I just wanted your arms around me so desperately; vehemently. It felt like an anvil crushing me beneath the weight of pure desire bound by inhibition and convention. I choked and sputtered to breathe as my throat tightened as if a maniacal madman had cinched a delicate, but murderous swath of silk around my taut, porcelain neck. My stomach churned and mixed like cement, each revolution getting more laborious as the bone-dry dust of sand and sediment combined with the acid and bile, forming a thickish sludge of slate agitation, schmaltz, and excitement.
I am conflicted to know that you shatter my composure. I try to play the game, banter and bat my eyelashes; coquettishness is my trademark. But I can't deny that you fluster me. I want someone that finally makes me weak in the knees, and everywhere else. It's been a long time since I've relinquished control. Always holding the upper-hand in the eternal power struggle of men versus women. Only once, as a young girl, a fledgling bloom, not yet in on life's great motivator, did I feel so helpless and overwhelmed. A young girl has every right to feel that purity of heart, even if I still had a touch of jade. I was cavalier, I thought I knew what I was embarking on. I couldn't yet fathom how sex could wield such incredible power. It changed me though. I didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to be that naive child that fell in love with the first person that felt her from the inside, that took her innocence. Not that I ever felt particularly innocent. I knew the taste of carnal sinew, it had always been lurking somewhere just beneath the surface, even as a precocious youth. I simply hadn't fully realized it yet. I guess I am what you would call a "natural."
I had already been in love. That first all-encompassing, can't-live-without-you, white-hot, burning, unobstructed, pellucid, so-this-is-what-everybody's-singing-about, nuclear reactor kind of love. I had already been chewed up and spit out by love. It was time for sex, unadulterated, lascivious, dirty, back-room kind of sex. There is the exact moment when my compartmentalization began. What a revelation. Jesus. I started compartmentalizing love and sex before I was yet to taste it. It fulfilled my dual nature, the one that was lurking in the shadows and alleyways of my being all along. The Superego versus the Id, morality versus impulse, the age-old match-up of good versus evil. No matter what I thought I knew, it changed me; it awakened me. It drew the curtain on the wide-eyed underworld of lechery, sin and delight. My thoughts a perpetual Heronymous Bosch painting. I became aware of the power I possessed. The power to make men fall to their knees with pleasure and longing, the power to extract my needs from their desires, to manipulate and lord over them. It made me feel strong and in control for the first time in my eighteen years. But my school-girl mentality never quite retreated, it just took a backseat. It's never as bound-and-gagged in the trunk as I would sometimes like to think. Passion remains my greatest motivator. Lady Love has a strangle-hold on me which drives me to seek out that fire at all costs. But I don't succumb to the flames too quickly, my instinctual gut knowing what's real and what's imagined or forced. Always searching for "that feeling." That undefinable, indescribable, hard-to-finger, even harder to find feeling.
I can only liken it to a dark, cavernous, austere monastery, ancient in it's stone walls and labyrinthic halls. It is bathed in absolute darkness, it's Gothic architecture all the more frightening in its obsidian void. Frantically searching for some tiny scrap of light, you come upon another identical narrow hallway, but press on anyway. In the very farthest room on left, the arched, armored door of prehistoric wooden planks and cast iron is slightly and eerily ajar. Fear and trepidation halts you from immediately throwing the looming portal open, but you muster up some kind of courage or morbid curiosity to slowly push open the intimidatingly weighty egress. The archaic hinges creaks and echoes throughout the barren chamber. Your heart pounds, your hands begin to clam, you become all too aware of your intermittent breathing, it's hard to decipher if you are even alive in the swarth. A flash of soothing ochre and incandescent burnt-orange brilliantly greets your unaccustomed eye. The paltry stone-lined alcove is all awash in hues of tawny ambers, saffron and titian. The flickering candle-light simultaneously comforts and excites you in it's subtle luster and romance. It draws you in with a motion of it's seductive and cabalistic finger. A tribal rhythm is penetrating your thoughts. The scene is overwhelming, a nagging sense of foreboding tells you to run as far and fast as your spindly gams can carry you, but a curious titillation and a quixotic chimera roots you to the spot. You can't recall ever feeling this rush of exhilaration before, but it feels hauntingly familiar. Like it was ever-present in the cellar of your existence; just needing to be unearthed. There is no mistaking your vitality now. A pair of wide, round, dark eyes peer into you through the hazy, burnished umber. He holds out a chiaroscuro-ed hand to you, instinctively, you slip your trembling hand into his, despite the buried notion that pain must surely accompany this amount of pleasure. You lose all sense of yourself, you let your viscerations reign and finally relinquish control to the dubious arms of your lover. You're in his alchemistic hands now.
