Early Hours

Night has given birth to a new morning. The faintest light has begun to creep against my window shades.

This is the hour when I miss you most. My body is still tingling from my dreams of you. I can still feel your hands on me. Those same hands that touched, first tentatively, then with growing urgency. I wonder if I would feel this longing for you if you were here. Would I pull away from you? Afraid to lose myself in your touch. Would I fear to let myself go and lose myself completely?

Sometimes the thought of it makes me shudder. I don't know that I can get myself back if I dare to venture into the depths that you have promised.

Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll just stop breathing.

Lost.
Only you would be able to bring me back.

But I think that you would not.


Helpless as a burning city,
how can I ignore that the extremes
of pleasure are fire storms
that leave a vacuum into which
dangerous feelings (tenderness,
affection, l o v e) may rush
like gale force winds
You Ask Why Sometimes I Say Stop
~~ Marge Piercy



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Body Remember

Body, remember this moment. Remember the feeling as his hands caressed you gently, as he whispered, lips pressed against your skin. Remember how his muscles moved under your fingertips, the salt taste of his skin against your tongue. The low growl as he lost himself inside you.
Body, remember this moment that you shall have him again and again.

It is a well known fact that men crave visual stimulation, that the vision of a naked woman or people having sex triggers some primal instinct in their minds that gives them pleasure, that arouses them, excites them. But what of women?

I know many women who truly enjoy watching and sharing pornography. I believe that sharing is the key word here. Men tend to isolate their watching more so than women. Perhaps it is shame induced by a society that says that Rodin's 'Embrace' is art and Jenna Jamison is a shameful display of female sexploitation.

Personally I like them both. More so when shared.




The picture above is not plucked from the Internet. It came from my own personal photo album. It is a bed in a hotel room . A bed where I had spent an incredible night and morning making love. After my bags were packed, after the rush of trying to get our luggage together before check out time. With one last backward glance at that bed, where I had known so much pleasure, I pulled out my camera and snapped that picture, locking that night into my memory forever.

Body, Remember this moment. Lock it away deep inside yourself. Not dead, but merely slumbering, waiting to be resurrected by the slightest whisper of Mnemosyne's fingers against your cheek. By the trace of his scent on your pillow as you rest your head, longing to feel him inside you once more.

I see the indentation where his head had rested on the pillow and the ephemeral shape of his body permanently engraved on the sheets. I see the marks that my knees left as I straddled him, hovering above him and watching his face as I controlled the rhythm of our love making, as he relinquished the previous nights control and allowed me to pleasure us both at my own pace. I see my own ass prints on the edge of the bed where I had taken him into my mouth and swallowed him one last time before we left that little world-- where only we two existed for a few hours. A few magnificent hours. I am there again each time I look at it. I see it in shadows, the forms that we were in that moment. I can smell the ocean outside the sliding glass door. Ah, you cannot see the balcony doors swung wide so that we could hear the crash of the waves even as we crashed into one another. But I know they are there. I remember. I can taste him, feel his hands and tongue as he took me to those places that are secret-- that only lovers share.

I have many such photographs. Not of people, but of things, places, restaurant booths and bar stools, hotel room beds and sandy beaches. Places that I want to remember, moments of time that I recreate each time I see them.

A woman's mind may work differently than a man's but I know that when he sees this picture it affects him in the same way that it does me. That imagery stimulates the body to remember how incredible we were together.

And he hungers for me in that moment of remembering.

Fade

Musical Monday

In every new touch there is the memory of another touch left behind. How can one's skin not remember the first time it was possessed entirely by a sang-froid finger brushing against it: precise, unintended, erotic, scarring? That first touch has burned and seared itself into the memory; a willful branding, begged for silently in a moment of passion.

Every new touch contains its own stigma: fear. The fear that it cannot be unfelt; it can never be undone. That on nights long and dark, the touch will rise once more and force back into memory that which can no longer be had. A certainty that no other touch will ever feel as good. And that the feeling cannot be sustained. In the end, this memory of touch will be all there is, and there is some part of the soul that knows it will be left emptier for ever having felt it.

And the mind begs the body to turn away, to save itself. But the body knows no sensibilty, only sensuality. It begs to be branded, just so. Possessed.