Shakespeare’s forbidden desire
It’s almost evident to me now that the world where I have lived and shined will one day remember me as one of the greatest dramatists to have ever lived, a model of poetic perfection, the epitome of intelligentsia and a pioneer among modern English playwrights. But like everyone else, I too had my share of vulnerabilities and muddled choices. I have felt those irresistible urges for the forbidden, things that we know are capable of causing havoc and disruption in our lives, yet we cannot help but desire them. Love is one such thing. I have experienced love more than once but not all of my dabbling’s at love can be deemed to be homologous.
I got married even before I could understand life for what it is, and before I could protest, I found myself tied down by a wife and a child, residing in a small county, living under the toll of mundane responsibilities as I slowly drifted away from my dreams, each day a step farther. But I had to go away and pursue my dreams and I did, I went to London. With the help of a few old friends and my own talents, I soon started getting work. Although, the nature of my work hardly pleased me, it was nevertheless the kind of impetus I needed in this new city. Soon I was rubbing shoulders with the crème de la crème of British capital’s academic elite and that, as one might assume, opened a gateway to infinite possibilities. On one such occasion, I was introduced to this accomplished and enigmatic gentleman. His name was Christopher Marlowe. I was already familiar with his writings as they had been adapted into excellent plays at the local theater house. Naturally I was already an admirer of his work way before our first meeting. But there was more to this gentleman than the work to his credit. I could see the depth in his eyes, the charm in his smile and that strange aura around him. I kept running into him in similar social settings for weeks to come and before I could resist, he was already an acquaintance.
One night he took me to a wine bar. The place was dimly-lit and there were small dingy compartments flanked by blackish-blue silk curtains to separate one from the other. We were escorted to one such compartment situated at the farthest end of the room. The air smelled old and dusty making the overall ambiance a fairly suffocating one. I turned to Marlowe hoping to dissuade him from staying at this place but I stopped myself after seeing the look of tranquility on his face. Our fate for that night was single handedly decided by him and there was nothing I could do to reverse that decision. We ordered wine which was readily delivered and after an hour or so, we found ourselves intoxicated enough to ease into a more candid manner of conversation. He approached my hand and held it in his. I was taken off guard because I did not see the move coming. In a jerky reaction I pulled my hand back with a smile of indifference plastered on my face. To diffuse this new physical tension in that tiny but intimately relaxing compartment, I changed the subject to his play’s recent success at the theater and how everyone was in an awe of his work. In return, he asked me about my new ventures with the pen and was all ears as I talked for what seemed like a very long time. I remember telling him how much I admired his latest play ‘Tamburlaine’ and was working on a piece inspired by it. That brought a smile on his face, and what a handsome smile it was.
Love and sexuality are fluid concepts and in the age I live through, switching genders in lovers is not the taboo it once was. I have heard some of my friends speak of making love to other men but I have never considered myself to be one of them. Maybe that’s because I never had the chance and time to explore all that the world had to offer. But after seeing Marlowe in his dense beard, with his handsome face and strong biceps that promised the pleasures of youth — something I still shy away from discussing in so many words, I just couldn’t help but stare at him like some hawkish predator. As the evening drew to a close I took my leave, promising to visit him the next day to discuss Tamburlaine in detail and understand all the aspects of its characters to give a solid base to the inspiration for my latest work.
The following day I was busy with my agent so I couldn’t make it to Marlowe’s during the day. I got off from work as twilight dissolved into the night. Initially I thought of dismissing the idea of seeing him, as London wasn’t a secure place for a long walk after dark . I also wasn’t sure if he will be home by the time I will get there or gone somewhere else to indulge himself into more pleasurable pursuits. But the urge to see him couldn’t be vanquished easily and I decided to take my chances. Next two hours were gone in the blink of an eye and I found myself facing the entrance of Marlowe’s residence. A lady at the entrance escorted me to his room. The building wasn’t what I was expecting. I was expecting a bit more of an extravagant way of living from him but from the looks of it, it appeared that he was spending a major portion of his earnings on buying expensive wine. I knocked at his door until he answered.
We stepped in and there really wasn’t much to look at. A single bed and two chairs and only one of them looked comfortable. There was a shelf full of books and I must confess, the sight of books was the only material delight in the entire room. He seemed drunk so he excused himself from all social courtesies and retired to his bed. He was only wearing a lose pants and no shirt. I could see the naked upper half of his body. I kept sharing at it until he interrupted me with a question, the content of which I don’t seem to remember now and neither does it matter. We both knew what was happening there. Marlowe wasn’t just an attractive looking man. His wild physical appearance agreed with his equally wild persona and both things combined were so overwhelming that I could not resist. He seemed to have sensed my weakness and decided to prey on it. He moved closer to me and started touching my lips with his while holding me tight in his arms. I don’t know whether it was his physical strength or the strength of his wild passion but I couldn’t help but surrender myself to him. That was the night that changed the direction of my life and events that followed that night will be preserved in the books of literary history.