I have a strange obsession with hands. They are dripping with symbolism. They can bring such pleasure and comfort. They can make the most beautiful music, plucking and manipulating the taut strings of a tawny-brown, hollow-body, retro guitar. They can soothe and satisfy; help or guide. But hands also commit nefarious deeds; they being the last defense against evil-doing. They can bring immeasurable death and destruction unto humanity with the hastiest touch of a button or the knee-jerk pull of a trigger. They can push one just as easily away as draw one in. They can choke or strangle just as they can caress or embrace. They are the hinge of humanity's decency or descent. Good and evil, physically manifested.
Those soft and talented hands, with their bitten-down nails, and lightly calloused fingers, holding my hand to lead me to your bedroom or grasping my hand throughout the night as we sleep. You're arms wrapped tight around me, feeling like you'll never let me go, surrounding me, keeping me safe. I realize I look for my grandfather is every man I date; I'm not that out of touch. Someone strong, intimidating even, driven, busy, but still chooses me above all others. Someone enamored with my spirit and being, not just my sex appeal and body. Someone to protect me from the coldness of life's wintry nights and the harshness of reality; from evil. Someone funny and adventurous. Someone who will play my silly, childish games, who will indulge me, but also take charge and be the lead when needed. Someone confident and masculine, without misogyny and contempt. Someone I can take care of just as much as they take care of me. It's probably unfair to measure all men against my grandfather, as his memory lives on in great rose-tinted, romanticized infamy in my head, but it is automatic and instinctual.
I have a hard time keeping my naturalistic impulses at bay with him. My Id is running rampant, blocking all sense of form, not that I was ever much for convention or rules, but I don't want to tip my hand so early. My school-girl mentality mixed with my throbbing sexual desire for him makes for a lethal cocktail.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Hungry or the Closest I Get to Hemingway
Sitting on the couch, he extracts the braid from my tangle of tobacco locks and softly plays with it while we talk. My mind can only focus on that one thing. I've always loved having my hair played with in that sweet and slow way. I begin to ramble and trail off, but it doesn't matter. We snuggle close to one another, his arm wrapped around my shoulder, mine flopped over his belly. I rest my head on his chest and breathe in deeply.
He was so patient while teaching me the guitar. I was completely flustered exposing my Achilles heel so quickly to someone. All of my vulnerability lying in each strum and painfully slow chord change.
He has this fantastic obsession with lighting. There are always various candles burning and antique Tiffany lamps casting a burnt orange moody glow. A net of twinkling Christmas lights hang in the window, like a fisherman's trawl, drawing me into his midst.
When I first walk up the creaky, steep wooden stairs to reach the landing, I hear hushed whispers of female voices. For a split second I think I have the wrong house, but then I realize it's probably just some friends or something. I knock softly and push open the door, half- expecting some freaky scene to unfold in front of my eyes as the door creaks open like a curtain commencing a play. Two middle-aged black women are revealed, perched insidiously on the couch. I don't see him at first, but I hear him. I am immediately and viscerally annoyed. I stride in cautiously, all smiles. "Hey," I manage to call out to the women. He introduces me, but doesn't know their names. He just says they are his neighbors that stopped by. I notice he is sweating. They say their names, but I am hardly listening. I hear one say to the other, "She is beautiful." She asks if my name is Italian. They say they should go so we can be alone. I am silently pleased. I don't feign dissent. I just quietly smile. I want them to leave. The whole scene quickly reminds me of an erotic story I read once where a man and his wife move into a new house and two black girls come to welcome them to the neighborhood. They are both big-titted strippers, of course, and they decide right then and there they are going to seduce him the second his wife's back is turned. It is quite an evil story, as they succeed in seducing the white husband and the story ends with the wife in he hospital from shock when she finds out and they fuck right in front of her until she signs divorce papers. It's really quite ridiculous, but I remember being very turned on by it, and I just couldn't shake it from my mind.
