pillow talk

My words were wandering, voices inflected, laughter, little more than that as we lay up in the dark room.

He is my friend, one I could tell anything, I imagine. I have. I am telling him my secrets about you, the things that you and I have done together, the things we might have.

We talked about sex parties and old lovers, and rhetoric. The comfort of words, here in the dark, devoid of anything but the warmth that eases them from brain to brain, topic to topic, bouncing and gently swaying sometimes. I thought of you, there, thought of the first star, and the dreams I long pushed down, as if my wishing would make them fade fast instead of bringing them to life. I wish, still.

My face reveals nothing here in the night, I realized, and I could just turn away, quietly. He didn’t have to know, and neither do you.

I realized then what I was trying to say to you, what I told you I wanted.

Not this. Not quite.

I lie in the dark and swap stories with my friend. We could fuck.

We could fuck and still be friends, and lie here in the dark, and it would not mean so much, except that we had fucked and laughed and were still friends.

And still, none of this is what I want with you.

I want context.

I want the dark.

I want the comfort.

I want the quiet and the night, your hand softly brushing mine.

I want to lie with you here, in the dark, and plot and scheme, the words as much the adventure as what we’ll do to invent them. As much as all we did to speak now.

I want to hear what you thought, today, and tomorrow, and what you think about what I thought.

Is it to0 late, for us, for pillow talk?

Were we looking for adventure? to feel alive?

Oh, love, the novelty of the moment is charming.. but it was never the new that thrilled me, you know.

It never was the shimmer on the surface, the fleeting smile that caught my eye.

It was the memory of the shimmer, of your smile back, thousands of nights later, the footsteps we heard, the knock at the door we answered, and invited in, and kept, treasure like the first night, retold, stripped down to this touch so familiar, the breath, so precious, ours.

details

Yesterday, in my current searching, or as some might prefer.. midlife crisis… I went for a sexuality consultation.

I thought that I would spend my time talking about woohoo taboo sex I wanted to try, and all the things I fear expressing, like some desire for anal fisting, or more…

It was not about that. Nope. My erotic is so bland, my friends. And yet, it thrills me beyond belief to think of it.

I had the task of writing down my deepest desires–not sexual, mind you, but emotional. My very skilled sexuality counselor, whose name I want permission to reveal, took me on a journey that I hardly expected when I entered the doors of her Center. I started talking about.. well.. why? Why I was there?

I had come, because sex was always a problem. Wasn’t it? Was it for you? Were you slut shamed? I was. Oh yes, I was, and yet.. and yet, it was not about that.

She told me that the top three desires according to studies are: to be seen, to be craved, and to know that what we are doing is exciting to our partner. Really. Not blow jobs, after all. We desire authenticity and vulnerability. And I do, too.

I thought of this, in the context of all my recent wildness, and what more of that, to me, the intimacy I have found in it. I want my lover, so much. But I want the little things.

Oh god, I want his glasses on my nightstand when I roll over at 6am when the light stream into the bedroom. I want him to roll closer to me in the middle of the night, and grab me close to him, not out of desire, but out of instinct. I want to drink wine with him in the kitchen while I make us dinner. I want him to text me something funny he thought of in the middle of the day. I crave this simplicity so much, it moves me, and yet it seems so faraway and hard to ask for. This is my erotic. Really. This is what I want.

I think of this, sometimes, when I see people who have loved one another for years and years. They grab onto these things, these precious tangible bits of everyday life, as though they are gems. And they are, they truly are.

I want to fuck, but wild sex seems so easy, really. It may not be so obvious to the rest of the world, I guess. It freaks guys out to have a woman start to explore their asshole.. sometimes. But I would do that. I would spread my legs, and fuck a bunch of men mindlessly to turn you on. What turns me on is to watch you brush your teeth.

I wonder why, I do. I wonder why I feel so hot and bothered and horny beyond belief at these small, ordinary things.

And I know: it makes me feel safe to watch your tedium; it sets me free.

 

 

rope

My lover and I have been experimenting with our adventures, expanding the limits of what we even thought we were capable of doing together.

This is what has led me to thoughts of gang bangs, and various other entanglements that have challenged me in various ways. It is intensely emotional, with the potential to blow the mind…

Nothing has captivated me more, though, than the ruby red rope he brought to my house a few weeks ago. It is gorgeous, particularly against creamy, white skin. I always had fantasies of being tied up. Cords still are attached from years ago when he tied me to the bed. But this was something different.

