resist me

Resisting you is futile.

I knew it then, that first smile, when you glanced at me across a crowded room, watched me cross my legs and watched me look down to straighten my skirt, then look up, to look at you, looking at me, you.

My words twist, convulse, as I lie back on a soft morning, my dressing slow and luxurious, as though I had nowhere in particular to go, though I am dressing to leave for the day. I have nowhere to go, I wish, but to fall back into bed, with you, your dream, you, not here, somehow here, soon here. Your voice drifts off as words turn to meaning. You know what I mean, exactly. You are here.

I wonder, at the time, daylight savings, time lost, time spent, time waiting, time I could say I devoted to you, to desire, to the mere wonder of a moment, lost, spent, awaited, devoted, desired, a moment. One more. That’s all.

 

 

 

thoughts on life, and on groundhogs and their predictions

The new year came in with a series of deaths.

Death of a short-lived love, which might have bloomed, which never could.

Death of a friend, who long ago assembled a series of my writings and inserted them into something he called a web log, a blog–not this one, but the introduction to a new way of creating, for me. He saw a lot, lived a lot, and I loved to hear his stories, and his gentle urges for me to write, write more. His only request for this gift was that I should urge someone younger, when I am older. His generosity inspires me still.

Death, last of all, of my mother. I cannot say enough to do justice to her inspiration. She had many dreams in her life–grand ones!–and taught me the importance of living well, in so many ways, of loving well. She taught me, too, to dream.

I think of these dear moments, as snow falls gently here on a Sunday morning, snow that cannot decide if it might not rather be rain on this not-so-cold day, day that despite big storms and exertions of winter, may–as the groundhog promised– consider the possibility of spring not so long from now, days that repeat in all the splendor that this life brings us.

eighty

He would have been eighty years old today, had he lived.

If he had lived… Did he ever?

Can life be measured in a heartbeat, in a breath? Life wasted, the daring maneuvers that we think distinguish us, that seem so full, so full of life themselves. We shock, we defend, we state our cause, we climb the mountain. We drink, drum, make noise, fill our time to the brim with stuff. Are our adventures and our busy lives just ways to turn away from the vulnerabilities that make us beautiful?

Once, when my dad was dying, he told me that he was afraid. He cried, maybe the first time that I had ever seen him so small, and so big.

When I was a little girl, I loved my dad, believed in him, the reality he presented to me. But in that moment, as I had grown into a woman and seen more of life, I realized that this may well have been the first time I had ever felt that he really knew love. And in that moment, he told me that he finally saw the richness that he was about to leave behind, the long moments, quiet, the laughter, the sweetness of being that he never could reveal until the end. So sad what could have been. Knowing.. but yes, too late to know so well, to find that sort of quiet joy that only comes with time, and trust. How often do we protect ourselves into a sort of silent seclusion until it is too late?

And why? What makes a person turn away from his own heart? What makes a person stop when he begins to feel vulnerable? needy?

Opening enough to absorb love takes courage, I know. Men shun weakness, taunt one another for softness. And perhaps because of this, it is easier to be hard, easier still to hide.

A hand bitten–or worse, ignored–may stay near, but stops reaching. A heart stops hoping, its hunger denied until we starve, even with relief so close. We stay broken but still hoping–and denying that hope, ashamed to hope. Is this a lesson that a child was meant to learn? How do we sit with our heart?

I hope.

Trust is sublime, connection, transport to some splendorous realm, sensation bringing me back to my own heart–but so perilous a place to awaken alone.

Life was meant for more than distraction. Love, slow days, a hand reaching for mine, a secret, a favor, a kiss, a surprise, a word, a heartbeat, a breath, a habit, a safe place to admit that I care.

once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.

goodnight moon

Sanda wore gold ankle bracelets that jangled gently as she wandered through the farmer’s market. You’d hear a soft music, and look up at a black silk of hair as she sauntered past, look down at her bare foot kicking out from beneath the tightly wrapped long skirt, the circles of gold around her brown butter baby skin.

Sanda told me the story of climbing quickly out a window late one night, never to return home again. She remembered the shadow of the teak chairs on the porch, the banyan tree, voices hushed, her brothers. And then she imagined the rest of her childhood through the stories her father told her.

We sat on her living room rug and drank wine. She complained about her boyfriend’s refusal to fuck her during her period.

Our boyfriends denied us many things, we decided.

“I want him to eat me,” she slurred, lying now on her belly and hugging a pillow. She rolled to her back, and ran her hands down her arms, and across her thighs. “I want him to bury his face between my legs and lick me until I pass out.” She laughed, “That’s not asking too much, is it?”

