sunday, late

Come to bed, sweet, come now.

I should have fallen asleep now hours ago, or before now, anyway. The night has grown late, and I wait for you, want you, cannot sleep.

I have found the turquoise nightgown, the old one, vintage, some fantasy from long ago. It charms you, I know, with its ruffles, the polyester lining beneath chiffon, my hair up, now down as you unfasten it, let my dark strands fall onto my shoulders, and you, the kiss of red wine.. I drink from your glass, and yes, it is wonderful. For this I stay up late, just to watch you walk into the room, then turn, aroused by my nightly reading, your hand on the hem of the skirt.

You are quick, my love, your clothing tossed to the ground so quickly, so hurriedly, as I barely have the chance to enjoy the slow exposure of your fine flesh, your trousers bulging in front, your spray-starched shirt laid carefully upon my stack of skirts and sweaters that I might choose to wear this week. Why not put them in the closet, you say, until you open the closet, and see the dilemma, no room, too much, you are not surprised, as you lower your head beneath my legs, nearly immediately, yes, I wore panties, was wearing panties, and you have rolled them down my legs so deftly, now off, and your head is where I dreamed it might be, soon, now, your tongue circling my clit as you kneel in your navy briefs and lick me.

I should sleep, but now am wet, my sweat unavoidable in this room, this gown that, while elegant, does not breathe, meant obviously to please only momentarily before eventual removal, and you have pulled it now over my shoulders, my neck, your cock pressing against the briefs, which I nearly as quickly roll down your ass, and off. I could stop, revel in the luxury of skin, your honey hair at the base of your ready cock, my skin now supple, first, inviting, hot, ripe, as I see your prick bounce as I lick you there, me now kneeling as you stand, run your hands through my hair, then grasp my head, thrust into my mouth first hard, then though you thought you might hurt me, toss yourself onto the bed, pulling me atop.

I should sleep, the hours all the shorter as I look at the alarm, set, must awaken by six o’clock, and it is midnight now, past, now Monday, early, and I want to sleep, want more to fuck you, want more for you to flip me over and send me into sweet oblivion, sweet dreams, your come dripping from my throbbing cunt, my ass, and the dreams between. No, I cannot sleep, not with you in my bed, not yet.

monday morning

Complacency reigns here, too, on a Monday, a holiday, an I have a dream day, and I dream of more noble things, of equality and justice, and persistent integrity, and I have plans for the day. But right now I dream you, here lying in bed beside me so late on a weekday morning. It is a stolen day, the luxury of one more weekend day to lie in late, to roll back in against your belly, your sleeping fingers curling my hair, pushing it from my forehead, my ears, my neck, you hard against my back as I feel your movements more exact as you awaken, more intentional as the morning grows later.

The clock ticks. I reach for the lamp switch, now gasping, electric, your fingers dancing, your lips softly setting me ablaze beneath these sheets, resistance transformed into ardent need to have you not just closer, but fused to me, thirst realized now unquenchable. I dreamed I could survive without water once, and now I drink. I swim. I could drown in it, but I won’t.

The coffee is dark, sweet, milk caramelized in the steel pitcher left too long with the steam boiling it, froth spilling out while you kiss me madly, once more, twice. I grab the pitcher, hot milk everywhere now, the oranges in the Wedgwood bowl beside the sink a still-life. I contemplate, licking the milk from my fingers, reaching for an orange. It is perfect, the milk cooling and thick, the cream whipped to put on the coffee, with the grated orange peel, the sharp sweetness as you reach beneath my peignoir now, yes I did wear it, as you squeeze my sore nipples, and the cream melts, the orange zest floating in the coffee as you push into me again, again. Yes, green birds and temptation of flesh, the desire for here, now, the world so glorious as I think of why I dream, why I fight, what wishes we all must have, what we all must know.

together alone

Sylvie was tossing in her bed, the bed to be precise, in room #804 of our famous hotel.

It was a bad choice, Sylvie had thought as she walked into the familiar lobby, relieved though to find unfamiliar faces at the desk, an older bartender at the bar, and Jean-Paul not loitering in the lobby. Sylvie took her sunglasses off–it was night, after all. She set her suitcase on the ground as she waited for the elevator. L. Yes, here. No one stepped off. She stepped on, up, down the hall, to her room.

Her exhaustion gave way to crisp sheets, the Mozart playing low beneath dimmed lights, the Andes mint on the night stand. It was all so predictable, but so comforting. Sylvie undressed, and let the cool cotton envelop her. She slept.

——————-

Todd slept, as well, fitfully, as he was not sleeping in his own bed, as he had become accustomed, but in Sylvie’s bed. It was too soft, too warm, and to top it all off, an obstacle course through various toys that she used, quite evidently, when Todd was absent.