I thought it was all about the restraint, the dynamic of powerlessness within the scenario. I thought it was about submission, and trust. And it is. Oh yes, it is. I love this, love letting myself enter into that pure space–but this is only the second half.

Last week, the day before my birthday, my lover set to tying me up. He cut the rope into lengths, then started wrapping it around me. Too tight? too loose? How does it feel? It felt glorious…the vulnerability, inescapable. Submission, permission, admission, this sublime gift.

But there is something more that I never thought to consider. The intricate knots, the maneuvering.. it all takes time–and attention. It is perhaps this that I crave more than anything else. I bask in the glow, but it takes time, effort, patience. His, and mine. Tying me up, being tied up, it all is a careful exercise, foreplay, a meditation…

vfw

My friend Jenny drove that night, your buddy up front with her, pawing at her, her pawing him away, and us whooping loudly in the back of her little Honda Civic, headed out beyond the city lights, through fields of soybeans and Farm Bureau reports, radio waves through the dark, dark sky.

You craved authenticity, you said, wanted to be with your people. Your people, my ass, Guggenheim fellow, you not common folk, not like the cheap beer and mariachi accordions and war stories that seep out of these sorts of places, rented out for an evening like so many rooms I have shared with you, peeling wallpaper authentic enough, I am sure.

No one knew us there, true, and I danced with the short dark man who asked me, until you returned from the bar and saw me there with him, in the middle of a sparsely populated dance floor, that little man with the slicked back hair, pressed pants, aftershave, the one who insisted te quiero over and over and over, ay Corona, I have a boyfriend. This man worked in the fields when he first came here, now works at the plant and I don’t know this sort of Spanish. These are not your people, love, no, these people roasting pigs in the parking lot and dancing polka-style. You don’t even know. They hate people like you, people who remind them that they are just getting by. They are like my people back in the city, the car factory workers, the construction union men like my daddy. I never wanted that, you know.

I wanted you, the scholar, wanted to run away with you. But you want this? you do not, you can always go back home, safe and sound. You want my ass in your hands while you pull me close and possess me in the moonlight, pull my hips into yours while we dance here, even here, everywhere, through cornfields and discotheques and grocery stores and stairwells. I try to run, but melt when I feel your cock pressed up against my ass when you finally catch me, in my short skirt, in my bikini panties, panties round my ankles while you bend me over, spread me open, make me a true believer. You, your bourgeois upbringing fucking my blue collar cunt. This is new  for you, this authenticity, authentic makes me want to scream if it means you want me the way I am.

Stillness, you sigh. My heart slows at last. And now what? Now. What?

It’s funny I say I loved you then. Funny I think back to that night when you told me that there was no one in the world you loved more than me, the best part of me, right? I wanted your mind, your promise, your hand in mine. You wanted me down, dirty, Johnny Cash late night whiskey checked shirt grit.

I was your exotic. I thought you wanted the me I dreamed I could be.

I hate my bitterness sometimes, hate to think back and realize that you never cared really about what I cared about, or that I did not know how to care for you. You showed me my place, put me back where I belonged, not where I wanted to go. Thrilling, perverse, brilliant, but it was never love. Liberation? Oh, if only to be liberated from that life. No, not even that. We both craved something deeper, but we would only destroy one another if we got it. Love is all I ever wanted. Love will set you free, they said. They probably were right.

It was all so long ago, though, those foreign wars so faraway, and yet my stories stare me down, reflected in a beer glass late at night. Oh, but no one wants to hear about unrequited love anymore, not even me. Best to forget. Best to move on. Best not to think of what might have been, of what never was.

everyday

I wish for this, for the mundane, for the everyday.

It seems elusive for the outlaws in this world, love, the misfits like me. Like you.

I want love. I want to make you dinner.

Flannel shirt unbuttoned low, scruff beard brushing my face as you pull me close. This is the stuff that others have, that I want. This is the stuff I dream about.

Your muddy shoes lie askew in my entry hall, just like you, your fevered touch, your breath hurried on the first step, the step up to my bed, your cock already in my mouth, here. I can never deny you. I want you, too, want too much, want to please, know I please you now, then, tomorrow.

But it is not this, never this, never the trickling down my deepest throat, no not my fingers dug deep into your throbbing holes. Not my climax, the satisfaction of my frantic moans in the night, your tongue on my clit, your cock pumping me white, to limp, still wanting.

I want you, want your skin, the shirt you wore while working, your warm hands in my hair, late in the night, sleepy night.

I want you to want me.

No.

I want you to need me, to wait at my door in the night, late night, night of desperation. Knob Creek sending you to me against your better judgment. I want you to want me in your drunken unconscious moments. I want to be there, then, because I know you know better.