My boyfriend was completely willing to venture into the world of cunnilingus, regularly, if lethargically. His sweet surrender to my every whim was enviable, Sanda told me. And for a little while, I was aroused by that thought–that he would do anything, anything, I asked him to do.

“Will he lick your ass?”

I knew he would, if I asked him. He asked me how, and dutifully spread my buttocks while I bent over his bed. I felt his tongue wet and cool around  my asshole, my pussy all the wetter as I envisioned describing the experience to Sanda. I pushed back against his mouth, urging his tongue in deeper–a sensation so strange, the way ice cream feels in your mouth, sweet and smooth, only it was  not ice cream, and it was not my mouth. I slid my hand beneath my pussy as he spread me open, wider, his tongue fucking me now, my fingers slick, circling my clit wildly as I cried out.  He stopped, then stood behind me. His cock rubbed gently at my ass, teasing against the tight rim. He hesitated, then sank gently instead into the heat of my pussy. “Oh, you are so wet!” he gasped, and he pushed in once more, much longer. His come dripped from me as his soft dick popped out. He fell onto the bed, nearly asleep already, and I climbed up beside him, pulled the towel between my legs, and hugged him. The towel rubbed against my ass, my clit still wanting.

After awhile, my period began to arrive with Sanda’s, and we spent the evenings of her menstrual banishment lying on the floor, sandalwood smoke trailing from the incense burner on the mantel, record after record spinning, my head light and giddy as the night grew darker, longer. Her skin smelled like butter.

Sanda stood and stretched, her moonlit silhouette framed by the window like a poster. Sanda cupped her breasts. “They are so swollen and sore!” She held them. “Whenever I touch them right now, it makes me want to fuck!” she said.

“Such a jerk.”

Sanda’s boyfriend never acknowledged me, but walked into her apartment occasionally, unexpectedly, and went directly to the fridge. Sanda rolled her eyes as he tossed her an empty beer bottle on the way back out the door. “Think fast!” he’d say.

“Hey, are you coming back later?” she’d ask. And he grunted back to her his yes or no, without embellishment of detail.

My own breasts were swollen now, too, my nipples hard from rubbing against my lace t-shirt. Sanda had promised to show me how to wrap a skirt, and she remembered suddenly, asked me if I wanted to do it now. I stood and reached for the batik cotton length that I had brought, and handed it to Sanda.

“Come, we need some pins.” Sanda stomped carelessly through her third-floor apartment, the neighbor’s inevitable knock on the ceiling bringing her back to herself. “I am very cranky, tonight, Leyla,” she said, as she walked into the bedroom.  I followed her.

“Stand here, by the mirror.”

Sanda reached into the drawer, and pulled out a handful of safety pins and threw them on the dresser. She reached across, and pulled at the waist of my shorts, and unbuttoned them. I pulled the zipper.

“The skirt needs to be tight on your hips,” she said, sliding my shorts off.

I stepped out of my shorts, and saw the curls of pubic hair beneath my panties. My cunt grabbed onto the tampon I was wearing. Even so, my panties felt damp as she unfolded the fabric and reached around me to wrap it. “This is beautiful,” she said as she pulled the cloth tight. I moved in closer to her, let my breast brush lightly against hers, as if it were an accident.

Sanda folded, and pinned. I could smell the sandalwood in her hair as she bent down, her breath on my breasts as she worked.

“There!” she straightened, and turned me toward the mirror. The skirt was dark blue, and she had hung it low, below the top of my panties.

“I see your underwear,” she giggled, and pulled at the elastic.

I froze, felt her warmth behind me. I shut my eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at her in the mirror. She gazed into my eyes there, and gave a soft nod.

I turned back to face her. Her nipples showed through the peach camisole, and my hand drifted up to touch her breast. She sighed, then smiled, then grasped my hand and kissed my wrist my arm, as she backed into the bed.

For weeks, my boyfriend had teased me about Sanda.

“Oh, is this a girl date?” he had snickered, as he looked up from his work order.

“Her boyfriend ignores her this time of the month,” I explained. My boyfriend did not ignore me. But he was glad, he said, to have some time to catch up on things at home.

In truth, I knew I overwhelmed him. He said so, sometimes. He said so the month that I stayed in the huge house I sat while my professors were abroad. “Sleep with me here,” I begged him. And for three nights, he watched me brush my teeth before bed, the me in purple pajamas that he wrote about years later. I began to kiss him, all three nights, talking talking all the while, and came three times each night after he was fast asleep. When the birds sang in the mornings, I climbed on top of him. He told me he needed more rest, and rolled away.

