Twenty-five days ago, I swore off romantic relationships for a year. Why would anyone in her right mind make such a vow? Well, I was pretty newly out of a relationship and had been reviewing choices I'd made when I realized that I needed to focus less on a partner and more on cultivating my own happiness and sanity. But that's not the point of this entry.
The point is this pledge has some drawbacks, especially for someone who has a sex drive that rivals that of a burgeoning 14-year-old boy's. Indeed, sometimes all I can think about is sex. That's when I'll start daydreaming about how sexy my next partner will be (because apparently even though I'm not actively seeking a relationship, my hormones are). This dream woman has a tendency to arrive in the maddening lurch of a late afternoon red light, and at night in the long, itchy minutes before dawn. Who is she?
She is cinnamon and sugar. She is spice. She smells like maple syrup and raindrops filtering through the needles in a pine tree forest; she is sun-warmed roses and the whitest snow. She is the electric tang of summer air just after lightning's had its way with the sky. She tastes like peaches and turquoise and the way a cello sounds when the musician forgets her ego. Her voice is the fine plink of a penny hitting the water at the bottom of a wishing well. But it's also the thin blade of a knife drawing out the blue and red that run through every seam. And her hands are soft and sure as hummingbirds' wings and quicker than the pulse. But it's her eyes that really cast the heat, their flames longer than an elephant's love.
When she finds me sitting in traffic or staring into the dark of a maddening midnight, she brings me moments from the future, words and scenes and promises that sometimes leave me with a case of lesbian blue balls.
[1]
She comes home with a newly purchased pair of cut-off shorts that threaten to reveal everything when I bend slightly or even cough or sneeze. She demands I wear nothing under them when we go out, promising she'll make it worth my while.
[2]
She calls me in the middle of a work day to tell me just how exactly she plans on making me cum later.
[3]
She slips a hand between my thighs when I'm at the stove, presses her braless breasts against my back, and whispers innocently in my ear, "I'm starved."
[4]
She wakes me with a kiss on the lips.
[5]
Yes, those lips.
[6]
She follows me down the hall when I'm on my way to do something and then, expertly and firmly yet gently, spins me around, pins me against the wall (one hand grasping the back of my head, the other forked around my wrist), flashes sparkling eyes and a wicked grin, flips me 180 degrees, and, pressing herself against my back, moves her lips along the curve of my ear before pushing her hand up the length of my back and into my hair. "Listen carefully," she says, giving my hair a tug, and I do, I do.
[7]
She brings me flowers and orders me to enjoy them for the remainder of the day because she "has plans for them--for you--later." Later, she asks me if I like the flowers, and when I say, "Yes, of course," she peels off my clothes, pushes me onto our bed, and glides the blooms over my skin until I'm a flushed flurry of petals. When she's finished, she strokes my hair, kisses my mouth, and with an impish smile and a look, says, "I'm glad you enjoyed the flowers."
Three hundred and forty days left. I can only imagine how many more scenarios my dream vixen will bring me, how many more pleasureful aches.
No comments:
Post a Comment