It was late when Todd awoke again, nearly 11pm. The wood fire was surely out by now, but lingering fatigue was the winner in the argument, and he stayed in bed, disrupted at last by the small rubbery item that had rolled out of the bag beneath the pillow. Todd thought to tend the fire, but grabbed the toy, the tapered soft tip vaguely familiar, vaguely arousing as he wrapped his fist around, remembered it, perhaps, remembered it opening him up one night, one rare night so long ago now it seemed…

The lube was prominently displayed on the neighboring nightstand–his, when he’d have it. Todd reached for it, popped the cap up and squirted a small drop into his finger. On his side, he could reach back, finger his tiny dirty hole. He felt himself blush, he thought, so enticing the sensation, so exquisite the memory of Sylvie’s fingers filling his ass as his cock filled her mouth. Yes, yes, a climax that seemed never to come, then never to end. He coated the toy with lube, and drew with it gently beneath his balls.

———————–

Oh, Todd! Sylvie was dreaming. Her sleep mingled with the day’s unfulfilled desire. Exhaustion only exacerbated by the slumber that had overtaken her, but as if only to tease her. Sylvie lay restless in the bed, her legs now loose and open, her hand absentmindedly finding its way between them.

She was wet–no, moist. He was not there, and she was sleepy, only a little tempted, perhaps to touch, perhaps more to relieve the tension as she so often did, finger on clit, round and round. Yes, so lovely, these daily masturbations. But now she needed, she wanted more.

The cord of the Hitachi dangled from her bag, and she yanked the massager out by it. She followed the length of the lamp cord to find an outlet quickly. Sylvie lay on her belly, and pushed against the wall to move the bed back far enough, pulled out the lights  and fit the plug of the Hitachi into the wall. She turned over and opened her legs, the large mechanical white head near as she pulled the covers around her, as she lay back against the multitude of pillows, some propped beneath her legs as well. So long, Sylvie thought, since she had surrendered to the unmistakable hum of the machine. She pressed the button to the lower setting, still strong, and placed it above her clit, tensing from it, then pressing into the power, near the precipice, higher, her breath light in this world, a warmth still overcoming, her skin on alert, and still, still unfilled, oh, that gripping desire. She reached into her bag, but the other toys were not in it. She was wet, testy now so close to relief. Sylvie turned the vibrator to high, her body shrinking, shaking, shrieking, yes, at last, at last, as she collapsed into the pillows, the comfort of the strange bed surrounding her, welcoming her, even in her tears, her loneliness, her freedom, her dreams.

————————-

Todd raised his knee, rolling onto his erection as he found more lube and relaxed, letting his fingers, the dildo, enter him, burning first, then relinquishing resistance, in, the tightness now his cock stiffer, the memory of Sylvie standing behind him, strapped onto the toy, penetrating, pushing gently in as she pressed the small of his back with her small hands, her power radiant as he told her to fuck him, fuck him hard. He rolled now onto his knees, reaching back to push the dildo in, then out, damn, yes, his balls filling, near. But no, not quite. That distant night so long ago, Todd had reached back for Sylvie, reached back to feel her excitement, her delight, she said, as she watched her new cock slide in and out of him, his gasps, and at last his request. Take it off, he wanted, yes, and she had left the dildo deep in his ass as she turned him over.–Todd turned over now, too.– Sylvie had climbed on top of his swollen cock, her juices warm, tightly taking him in, fucking him… his hand now in that place, lubed, her pillow near as he smelled her hair, her perfume, but not her warmth, faster. She had swallowed him sometimes, his cock holding back as it pushed against her throat, the vibrator then beneath his balls then irresistible, ecstasy, as his come shot into her mouth, into her cunt, into her, skin, gone. Todd looked beneath the pillow, but the vibrator was not in its usual place. He arched his back, the dildo tight against the bed, deeper, mmm, as he ran his hand faster, yes, more lube, faster, at the top, his hand coated now, relief, sleep, sadly invading.

haunted hayride

The stars shone bright, even so close to the city, and the wood fire scent permeated every neighborhood, or so it seemed. It was the perfect autumn night, and in spite of it I had only reluctantly left the comforts of home to head out to yet another pre-Halloween event. Do they ever end? I wondered, thinking already of the costume I needed soon, the grand affair I was hosting, despite my foul mood lately.

Things were just not working out, he had told me, leaving me standing in the doorway one morning in my bathrobe and tears, flustered and confused, and after that, angry at his sudden disappearance. Not a trace of him remained anywhere, I realized, not that I was looking.