Sanda lay down on the bed, and I crawled beside her, dizzily turning to kiss her cheek. I pushed the strap of her camisole from her shoulder, and kissed her there. She sat up and pulled off her top, and I did the same.

She pinched my nipple, and leaned in to suck on it, relentlessly, as I moaned. She held my shoulders down, climbed across me, her pelvis now pressing against my knee.

The batik worked its way higher as I spread my legs open.

“May I?” Sanda unpinned the fabric as I whispered yes, yes. She lay next to me, and I reached down, dreamily expecting a hard cock. My hands ran down her legs, then pushed them apart

Sanda wore no panties. My finger followed her heat. Her eyes opened wide, as she spread a little wider. Her labia opened, and I touched her. She was drenching, and I felt the string from her cunt.

“You, too?” she laughed. We paused.

“Have you done this?” I asked.

“Never. You?”

“Never.”

I began to kiss her breasts, her belly. I wanted to lick her cunt, but she stopped me.

“I shouldn’t,” she explained. Her boyfriend was supposed to come over, after all, even if he was a jerk.

I told my boyfriend about the evening. He always encouraged my little crushes, and this time it made me wonder why. Love, yes–but passion, desire! That’s not asking too much, is it?

One day, I jumped into the passenger seat of a westbound convertible, and drove away forever. Sanda and I wrote long letters back and forth after that. But Sanda is the type of woman whose comfort lies in the tangible, in time spent, in the voice, in the body.

Come to think of it, I am that type of woman, too.

fear

If this were to disappear, all of this sensual world, what would we become?

If the excitement of your caresses were to become impossible, would you love me less? Would you be here still to kiss me, even in the absence of skin, the responses now different, wiser if changed by time and weather, seasons passing, the imperfections even of this oasis, where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen?

Or would it disappear, our world only fantasy? Would you want to stay where life is still real, and not perfect, no, but not without its beauty?

another

It is another of these sorts of nostalgic days, a calm day, wishful, wistful, but not in an unpleasant sort of way. The rain is light, the fog heavier, and the lights in the house are bright now after the cool streets so early in the morning, the quiet whoosh, the cleansing of days and thoughts, comfort, absence of sun, light within.

ashes to ashes

If we were to die suddenly, on a lovely day in Pompeii, what would we be? What would we become if we were locked in this very moment, left mute in a moment of mass destruction, a moment in time in violence, in an emphatic stop, in truth?

Would we be shackled, ever struggling to flee?

Would we hide, pull our melting tunics to cover our faces?

Would we be left waiting, forever frozen in the expectation of salvation?

Would you reach for me? Would I cradle your head against my breasts one last time as you touch my hand, my burning hair? Hair is ash, flesh is ash, among loving bones, corpses left longing, so long ago, so long.

tube

The inner tubes were there in the barn and stacked, and this time it was winter, not fall, and you were standing there at the bottom of the hill holding one and grinning at me. “Let’s go!” you said, and I went, carrying my tube up the hill beside you, both of us laughing as we slipped on the half-melted snow over ice and a weekday, and no one else near.

It was foolish, I know, foolish to be there in the cold, in the late afternoon, dark ready approaching even as we started our descent into that fearful night, the wonder and the improvisation. They are tubes, inner tubes, and not skis, not sleds, not snowboards, no canvas covers or lifts to drag our butts up the steep hill, no one watching out even as we sail down dangerously near the river where we rode on these tubes in the cold autumn water such a short time ago.

Your bare hands are red, now, raw, you damn you, always ready even when you’re not, always wanting to take me on these adventures. And I go all too willing. You remind me, it was my idea.

The heat of night awaits us, somewhere, in the glow of a fire, in the glow of love suspected. Your hands will still be red then, but warm as your fingers unfasten, trace temptation.

The thrill of it, the cold, the stunning slide, clouds dark along the horizon that is visible from up high, yellow lingering low in the sky as the brilliant blue turns pale, then nearly dark when we both lie laughing, soaking wet at the bottom. Only one ride today, a sudden urge, a moment stolen from no time, from the precious bite we take from it, from thoughts, from dreams, from the promise, from life.

2012

The year begins, sun, solitude, still of morning, smooth water, clean canvas, blinking cursor, anticipating stories, songs, adventures and our scribbled thoughts, attempts at eloquence, attempts at grace, our chance to cast the line, to take that chance, to stand there, raw, to stay.