look at me. Gaze into my eyes. See me, really see me. Don’t say a word. Just look. Smile, or don’t smile, but don’t make silly faces. Let your eyes do the talking, if you want to talk. Watch me do the same with you. Study the emotions that pass across my features and out to you, via my eyes. Stay with me. Don’t look away. Feel the intimacy, even the unwanted intimacy. Look at me.
Now hold up your hand: left, right, doesn’t matter which. Hold it out and wait. Hold it steady and watch as I raise mine to meet it. Grasp my hand when it meets yours. Hold. Feel the warmth, the very thin film of perspiration or maybe hand lotion, perhaps the slight tremble as our skins make contact. Don’t take your eyes away from mine. Touch me now in two places: the gaze, the lifted hand. Don’t stroke with your hand, though you may lower it if your arm gets tired. Just grasp, hold, feel.
Now the other hand. Raise it. Wait. Feel the touch of mine. Hold it. Intertwine fingers, perhaps, this time. If the other one is lowered, lower this one too. Don’t take your eyes from mine. Feel me now in three places: the gaze, the linked hands. Feel the warmth spread to the rest of you from these three connections.
Wiggle your toes now. Keep your gaze on mine, but feel your feet. Move one forward: left, right, doesn’t matter which. Inch it toward mine until it meets, then stop. Wait. Feel the difference in your stance. Feel my toes come to cover yours. Keep looking into my eyes.
Don’t move your other foot. Connect with me now in these four places: gaze, left hand, right hand, one foot. Now feel my other foot move forward to nudge yours. Raise yours; cover mine. Stay with me. Feel your consciousness of our five points of touch. Stay with me.
Keep looking into my eyes as I look into yours. Prepare for still further closeness. When you see in my eyes that I am about to move, do the same: each of us leaning forward, just a little, so our foreheads touch. Don’t give in to the impulse to close your eyes. Keep them open. Hold.
Realize we are now connected in six places; seven, they say, is the magic number. Make your choice: do we touch our noses, or our lips, or not? Choose, and then, before you act, tell me with your eyes what you mean to do. Watch how I respond. Decide again if this is the choice you wish to make. Then act. Do not close your eyes. Maintain all points of contact. Stay with me.
Now: break away, however you wish, one connection at a time or all at once. Stay near me, or retreat, as you must. Feel the loss of me, or your liberation. Feel the soleness of your body, of your hands, feet, your independence, your loneness, your release.
Again, make a choice: walk away, or repeat?
—–
*From Brian Kitely’s The 3 AM Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction. I found it in the apartment and it’s great.
satsumabug.com | Lisa Hsia 
Gosh, how sensual ! You could go a long way from this starting point. I like it.
Thanks, Alan! I’ve been trying to get more sensual in my writing — not necessarily sexual, as I’m sure you recognize they needn’t be the same thing — and it’s been very interesting. The other day I was doing a writing prompt and I realized we look at lots of things, smell things, taste and hear them, but we don’t really touch a lot of things, really really touch. I wonder if that comes from an upbringing that generally teaches us that we shouldn’t touch, either for fear of germs or fear of offense. I went round the apartment touching everything and it felt tremendously rich to know how many different textures there were so close at hand. 🙂
Wow, I think that would be terrifying with someone you were’t already connected to. That is so intimate I’d be scuttling backward. Interesting reaction. Great writing because it made me very uncomfortable picturing myself in that situation.
Thanks, Lisa! (LisaLisa? 🙂 ) I think it’d be terrifying too. I don’t think I’d be willing to try it except with someone I already trusted… although some situations create enough of an atmosphere of trust that I’d be willing to do something like this with a stranger. When I was in college I took a yoga class that met in the early mornings, 6 AM or something, and it was fall or winter. The studio had big windows so the lights were kept dim to avoid the shock of so much artificial light. We did a partner exercise one day where we had to pair off and hold onto each other’s legs, and I got partnered with a young man who was wearing rather short shorts. The whole atmosphere just felt so early-morning, just-rolled-out-of-bed, that it felt insanely intimate to be touching this stranger’s warm legs — almost as if we’d been transported directly from our own beds into each other’s.
I’ve also been in a creative workshop where we divided into groups of four or five, sat in a circle holding hands, and vocalized together (no script, just whatever sounds we felt like making); that was deeply intimate too, also requiring of great trust. It scares me but I think I really like the idea of exploring trust with strangers. After all, actually, it’s what we all do, all the time.
i love the 3am epiphany!
I’d never heard of it till I found it in this apartment (along with its companion, The 4AM Breakthrough). Great stuff!!!