They chat a bit more, before finally leaving. I'm not sure how many times he said they just popped by . I wanted to open the wine I brought immediately, to wash the bad taste that whole scene had left in my mouth. He pours our glasses and kisses me, finally. We take our respective seats on the couch. We chat about everything from music to vintage store finds. He shows me this paisley 60's suitcase he got in Memphis. He does a great southern accent. He shows me this gorgeous tawny brown, hollow-body guitar he has from the 70's. He hands it to me to play, but I am far too shy to do much more than strum it and finger it's shiny length in awe. I ask him to play something for me on it or teach me a few things. He proceeds to give me a very sweet guitar lesson. He shows me how to hold the guitar and places my fingers on the right frets. We play together for a good 15-20 minutes; I am keeping time, but all my chords just mysteriously float right out of my head. He softly brushes the hair out of my face while I strum; as it is blocking the sound. He is so good it is intimidating me. Music is so personal to me. I feel like I am baring my soul right before his eyes. I feel more naked and exposed than while in bed with him. My face is getting flushed; I can feel it. I have to stop or I feel like I might cry. I am overwhelmed. He keeps playing. He starts to sing "Cabaret" as his hand moves expertly across the fretboard and his fingers pluck so adroitly at the strings. I ask him to play Twilight Time, as I see it's amongst his scattered notations and papers on his music stand. He softly sings and I even fill in the parts he doesn't know. I dance along to the beat, now feeling wholly uninhibited, everything paling in comparison to the raw emotion of playing in front of him. He then plays an original composition that floors me. I am so impressed that my face goes blank. His talent simultaneously endears, intimidates, and turns me on.
We retake our seats on his mid-century modern couch; he all the way to the far left and I next to him, my legs crossed in his direction. He smokes a cigarette; I find it incredibly sexy when he does. He's so casual, so sensual, drawing the fiery paper to his lips. The smoke billowing all around us, like a realized sexual aura. It churns and swirls in the air between us, filling the evening with an arcane and fervid undercurrent.
He asks me what my last name is. It seems like it was bothering him for sometime, for when I tell him he says he feels much better. We talk about our families, he wants to take me downstairs to meet his dad, but the hour is late. I ask him if he has any scars, he shows me one above his left eyebrow and a fencing scar from a friend's rapier. He draws up his pant leg to reveal a long scar on his right foot from a surgery he had as a child. I contemplate the thought of having a scar that grows with you for that long. It seems significant, but I can't determine why. We talk about how both of our second toes are longer than the big toes and I remark how my friends always made fun of this fact. He puts his foot on top of mine as if to say 'it's okay' and show we are bonded by freakishness. I turn to a more serious subject, as I want him to know these things about me. I tell him about my grandfather, best friend and how I found him dead when I was four years old He seemed genuinely concerned as he soothed me with his hand stroking my head as he drew me nearer. He emits that empathetic "Ahh-ta" sound; it makes me feel good. A rare, tender moment for me. I talk a bit more about it as he continues to stroke my hair and shoulders, alternately. I am lying on his chest, I feel close to him. It's been sometime since I let someone get that close to me. He tells me about watching his mother die. He almost stops himself, but continues with the story. It obviously affected him, but he tries to seem stoic about it. At one point, he looks like he is tearing up. His voice becomes strained, but he composes himself, quickly, almost imperceptibly. I feel esteemed to be there listening to it. I rub his stomach and just let him talk. He says he's glad he doesn't need to explain his feelings about death to me because I already know. And I do. He tries to be callous about it, but I can tell it pains him, much the way I am. We oddly realize that about each other in that moment. It feels good to not have to say it aloud. As we revealed, I stopped to make note of this in my head. We were pouring out some deep and significantly morose experiences to each other and each of us knew it. Weirdly, or maybe not so weirdly, the sexual tension rose up a few notches on the dial. We half-heartedly talked about cooking, while he smoothed my braid between his fore and ring fingers.
