“For I am divided for love’s sake, for the chance of union.” – The Book of The Law I:29
…between shivers of pleasure and gasps of ecstacy, her head on the light-blue pillow, as she spices the soundscape with spurts of the German “Scheiße” over and over, I share myself with her. Missionary is so simply and elegantly intimate. So much to see and enjoy and adore about a woman who wants you on top of her and looking you in the eyes as you’re inside her. She’s shapely, slender. I’m about to come when she starts to cry. I slow to a crawl in my movement, grasp her face between my hands and ask, “What’s wrong, babe?” She looks up at me through not too many tears and says, “I’ve had guys fuck me before, but I’ve never had a man make love to me like this before.” It turns me on even more than merely connecting physically with this l-vely lady with the long, lithe legs and the plump, firm, round ass (which gave out quite a “whap!” when I would give it a lovingly painful slap) in her absent roommate’s bed did – her roommate was quite Christian, studying law, and quite fastidiously strict: “There are to be no boys allowed in our apartment” was the rule they’d together agreed upon and which R was breaking to have me even in the apartment at all – her response to my loving caresses turns me on even more than screwing in her absent roommate’s bed does. To know that I’m having this intimate and positive and life-affirming an effect on her! The cuddling after that sex was so delicious. She was so sweet and beautiful and intelligent and sure of herself and ohsohungry for me. What a strong woman, especially courageous of her, to share that moment of authentic vulnerability with me.
Not to neglect, importantly, that I l-ved how voracious she was.
She’d texted things like, (5pm, 1/22/2013): “Fuck! I want you one more time before you go! What can we do? What do you say for your part?”
(5:02pm): “It is too late now, but I don’t work tomorrow or Thursday. I’m going to masturbate, and come, thinking about your fucking sexy mind, and your irresistible body.”
(5:10pm): “Oh my word! If you get over here right now I will fuck you! I don’t have to work until 6, and if you drive me, we wouldn’t have to leave until 5:50.”
She’d told me that she wanted me physically starting at the first moment she’d spotted my bowtied black-and-white tux-like garb when I’d entered the sandwich shop where she then worked on the first workday of S.E.L.P. (I’ll explain). My favorite moment in that first encounter was after she’d begun to ring me up at the cash register, after we’d shared moments of me being the first to (excitedly, I might add!) translate the Latin on her tattoo and to show a genuine interest in her l-ve of language, she asked me, “Would you like anything else?” She meant, “With your sandwich,” but I responded, “Your phone number, please.” With glee I watched as she wrote it on a scrap of paper taken from the receipt-printer…
…To skip ahead a bit, all of that to say, it’s a bit of a tragedy. A tragedy that a woman so open to and so supportive of what was then called “The Nova Project” that she demanded that I not need feel restricted by our sharing to her as my only sexual partner – and what a satisfying partner she was! – should have sacrificed all of what might have been between us (not just a satiated lust on both sides, but also…something more)…for Christ. In its own way, it is noble. But from another angle, it’s quite nihilistic and life-denying and sad. I miss her, a bit, but not to the point where I’d allow that to do anything but enhance my life (as articulating the joy she brought me has indeed shown me how much I have to be grateful for) – I create my missing her as an opportunity, now that the fog of emotion from the immediacy of being with her and the tears from losing her have cleared up, to enjoy ever having shared with her, to enjoy all that she so graciously and kindly gave me.
One of our last conversations involved her mentioning how a friend of hers at the local baking-school she attends recommended just using me for sex.
I’ve been there before. Fun but ultimately, that kind of connecting has got a limited half-life.
We made more than l-ve. We made poetry:
A somewhat hallucinatory prose-poem of sorts written to R on January 25th:
“The fog had lifted. I was clear on one thing: she had made me feel alive. Something about the authenticity in her movements, the sheer passion in her kisses, the stars above us on that evening, and my hiding from D (her roommate) that mandated I take up the pen (or, in this case, the keyboard).
I invited him to see how his new guise would fit…The Stranger spoke: “Cast your net on THAT side of the boat. See what you find there.”
And so, inquisitive, I cast my net into the murky miasma of memory, bidding fate and chance to birth but shards of the jubilant joy and bountiful beauty with which those days had been so filled.
But shards. Shards might be enough to sate the hunger that she had grown in me (she was not alone in her new craving, this “You do it to me better than I do by myself!”). For now.
So strange, to see the past suffice as a present in hope of a future.
Flashes more than shards are what got caught in my net, really. The stars made several appearances, that week. Orion’s belt and the Pleiades.
She made me feel better than…in faster time, and I trusted her more than…could this be…?
Her flesh cradled sacredly in mine, dangerously begging me now to skip sleep needed for the journey home, if only I can taste it again while it’s fresh in my mind. And so I do, sleep be damned. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. She makes me feel alive even here in the recounting. Her favorite position. Sharing that I was the first to make her come other than herself. Her tears at being the first to actually make l-ve, and quite considerately, to the generous and l-vely goddess that she is…The speed of her hand dancing over her clit…the breathless fury of hopelessly exacting pleasure that stole away from eye contact while my finger prayed to the nameless goddess whose beauty far outstrips anything abstract, anything fleshless…this, the real, needs incarnation to be complete….and so there she is, I’m in her bed and she’s alongside me on the right, cuddled hard in my arms because tomorrow never comes and now is the time of salvation, behold I have made all things new…no, SHE has. She has made all things new.
Oracular, I announce in a whisper and she knows not the secret I share: “The thought arose. Like a wave it grew tall, and then submerged again.” The secret hid itself in plain sight. A mere sacred…blip on their radars. A mere…hope.”
What was that secret?