end of a beautiful friendship

Oh, readers, I been absent for so long, I know. Not because I didn’t want to write, but because the source of my inspiration here was gone.

In the last month, our relationship has unraveled completely. After some degree of ranting, and ultimately, reacting to my point-blank question about whether he was seeing someone else, my lover threw out a few accusations to me, none true, nor do I even think he believed what he said to me. Projection, a good friend suggested. But no matter. He picked a fight, and I chose not to fight back. He is gone. I did not stop him.

In reality, I knew it was over almost two years ago, the day before my birthday, an intense day when I told him I loved him. All was flying high with us, I thought, but at the point of my dewy-eyed expression of long-time love, he could muster only that he had known for a long time how I felt. The days that followed were no celebration, but filled with his worry and dismay at my decision to confess feelings that I had hoped were mutual.

I told him then, a few weeks later, with coaxing from a sex therapist, how much I wanted the everyday small pleasures of life with him. He reacted with an anger I never before believed possible in him. His anger changed my love for him, made me sad, despondent, unsure of all we had experienced together. And  I could no longer write about him. Hence my long silence here.

Our relationship could go nowhere from there but down, and down down down it went. He stuck around, and so did I–foolishly. But he went from expressing admiration for what I had accomplished to pitying me for having had to rise from a very difficult place. In truth, I realized that he thought–perhaps always HAD thought–of me as a lesser person.

True enough that he helped me, many times quite generously. I would have helped him, too–could have. I was thankful, yes, and still am. For a long time, I took these gestures as words that he could not say, but evermore he spoke of me as a person he was trying to rescue, as though he could see nothing else in me but a breaking down house and a burden. He disappeared for stretches, but was angry when I didn’t ask him for help. And yet, he guarded his own needs so carefully… was sure never to put himself in the place of ever letting me help him. That hurt perhaps the worst. And yet, there was pain to come: I learned over the last few months outright about this, and that in fact, Lady Dragonfly was a creature much submerged that my lover had never been honest, that he has had many other lovers while he was with me. Oh, no, I care so little about flirtations, sex, but he lied and let me keep loving him. He took my trust, the best of me, and I ache to have that back. He knew of my dreams. Where I thought he was ignoring me, he was cataloging my desires, denying me. Left me to wonder why he could acknowledge her publicly but not me. But not tell me. Oh, oh, it is all so painful. And yet I think back… how delightful my submersion was, when I blindly believed in him…

In truth, I knew my lover had misgivings about loving me right from the start, no matter what his actual feelings might have been. In all that time, I assumed much, but the slap of reality made me doubt. He was not in a rather privately agreed-upon open marriage, but in an elaborate infidelity… I was unaware of it for a long time–only realized recently that the whole game was incredibly well played. But I should have trusted my gut instinct–never in my life had I stuck with someone who was unable to express his own love for me. And I was sick from it all, not myself once I stopped making up these stories. Oh I cherish what I thought I had, and the creative energy I enjoyed in making Lady Dragonfly, and my dreams.

In all of this, though, I realize that I had lost so much of myself long ago, a marriage that could not stand the tragedies of life, the things that may bring stronger couples closer… In our humanity, we sometimes know ourselves so well only in the difficult moments; we define our own strengths and beliefs more than ever in crisis. We also discover the power of love, and those whom we love, and who love us. The real tragedy, then, is often in the dissolution of our beliefs about our relationships, and the trust we have in them. It is usually no one’s fault in particular, but perhaps a difference in vision, faith… and how to cope with situations that some may never encounter in a lifetime.

and before… My marriage was obviously some attempt to recover my own long desire for my father to stop hurting me. After so many wonderful, openly affectionate boyfriends, why else would I have chosen the one man who drew me in, but could never dive into our love without jealousy and control? Damaged he was,  too, and I imagine we were both trying to repair our childhood pain, but I digress.

The lover you met here had shared life experiences with me that we recognized before we ever met. We had faced tragedies, with a parent, with a child. I thought that our common understanding united us in love, as well. Now I think we saw this all differently; I believe he sought a mere respite, an escape–and not a joining of souls.

As for me, I thought I had left the sorrow of my marriage behind, but I realize now that I had not recovered completely when I met my lover. I believed in my lover, but I had not yet uncovered my formerly unwavering self-confidence and ability to walk away when it was clear that he was not available to love me. In the process of letting go of my very appealing lover now, I have remembered at last how to hold onto who I am. I have felt calmer and more sure of myself now than I have in over twenty years.

