rope

You bought rope. I do not know your intentions with this rope, but I can only hope by your mention that you have elaborate schemes that you are creating in these moments. You leave me suspended with your last words. Where are you, my sweet wicked one? Are you practicing your knots so that I will not escape when you are ready to take me? Are you contemplating the meaning of this restraint, the idea that I trust you now enough to tie me to my bed so that you can do as you like with me?

I can only hope now, wait for your words full of longing and lust. I want you, want to please you as you unwind your rope, take me over and fuck me, fuck my mind.

I wait.

what matters

It seems to be the trend that our encounters are interrupted by a telephone ringing, the odd early arrival of a visitor, the tow truck in a town that tows only twice a year…

I would be likely to be upset, but it is true that in the long run, these are only small things, things that happen in an ordinary day. The extraordinary part is your arrival at my house on a cool day, your kiss to ask me if I am feeling better.

“Wetter?” I ask.

“No, you say, “better, but shall we see what we can do about the other?”

I run upstairs with you behind me, run to throw my clothes off and wait for you in bed.

hot water

I sucked your balls hard today, much harder than I might have if I didn’t know you so well, didn’t hear you moan when I did it, didn’t feel your orgasm near as I pushed my finger a little deeper into your ass. Your pearly come is in my hair now, hours later, and I do not want to wash it out, even if I do have hot water now. Each time I look in the mirror and see the sticky white, I find my cunt burning, throbbing, wanting you to force my legs wide open and fuck me again.

It was all about a water tank, supposedly. Much ado about a water tank for all these days, and perhaps it is not broken. It seems fine, and you seem fine, and you put me at ease again–so kind you are–and you light it again, and I have hot water. But you do light my fire, too, you know. You ignite me, fan the flames as you slap my ass hard, harder, tell me how naughty I have been. Have I been naughty? I am surprised how much I missed your hand there, stinging me more with each blow. I want you to hurt me a little, push me hard down onto the bed and fuck me roughly, roughly. You fuck hard, rough, then gently, and I find myself as always with you, riding the waves of orgasm after orgasm. I want you right now. I want you now, and again. I want you just you and you with other people and you outside and you all night long, fucking until we fall exhausted and wake to fuck again.

But I don’t have to take a cold shower.

multiplication

I had a feeling that goodbye never meant goodbye.

It means changes, instability. That was always the way, though, wasn’t it?

I told you yesterday that we have broken up, and still talk everyday. I told you that when we were together, I never knew how to define our relationship, either. You told me that Virginia Woolf said that the only relationships worth having can never be defined. So like you. But I believe it is true.

You told me you loved me, gave me a rose–the first flower you ever gave me. It moves me, and I know you mean it. And I love, but love you differently now. Not less, but not the same… I love beyond you.

And so we go, moving, indefinitely, as life does.

twenty

He was thirty-one. I remember the number. It seemed significant to me at the time, me dating an older man. I remember thinking on my thirty-ninth birthday that he would turn fifty soon–our birthdays were days apart. I still thought about him then. I thought about my youth, his hand grasping mine and pushing it against his cock. “Here, feel this. It is for you.”

Our relationship was deeply intellectual, and it was this intellectual level that was comfortable to me, good Midwestern girl that I was. My brain could challenge the status quo. But my body? I found myself trembling at the thought of that, holding back, but wanting more. The intensity of the attraction nearly hurt; and in the end, he did hurt me. But I never forgot him.

I was so afraid of all that I felt when I was young, so afraid of my desires to give into the erotic. He challenged me, pushed me to let go of fear, to let go of all restrictions on possibility.

Kinky. He told me he was a pervert. He told my mom that I was.

He was a genius, a madman. I loved him, felt new with him. He wanted me to try anal sex, and after several nights, I let him push his fingers into my ass in a motel room we had rented for the afternoon. I gasped, then relaxed, letting the world open before me, the wide beautiful world opening as taboo faded into desire.

Nothing was stable in our relationship; I vowed never to see him again one day and threw his dissertation and poetry into the garbage. Months later, he found me again, and I loved him still, loved him passionately. I let myself love completely, and be loved.

And then, he let me go. He said I should leave, accept the invitation to study in France, live, write. I would have rather stayed with him in that quiet Texas town. But other complications became apparent as time went on. Mistakes had been made. His life had to go on without me, and he must have known that only cruelty would make me leave.. or that is the version that I like to believe. It was over.

I saw him only once again after that, the day of my master’s exam. He was walking through the university with a four-year-old girl. His daughter, wide-eyed, with ice cream dripping down her dress. She showed me her underwear, and he laughed. Like father, like daughter. Not so much of a mistake, a beautiful girl–now, years later, surely a beautiful woman. He looked at me, stopped. I stopped, and we walked on. I heard of him again at times, but never from him. Finally, he faded into memories woven through this life.

For years I looked everywhere for him, sometimes found glimpses of what was missing. One day, so much later–it takes so long to get over these things–I realized that in truth, what I was looking for was myself, and the passion in me.

He lit that proverbial flame.. I listened to the Style Council over and over in France, thinking that I might find him in Paris. Would I have ever known that flame without him? I don’t know. But what would life be if not for this? If not for the ability to know desire, the burning desire and wonder that fuels my world?