He reaches over for the lamp's pull chain. He turns off two of the bulbs and then says, "Fuck it," and pulls down on the third, leaving only the sparkle of lights that drape the window and a few Medieval-looking candles burning on the far right end table. I knew if I looked up at him he would kiss me. So I did. My leg draped over his lap, our toes touching. We start kissing deeper and he whispers in my ear, "I wanted to rip that dress off you the second you walked in the door." I whisper back in my coquettish insolence, "So why didn't you?" I think this catches him off-guard a bit. He reiterates his neighbors just stopping by unannounced. I wonder if he is trying to gauge my jealously, but I don't think it showed. He uses that word I don't like, "friend." "Yeah, my friend Francesca is coming over." I do like the way my name sounds in his deep tone, though. We start kissing again. He smacks my ass and then apologizes. I say, "Don't be sorry, just go wherever the mood takes you." He smacks my ass again.
He pushes me down on the couch beneath him. He tells me that I'm beautiful while he kisses and licks my neck. All I can squeak out is a sincere "Thank you," because my breath catches in my throat. It's not long before he asks if I want to go to his bedroom. He leads me by the hand, like last time, into his candle and lamp-lit room. He says he'll be right back so I wait for him, mounted on my knees, on the bed. I think he is grabbing condoms, but he comes back with his phone. We start kissing and intertwining our bodies at the bottom of his bed. Pretty quickly, he slides my panties off, but leaves my dress on. He kneels over me and throws my leg on his shoulder. He kisses it all the way down. He lies on his back and says he wants to watch me take off my dress. So I instinctively get up on my knees and untie the back. It slips easy over my head and I cast it to the floor. I realize I am perched there with a bra and no panties on. I quickly unhook my black polka-dot bra and fling that to the floor. He begins to undo his pants, but I say, "No. I want to do it." I unbuckle his belt and in my signature move, pull it from it's loops and send it sailing across the wooden floor in one fluid motion. I undo his fly, which is already halfway down, and rip the jeans off his legs. I start tonguing his belly and sides. I run my mouth along the outline of his cock, still trapped in his plaid cotton boxers. I slide them down off him. He motions for me to come there. I straddle him knowing his hard cock is dangerously close to me. We start kissing again. He flips me onto my back and asks me what I want. I answer honestly, "What I really want is for you to fuck my brains out." He let's out an agreeable moan, but then says, "This might be a bad time to say this, but I don't have any condoms." He then says, "Next time, I promise." I immediately just blurt out, "Isn't there a store close by?" He replies that there certainly is. I say we need to go to the store like, right now. I couldn't take it, I just wanted him inside me so badly; I was too overcome to care about sounding wanton. He starts playing with me. He asks me if I like his fingers in my pussy. I respond with an emphatic purr and lift my hips up to meet his hand. He then asks, "Did I really make you this wet?" His throaty voice voice hangs on the word 'this'. I purr even louder, "Mm-hm." He says he wants to get me off before we go to the store and that we might need to go two rounds because I turn him on so much that he wants to come right then. He goes down on me and I move his hand into me. I ask him to fuck me faster and he makes me come rather quickly. I want to go down on him fervently, but I know we have to go to the store at some point because I'm not going to be satisfied unless he fucks me. He whispers in my ear, "When we go to the store, I just want you to wear your dress and no panties." To which I can only reply a breathless, "Okay," because it turned me on so much; I couldn't even think. I haven't been with someone in ages that can mindfuck me like that. I really lost all sense of control. Right around this point, WC would be coming out to play, but she is mysteriously absent. It's all me. I'm not compartmentalizing as I always do. So much so, that after, he even commented that it was just me the whole time. He didn't see any change because there wasn't any.