I know you want me, then, know that your mind wanders, that if you had the time, you would run away with me.

what is erotic?

I thought today I might die.

Long story short, I managed my way out of it, the burnt smell of brakes still permeating everything I am wearing.

Two weeks ago, I was in an emergency room.

Two months ago, I could not move.

And it has all made me think, what is erotic?

No, really!

What is erotic?

I thought of this as I yearned for the arm of my lover, wanted so much to feel his skin, his warmth.

I went last week to the museum, sat beneath Caucasian rugs on the leather chairs nestled in dark corners, so inviting. I wandered through the Chinese furniture, the scenes so beautifully recreated, the grace, the peace. Wandered through the Rembrandt etchings, the exquisite detail, and understanding, and I loved it, loved it all, loved the day, the glorious sunshine and breeze, the books, the perfume, the plum I picked up along the way.

And I dreamed of you, and the glory of life, and the erotic, yes, the fullness of it all, yes. I wanted you, here, wanted you so much, yes.

And yet, you are not here.

Oh, not here. And I wonder, then, of my words built in a boudoir, wonder, is this all there is?

Really?

It has always been more than the scene–the debauched thrill of the moment, the sensations of the flesh. No. For me, the erotic is always about the connection. And dare I say it? About love.

Where does this leave a dragonfly? I wonder sometimes. I have so rarely written lately, disillusioned by disappointment, perhaps. By loneliness. But perhaps most of all, by the opinion I hear all too often that erotic means always hot, always sex, always … something. I’m not sure what. But I hate feeling pigeonholed into a definition. Be more erotic. What does that mean? I ask again and again, because I am not sure I understand even myself. Is life not filled with the erotic?

When I started out here, I meant to write something free, something that captured what I could say in no other forum. Have I been a sanctuary for pleasure, for freedom? I hope so. But more than that, I wanted to escape boundaries, but sometimes it seems rather that I am just bound to new ones.

Lately, I want attachment. I want more, want still the freedom to be more, to love freely, but oh yes, to love. To admit love. To embrace it. To plunge wholeheartedly into it, no matter what, to grow from it. Mainstream. Maybe. But it seems too easy too assume that familiarity precludes the erotic. It seems to me that the biggest adventures may be in the everyday, and not only in attempts to escape it.

I remembered how preciously short life is today. It is a bit staggering to me to think of how badly all this might have turned out, the blood, the things I might have left unsaid in a mangled car. And I want you to embrace your lives, your love. Want more.  I want to hold you, sink my face into your imperfection, the acidic scent of your sweat, your strong arm wrapped round my head, my hair wild in the breeze, in your face. I want to shout, and curse, want you to quiet me, want the things that I do not deserve, that you do not deserve. I want your skin, want to laugh when I feel more like crying. I want to be loved… but more than that, I love, want to be freed to do it, to love. I already do, but cannot, But want. Ah, the erotic, the letting loose, the understanding. I want so much, want enough. I want to be tethered to love, enough to fly, and fly back to tell you all about it. Is that too much?

feu sans artifice

I walked back into the half-lit bedroom, the morning already swelling, fine linens wrinkled and damp from a night of quiet sweat. Yesterday I covered the windows with dark draperies, shield me from the heat, the invading sun.

It came, anyway, sweet irresistible summer, long longed for, in the ice barren hard ground, seems anything would be better than that bitter void, lone white world. It was, the ferns all green growing, thick, the Queen Anne’s lace, hard to tell the flowers from the weeds in this sort of place, hard to know until you see a real flower, a rose, a daisy.

Your skin still smolders, body inert so strange now so familiar in my bed, arms so powerful wilted now, fireworks forth, dreams took you, at last, I see.

The air is fresh outside, I know, breeze from the bathroom window cool in the early day, lawnmowers next door rousing me from my own slumber. But no, I barely slept.

It was not the heat, the hum, the long line of light streaming onto the floor from the edge of the window that awakened me, love. I waited for you, waited years, love, wait weeks now, habit of lust, your smile renewing my faith, for now.

You lie so still, no revelations, discreet charm disarmed me. Your arms, too strong not to let you, not to let you trace your lips down my face, my neck, my toes reaching to tease you, despite this, despite the suffocating heat, desire. Don’t. The thrill, the exhaustion of exertion, wanting. No, no, so much, too much, overwhelm me with green, groan. Oh I want this quiet so much, in the morning, you now, defenses gone, stripped bare, this kiss, tender, gentle, seeking, true.