And honestly, I was not, convinced as I was in retrospect that his mood swings of late, his silences, his long, heartfelt if bewildering looks toward me, were all indications of some sort of change that would not include me in his future. Why chase him if his heart had already gone?

It was only when his sister called me frantically a few weeks later that I knew that he had abandoned not only me, but his family, friends, and job, as well. And then came the stories of the emptied bank account, the missing car found later several states away, the classic signs of someone who has either been kidnapped or who means to start over somewhere else.

He had said goodbye. It seemed unlikely to be foul play, and even now, months after he left, no reason seemed to make sense. It was as if he had died. I did not know exactly how to define my feelings anymore, and remained  utterly unable to move forward in my own life, much to the chagrin of nearly everyone who knew me. Despite my initial anger, I realized that he was still with me somehow, though I never mentioned it.

I never spoke of this feeling, strong as it was, because I could not explain it, was in fact not sure if I felt him or his ghost. At times wished that he had died, if only so that I could believe in the paranormal, rather than wondering if I was losing my own mind.

Friends mean well, I am sure, when they try to coax people out of self-inflicted longings. But I wonder, too, if it is simply their own discomfort at watching what they believe to be undue suffering. Perhaps even suffering itself is misunderstood, poorly tolerated in spite of its inevitability in our human lives.

Did I suffer? I wished him close, wished that the desire–no, the sheer erotic ecstasy of whatever possessed me now–were complete in his physical nearness. I wished for some tangible evidence of his presence, and only in that, I suffered because I feared being misunderstood.

It was a haunted hayride. We stood in line sipping apple cider for nearly an hour, the brisk fall night coming in quickly as we waited. At last, the masks, the scary teenagers jumped at us, the doll feet on a barbecue grill, the werewolves and witches, the various horrific creatures lunging themselves toward us… I laughed, screamed, wished I was home, but less now as I saw Cassiopeia in the sky, the moon low and bright. We climbed into the wagon for our ride, and squeezed tightly together near the back.

The tractor started, and we bumped down the grassy hill, the hay fresh and distinct in my memory of those weeks in the country. I remembered the barn he knew so well for so long before he even showed it to me. I remember his rough beard scratching my cheek as I wandered down in the early morning while he tended to the horses, let them out to the field, chores interrupted by coffee and days otherwise free, beginning there against the side of a stall, kisses, rough, urgent, the hay then beneath us until we finally ran inside, leaving the stable then for hours and hours while we fucked on an old featherbed. This could never last, and yet it did.

Hay. His fingers ran up my arm now as another group on the wagon knocked into ours. Yes, his fingers, I was sure. I looked up, and saw a cap, a jacket, not his, not then. But now, no I recognized his exquisite grasp, even as zombies with chain saws chased the wagon down the hill.

It had been months, though–months that I ached for his touch, his breath on my neck. I searched for him in my dreams, in all the collected worlds that I kept safe away from the harsh day-to-day in which he no longer existed.

A hand touched my shoulder, moved my hair from it and ran along my neck. Graves in a mock cemetery opened, and skeletons ran out, chasing us once more. Women screamed as fires blazed bright. Hillbillies ran from their houses shooting rifles at the sky as we passed. He whispered my name. “Sarah, oh Sarah.”

And I melted as I gave into my longing, felt my body like butter, melting, warm, leaning in toward him on the hay, whispering back, oh yes, stay now, please stay.

The lights from the barn reappeared as the tractor made its way back up the hill. I felt a chill, wondering what to do now where I could see, half afraid that I might have dreamed him, too. Suddenly the tractor slowed as men ran out at us, once more yelling, their masks hideous. He jumped from the hay and ran with them back toward the woods, as I felt the terror once more of watching him disappear with no explanation.

I never said anything to my friends, and after a late night coffee and a few forced smiles, made my way back home, to my bath, my bed.

It was not until the next day that I reached into my jacket pocket and found it. A note.

“I love you, Sarah.”

And a number, ten digits.

A dial tone.

Hay. His hand in mine, then, as before, now, perhaps. I am red, heart pounding, yielding yes, dizzied. Hope. His phone rings.

reverie

I finally went downstairs and turned the heat on this morning. It has been raining now for days, much less like summer today than I had hoped when I heard the thunder start in the early morning. No run. The rain came gushing down, and though it is quiet now, the chill has returned. Inside again. Like last night, the desire for so much more.