I tell him I want his cock in my mouth, to which he replies, "So put it in there," almost automatically. I can't resist, so I take him right into my mouth, no teasing or trailing to it with my tongue. I can't help it. I slide down his thigh and start at his balls with my tongue, licking all the way up. I deep-throat him until I gag and let the spit ooze down on his rock-hard cock. I do my signature twist and take him into my mouth again. He confesses, "I masturbated to you doing this when I was sick over the weekend." This makes me fucking hot and content. I say, "Good. I didn't let myself masturbate. I wanted to build up the tension so I could unleash on you. I almost couldn't take it." I keep blowing him. I feel like he is close. He pulls me up to his mouth and kisses me hard. I can feel his cock creep dangerously close to my pussy. We rock back and forth as we make out, playing with fire. I tell him we better go to the store soon because I have like zero self-control right now. I knew by saying that it would have the desired effect; we would either go to the store and then fuck each other's brains out or what I wanted, deep down, and had a funny feeling he wanted too, was for him to just slide it in. I keep teasing him, running my pussy along the tip of his cock and sliding up and down across it's length. He says we better go because he is just going to slip it in pretty soon. "Fucking teasing me with your wet pussy," in feigned frustration. "I know, you make me want to be so bad," I reply in my pouty, childish cadence. "I know, me too..."
At this point, I kind of knew what was going to happen. I wonder if he does too. I kept trying to wiggle myself right above his cock so with one upward thrust he would be inside me. I lusted for him to just reach down and guide it in. So overcome by this notion; I grab his cock and start running it up and down my pussy. It glides easily. I reach behind me and finger his balls to which he moans. Finally his cock is positioned just right, so that if either one of us moved there would be no turning back. He would slide right in. It was only a mere moment, but it felt like time was frozen and just hung there; taunting us to decide. We had the choice to be good and do what convention says and go to the store for condoms or we could be bad and give in to our incredibly strong, animalistic impulses. There wasn't much of a question at that point about which we were going to choose. I saw his eyes widen as he knew the position he was in. I was leaving it up to him. He looked up at me and thrust forward just a split-second before I sank down on him. That was it, just that quick upward motion and the matter was settled. We started fucking, so naturally, so fluid. He felt so good inside of me. We fucked furiously in this synchronized rhythm. He flipped me over on my back and threw my legs up over his shoulder and began pounding. He was nailing my G-spot, perfectly. He pulled me back on top of him and I rode up and down more slowly; deliberately. I lean back and circle his cock with my hips. The look in his big bright, round eyes fascinates me. His long, smoke-colored hair draped in his face, the subtlest of curls bounced on either side of his cheeks while I pirouette. He pushes me back underneath him and I ask him to fuck me hard. It feels amazing. I call out for him to make me come. At this point I was so wrapped up in pleasure that I realize I don't know if he's enjoying it. He would emit a few low moans here and there, but he wasn't saying much. I wonder if he's trying to concentrate on not coming. He finally moans, "You feel so good wrapped around my cock." He pushes my legs almost clean behind my head and drills me as I cry out for him to keep fucking me harder as he is going to make me come. This must send him over the edge because in the next instant he sputters, "I'm gonna come. I'm going to pull out." Before I even had time to respond, even though my initial thought was quite a devious one, he pulls out his rigid cock. I reach for it as he shoots hard and sudden across my stomach. He collapses down on top of me in exhausted satisfaction while I stroke his abundance of hair. We lie there and just soak in the release. He grabs his t-shirt from the floor and thoughtfully cleans his come from my belly and hip. He slides in next to me and we wrap our limbs around each other; our bodies touching at every possible contact. We make silly little after-sex chit-chat. He says his arms feel like Jell-o; my body is abuzz with electric energy. Not before too long he is asleep. I am far too excited to sleep. I feel like I am going to lay there, fully awake, in his arms until morning. But inevitably, my racing mind calms, drowsiness sets in and sleep eventually overtakes. It's hot in his room that night, but I instinctively reach for the blanket. We stay wrapped up in each other the entire night. He even holds my hand as we sleep. It feels damn good. I have this vivid dream where we are snorkeling in this incandescently-lit, tropical cave with all these dolphins swimming around us. For whatever reason, I am frightened by them in the dream, but he comforts me and tells me to look at them underwater and I won't be afraid anymore. He helps me put on my diving mask and holds onto me while I plunge under the surface. Fear is replaced with exhilaration and I feel close to him. I don't realize the symbolism until later.