I have a new creative project now. Eroticism will always matter to me, but my new work has a greater emphasis on truth and expansion of love and loving. Thank you all for all your love and attention here, and please drop me a line if you want to know where to find my creative energy next. I will leave the Lady Dragonfly blog here for now, if you care to read, and dream as I did. I truly did love my lover, completely and without reservation. I love also what he inspired in me.

trickle

I was thinking back to that day in the museum.

I was thinking back to sitting in the museum cafe with you. You ordered something with polenta. I was drinking gewürztraminer, but I don’t remember at all what I ate, or if I ate.

All I remember was my cunt pulsing wildly after you fucked me in the men’s room.

It was glorious, you know. I remember sitting in the restaurant, with jeans and no panties, the seams sticking to my wetness. I remember that sudden warm rush as I shifted, and your come gushed from my pussy, soaking my jeans.

It made me hot with want for you then, love. You know? I wanted you then, wanted to take you back home and fuck you wildly all afternoon.

These moments are my museum, you know, these collected works of fucking you. Of loving you.

I wonder how the critics would see these works over time. Would they scoff at the sheer indecency of it now, proclaim it genius later? That is the way, the stereotypical response of misunderstanding.

Or would they find it forever nostalgic drivel? Love is such a common sentiment, after all.

But it inspired me then.

I think of all the moments I never would have enjoyed with you, if I had seen them without the lenses I wore, the ones that cast a pink happiness on everything we were.

You had the best of me, when I loved you.

No. That’s not really true.

You had the best of me when I thought you were the one in love.

ripe morning

My clit is like a ripe grape this morning, juicy fruit, pop, not a cherry, but the stuff of swollen dreams, slumbered screams scattered through the bedsheets.

I lie in bed, warm, spread my legs my pussy drenched I don’t remember. It must have been about you.

A pinch to my nipple sends shock waves through my belly, straight to my cunt, my core being. The first. Kindling. I want to be your come-slut.

In scene two, you have grabbed my feet and pulled me to the end of the bed, where you kneel and devour my pussy, fingers roughly responding to my greedy lust. Fuck my ass. Yes, just like that. exactly like that. precisely. like. that.

I knew you’d hold me down, make me open, keep me there, raw, ready, make me swell, squirm, surrender.

“You want to be used, my little naughty?”

Oh I do, a steady succession of cock, assorted shape, assorted size, assorted whimpers, moans, muffled cries, at last, it is loud, I know, and you are holding my hand here on earth..

Use me last, love, you, lust lucky me as you watch what you have created.

I wish you were here. You are here.

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.

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.

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.

grass

The curtain swelled in the breeze, and the chugging chugging down below let into a pause, then another chug, and a whirr, and my peace was broken in the warm morning. The clock said ten a.m., which was impossible, I thought, the neighbors disturbing my morning so early, not so early, not the neighbors. It was you. You, tracing along the edge of hostas in the only shadows of a hot day, the tall grass lying in clumps as you circle my yard.

I am not supposed to be here, not now, not supposed to watch you bending to wipe your head with the bottom of that wet t-shirt. The grass has held the last days’ rain, now the sweet ancient scent of weeds, and summer, and the grass, small blades stuck to your calves and sockless ankles. Tea from the jug on the back porch, melting the ice as I pour it, and you look up. I didn’t bother to dress.

Grass rinses down the shower drain, soap smooth as I lather your chest, your tight back, familiar paths, the sliding mm, swell tightening, slick lather speeds my hand. I cannot help but grab you, you near bursting beneath the hot water, dirt rinsing from your neck, irresistible astringent, you Tarzan, I kiss your shoulders, your rough face, your tongue warm and soft while you pin me to the tiles, kick my legs open, the water beading in my hair, waiting, waiting, I gasp. You smile, and kiss my cheek, reach for two towels, hand me one.

You are silent as you bend to dry your feet, arousal on hold.

You are face down now, waiting for me this time, waiting for what? a whip? a kiss, a finger, my call, grass, delight, once, twice, three strikes, my, your red shoulders, the t-shirt, then when you will have gone, a ghost, a gift, a moment, a wait, a great desire, to sleep again.