It is Friday night, and I am in a shopping mall–any shopping mall, it does not matter. They are all the same. I pass the stores, their manufactured signature scents drifting out to the middle, the music, the consumer-enticing ambiance. Williams-Sonoma is a pristine ode to cooking, a diverted desire as I think about it, cooking being that sensual release for those who have either given up on sex or have a lot of it–seduction or its surrogate, depends on the context, depends on whether I get to fuck you tonight, or if I fulfill my need with a plate of fresh figs, drizzled with honey, tangy yogurt on the side. Yes I would feed you these miniature cunts if you were here. But alas you are not.

I wonder as I watch the various people who have gathered here at the mall tonight: the young man with a paperback and a ballpoint, stopping, marking passages as he sits seemingly oblivious to the world around him. A man paces, gesticulating, as he yells into a cell phone–he is not yelling, but it is big, important, whatever he is saying, and perhaps everything he says is big and important while he waits outside a store, waits for his name to be called at the restaurant, waits. Most people just walk by, in pairs, alone, in packs. It all seems like paper.

I miss you here as I go about the ordinary days and my daydreams, I imagine the waves and the starry skies and the low clouds and the confinement, the freedom, where nothing matters, where everything matters. But here I am, with my dreams of clattering streets and cardamom, diesel fuel and coffee and bread baking as the rain falls somewhere else. Here I am, wishing for more time, wishing for no time, for time to disappear completely, for time to evaporate into the air, with the space, no space, no boundaries, only dreams.

And so I dream, and write, here, in a warm house, a cozy house, a house heated to stave off the summer chill. We are somewhere else.

dream

I am sleepy, foggily finding my way into a hot bath, then bed, then you, thinking of you here, you there in some unfamiliar bed somewhere else, you dreaming, faded into exhaustion and heat and memory and dreams, until you wake, confused early in the morning by the surroundings. Are you here? or anywhere? or reaching in the night, reaching for stars, for dreams, for the warmly familiar, for the quickening pulse?

rainy days and sundays

Drops of rain splash onto the puddles, reflecting grey on the cool streets this late summer day. I love the rain, love the excuse to let my feelings wander, let my senses explore.

Hot tea is on my desk, warming fingers that type these words now as the music marches on.. It is the Bach–you know the one, the one in my car, the harpsichord concerto, the F minor, second movement.. the one that makes me stop and watch the raindrops out the quarter circle window where I write, thinking of the rain falling here, falling outside the window of my bedroom down below. I wish you were here contemplating these measures, wish you were here behind me, reaching around to unbutton my blouse and run your hands over my nipples still tender from being clamped for so long last night, luring me down the stairs, tempting me down from this room full of artifacts.. the Rilke left open on the desk next to the laptop, the pictures of friends holding rabbit ears up behind my head long ago, the ben wa balls neatly in their box, the notes and notes, the drawings, the dreams, the condom wrapper torn open and left on the floor from the last time you took me here, leaning me over my chair and pushing my legs apart impatiently to suit your needs, and evidently mine. No, no, I say, not wanting to leave my comfort, my words. Yes, yes–eventually overcome by desire for you, as I always am.

But you are not here, no. It has been so long that I dream you, perhaps, wish these things, some of them, many of them.. my imaginings on the page–on the screen–here like desire itself, the creative urge. The urge to fuck you in my big bed, in fantasies that grow wilder with the passing days. Wild? Oh.. yes, wild always as I touch your skin, as I explore you in various ways.. always wild despite the variations, the kaleidoscope of possibilities twisted, turned into one more way to fuck you.

I want a rainy day. I want you here as the rain falls, as my hair falls–how it fell when it was longer–into your face as I lean over you, my cunt enveloping your upright cock in moments too warm, too delicious, too marvelous. I hover above you, hot above you, you needing that velvet rush, the tightness, me full and soft and humid and swelling around you, thrilled, I wait there, frustrating you, your hands on my hips, pushing me down as I resist, tease you until you force the issue, push me harder down and oh, oh fuck, as we slide in together, you say I am such a good fuck as I ride you, first sliding all the way up, then back down, deeper, again and again. And then stay there, rocking, while you hold my hips down, while you look into my eyes to see that look you know, that look you say I always have when I am about to come, and you have regained control, can keep from coming now yourself, and you have me. You have me. Now, you flip me, grab my shorter hair, push my face into a pillow… I no longer gasp at this so much as smile, relieved that you are taking me.. taking over my body and using it, using me, fucking me hard while you hold my arms down and kick my legs apart–but no.. teasing, teasing.. I want this, now not the largo movement, but the presto, the insistent now now that urges you violently inside me again.. seeking resolution.

It is raining. I hear the rain as I lie still in the low late afternoon light, lie low, lie here in my bed, lie here, spent, and thinking of you.

steal away

Tonight, a cool night, the breeze, dreams come to me. I might be persuaded to fly away with them.

The balcony door is ajar, my dear..