I am awakened by the sound of a rooster crowing out of his phone. This intermittent crowing along with NPR blaring from his clock radio goes on for an hour, which he sleeps right through. It doesn't bother me nearly as much as it should because I am so contented to be wrapped up in his arms. But I can feel myself getting excited. I want to fuck again, but I think I had better not make him late for work. I have a ridiculous and childish fantasy where he calls in to work and we spend the day together making love and lounging around. We make some lunch and find our way to the DIA, for some reason. And then we go back to his house and have sex again, only to wake up the next morning wondering where the day went.
He finally gets up, but kisses me before he does. I feel slightly dejected as I don't want the night to end. I find it hard to drag myself out of bed. So I just lie there, facing the window for a while. He comes in and chuckles sweetly at my apparent sleepiness. I know I have to get up. I wait for him to go spit his mouthwash before I pull myself out of bed. I want him to see me naked one more time before we have to leave. I quickly dress and squeeze past him to get to the door, deliberately arching my back so my ass brushes against him. He grabs my arm or my side, I cant remember which, playfully. He apologizes again for having to rush out the door. I want him to kiss me. We make our way outside, the sun just barely rising in the sky. It's warmer today. He says sorry once more for the rush. He pulls me in for a quick kiss, but I want more. It must have shown on my face or he felt the same because he pulls me in for another one. He said he would call me later and I wonder if he means it. I walk to my car and look over at him pulling out of the driveway. I smile genuinely and he waves. I wave back. And with that, he is off. The car is completely fogged up, but I have this sense of urgency to leave so I pull out, hardly able to see out of the windshield. As I search for something good on the radio, I realize I don't remember how to get back to the freeway. I finally figure it out and make my way back home. I don't know how to feel. There is no compartmentalization , so I am forced to confront my feelings head-on. The writing is simply pouring out of me. I feel inspired. And it's not my usual overly-verbose, flowery, garish descriptions and meandering, loquacious run-ons. It's pithier; succinct; I'm not hiding behind semantics. I realize I've been writing for close to four hours. Tom Waits' "Jersey Girl" keeps playing in my head; especially the line, "When I'm wrapped up in my baby's arms..." It symbolizes something for me about this that I can't quite pinpoint. I like that dream I had, strange, but I like it. I purposely don't shower. I don't want to wash the the feel of him off of me. I want to keep the scent of him; that essence, on me all day. I realize I am hungry for the first time in days.
He was so patient while teaching me the guitar. I was completely flustered exposing my Achilles heel so quickly to someone. All of my vulnerability lying in each strum and painfully slow chord change.
He has this fantastic obsession with lighting. There are always various candles burning and antique Tiffany lamps casting a burnt orange moody glow. A net of twinkling Christmas lights hang in the window, like a fisherman's trawl, drawing me into his midst.
