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?

saint-honoré

Satiated, I knew it right away just to look at you.

But anticipating this, there is always room, isn’t there?’

The garden waits now, beans, carrots, lettuce, herbs. Run barefoot through the mud to pluck them from the ground, toss then into the sauce with such wonder, such pleasure, such hope of sharing this, that, your fingers so fine and so precise, your hair tossed back in the wind, clumped to your forehead in the sticky heat, dripping from the shower onto my skin, my skin released from its modesty now, unhooked, unzipped, yours, a taste. As you wish. No, in all honesty, as I wish.

At its most simple, the Saint-Honoré is a cake of cream puffs and cream, but it is magical, that combination of memories, the tender, the delectable, the faintly sweet but familiar. You watched me stir, then pipe it from the pastry bag, a puff, the cream, beat firm but not too stiff, too dry. Just right. Teeth through to that glorious full softness, you remember, love, don’t you?

I am here, half unbuttoned, perfumed, half drunk, katydids chirping, tree swing on a hill, the night, the moon. My feet touch the ground every so often, love, take a bite, make a wish, honor this, soar.

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.

spread

“Spread them open, baby. ”

So I spread my legs a little wider, leaned back and sucked on my pearls.

“Like this?”

It is one of those evenings, when the day has been long, when the grass is hot and long, needs cutting, when I know you have poured me a glass of wine as my car pulls up, see you tucking in your shirt, standing straighter, trying to tame yourself quickly, trying not to let your prick betray you before I even get in the door.

You kiss me, that sort of kiss, you know, when you are pressing in to me, but trying not to ask for too much, trying to pull me away from the day and into the grass, but gently, a sip, a gentle hand through my hair first. Yes, yes, you love me, want to fuck me more right now.

You made dinner, I know, caught the herbs and wine as I walked up the path toward you, anticipating. My god, how lucky, how rare to be lusted after, fed well. How rare to be loved.

I wore the stockings, love, the garters, damned impractical, make me think fuck all day, make me think forever of you, of why, think all the way back here, think of your hum, your dazed anticipation when you kiss me, your hand hitting the fastener, your cock pressing into me, so hard, so big, I see it when I close my eyes, take another drink. You tip the glass toward my lips, and I look up at you, that glance you like, don’t mean to, look sideways at you then, turning, and slip off my shoes, slide back onto the couch, not like a lady, but like yours.

“Yes, just like that,” you say, stroking your cock now, biting your lip.

I have worn the silk blouse, the navy fitted blouse and the circle-patterned skirt. It was a public day, you know, my lingerie for you, though, slut I am, want, slick slit now betraying me, scent heady as the wine as you bow before me, lap at my pussy, swollen, it’s all swollen, ripe, wanting.

The clothes are irrelevant now, take them, rip them if your want, spread me, skin please me, please now.

all i have

A photograph may last longer, that is true.

But is that what we were seeking? Or did we wish only for the ephemeral, the winged moments that no glance so searing could ever capture?

I saw it again, though, as if it were yesterday. I felt the warmth of your kiss, tender, in the fleeting grin I stole in that picture, captured in a turn of words you wrote to me, song we shared, a handkerchief. The things I had forgotten, now return to me, like the sunshine on that rare day, an everyday but not today. I wish it were.

I wish you were here, that the space between moments and miles were short. But I feel it still. I grasp your scent, your voice, close my eyes. You are close, an angel holding me tight, safe, thrill, somewhere familiar.

prescription

The thing that struck me most, first, were your words, dropping off mid-sentence as I sat and reached beneath my dress to pull off my stockings.

You looked at me as we were chatting our hellos, and I pushed the dress high, so that you could glance from my face, lower, see the red and white panties, hot to the touch now as I waited for you here, waited to take the nylons off until you could watch me, I did. I did.

The thing I noticed next, second, was your face, red, as you shouted into the clear day, the lovely gushing as I straddled you, my red panties in your pocket now, with my keys. Your face, relieved, surprised, yes, already, yes, it was glorious, glorious as the day, and the light, and the grass, the soft wind and buzz of faraway traffic on the highway.

Third, the rush, the glow, spring, your head in my lap. My cunt still throbbing, even now as I write, remembering it, savoring it, all is well, remedy sublime.