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| Photo by Jocelyn Marquis |
Written October 2011
He starts by softly touching my pussy—whole hand, the hood still covering my clit. It’s more like a massage. A gentle pressing in. One hand on the left nipple, the other on the clit. He has me hike my left knee up high. It exposes me. Light caresses on my coarse hairs along the edge with the backs of his fingers.
He stops. Tells me
to turn onto my belly. I obey. He puts his fingers into my shoulders and
squeezes. Tender. Giving permission to all those pockets of unexpressed joy,
anger, grief.
He has me turn on
my side. I am facing him now. My left leg over his head, my right pressed
tightly against him. He slides his fingers inside me. Gentle pulses in my body.
A simultaneous relaxing and priming. His thumb occasionally grazes my clit. Red
hot velcro. Each stroke he makes, his body is there to brace me. Hold me. Warm.
Open. Slick walls.
Then he has me lie
on my back. His fingers deep inside, he draws me forth. I am contracting in
deep rhythm to my heartbeat, and yet there is still a small sweetness within
the pulse. He strokes up. I feel a fast rush of heat over my left foot and
calf—it’s almost too hot to bear. I want to cry. So I breathe. And surrender
another layer. I want to feel all of this.
And the burning
escapes out my feet and we float back down into a grey, clear pool. Hovering.
His fingers inside me press upward, while his other hand continues to stroke my
clit. I keep relaxing and chanting the mantra, “There is nothing to fear.”
I sink back into
my body, feeling something deep within wanting to emerge. A round, bulbous
heat—a burning pleasure—snowballs as it moves from my belly to my clit. I keep
relaxing. I envision the bulb moving out, but without force. The heat has now opened into a canyon of potential.
“What if you just
say yes,” I think to myself, “and trust that you are held.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
I feel the
fog-tide rolling over my feet. Creeping in over my surrendered-ness. The cool
mist-water makes its way up my feet, thighs, pussy, belly, arms, chest, head. My
whole body is now bathed in orgasm. There is no thrashing around; just a quiet sparkle. I
exhale and more mist-water rolls over us. Suspended in timelessness.
And then the tide recedes back to the reservoir at my feet. I have forgotten myself. The connection
between us is viscerally human—and expands beyond cosmic comprehension.
It’s at this
moment that I realize how very lonely I have been. I miss God. I miss having
the constant companion of fullness and depth inhabiting my body.
I begin to shake
and cry. “Oh God,” I cry out, “I miss God.”
A wave of
gratitude grips my throat and I keen an ancient sound—a sound that is twisted
with both agony and wonder. We touched love. Not ephemeral romance, that
crunches and pounces and cramps. But love. Pure. Rich. Golden. Love.
I cry. And cry.
His fingers inside me push up and forward. Releasing. He then pulls them out
and presses his palm firmly on my pussy. Solid. Ground. I am held throughout
the never-ending melting.
A bit embarrassed by my emotional nakedness,
I murmur once more, “I miss God.” I cry a bit more. And then a bubble rises in
my throat and I realize what really needs to be said. The hardest words of all.
But the desire is so powerful that to hold it back would be like a slow, rotting
death.
“I love you. I
love you so much.”
Something sweet
melts in his eyes. I cry some more.
I can’t help noticing the
peachy-salmon tones of his shirt. “Peach
and purple look good on him,” I think.
“I like that color on you,” I finally gasp out. We laugh.
The peak slips
away and we simply hold on to one another. A raw, humble warmth of orgasm hums
between us. I am deeply immersed. Present. There is nothing else to do but
feel. Just me…and the man who taught me how to love.
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