When I first walk up the creaky, steep wooden stairs to reach the landing, I hear hushed whispers of female voices. For a split second I think I have the wrong house, but then I realize it's probably just some friends or something. I knock softly and push open the door, half- expecting some freaky scene to unfold in front of my eyes as the door creaks open like a curtain commencing a play. Two middle-aged black women are revealed, perched insidiously on the couch. I don't see him at first, but I hear him. I am immediately and viscerally annoyed. I stride in cautiously, all smiles. "Hey," I manage to call out to the women. He introduces me, but doesn't know their names. He just says they are his neighbors that stopped by. I notice he is sweating. They say their names, but I am hardly listening. I hear one say to the other, "She is beautiful." She asks if my name is Italian. They say they should go so we can be alone. I am silently pleased. I don't feign dissent. I just quietly smile. I want them to leave. The whole scene quickly reminds me of an erotic story I read once where a man and his wife move into a new house and two black girls come to welcome them to the neighborhood. They are both big-titted strippers, of course, and they decide right then and there they are going to seduce him the second his wife's back is turned. It is quite an evil story, as they succeed in seducing the white husband and the story ends with the wife in he hospital from shock when she finds out and they fuck right in front of her until she signs divorce papers. It's really quite ridiculous, but I remember being very turned on by it, and I just couldn't shake it from my mind.
They chat a bit more, before finally leaving. I'm not sure how many times he said they just popped by . I wanted to open the wine I brought immediately, to wash the bad taste that whole scene had left in my mouth. He pours our glasses and kisses me, finally. We take our respective seats on the couch. We chat about everything from music to vintage store finds. He shows me this paisley 60's suitcase he got in Memphis. He does a great southern accent. He shows me this gorgeous tawny brown, hollow-body guitar he has from the 70's. He hands it to me to play, but I am far too shy to do much more than strum it and finger it's shiny length in awe. I ask him to play something for me on it or teach me a few things. He proceeds to give me a very sweet guitar lesson. He shows me how to hold the guitar and places my fingers on the right frets. We play together for a good 15-20 minutes; I am keeping time, but all my chords just mysteriously float right out of my head. He softly brushes the hair out of my face while I strum; as it is blocking the sound. He is so good it is intimidating me. Music is so personal to me. I feel like I am baring my soul right before his eyes. I feel more naked and exposed than while in bed with him. My face is getting flushed; I can feel it. I have to stop or I feel like I might cry. I am overwhelmed. He keeps playing. He starts to sing "Cabaret" as his hand moves expertly across the fretboard and his fingers pluck so adroitly at the strings. I ask him to play Twilight Time, as I see it's amongst his scattered notations and papers on his music stand. He softly sings and I even fill in the parts he doesn't know. I dance along to the beat, now feeling wholly uninhibited, everything paling in comparison to the raw emotion of playing in front of him. He then plays an original composition that floors me. I am so impressed that my face goes blank. His talent simultaneously endears, intimidates, and turns me on.
We retake our seats on his mid-century modern couch; he all the way to the far left and I next to him, my legs crossed in his direction. He smokes a cigarette; I find it incredibly sexy when he does. He's so casual, so sensual, drawing the fiery paper to his lips. The smoke billowing all around us, like a realized sexual aura. It churns and swirls in the air between us, filling the evening with an arcane and fervid undercurrent.
He asks me what my last name is. It seems like it was bothering him for sometime, for when I tell him he says he feels much better. We talk about our families, he wants to take me downstairs to meet his dad, but the hour is late. I ask him if he has any scars, he shows me one above his left eyebrow and a fencing scar from a friend's rapier. He draws up his pant leg to reveal a long scar on his right foot from a surgery he had as a child. I contemplate the thought of having a scar that grows with you for that long. It seems significant, but I can't determine why. We talk about how both of our second toes are longer than the big toes and I remark how my friends always made fun of this fact. He puts his foot on top of mine as if to say 'it's okay' and show we are bonded by freakishness. I turn to a more serious subject, as I want him to know these things about me. I tell him about my grandfather, best friend and how I found him dead when I was four years old He seemed genuinely concerned as he soothed me with his hand stroking my head as he drew me nearer. He emits that empathetic "Ahh-ta" sound; it makes me feel good. A rare, tender moment for me. I talk a bit more about it as he continues to stroke my hair and shoulders, alternately. I am lying on his chest, I feel close to him. It's been sometime since I let someone get that close to me. He tells me about watching his mother die. He almost stops himself, but continues with the story. It obviously affected him, but he tries to seem stoic about it. At one point, he looks like he is tearing up. His voice becomes strained, but he composes himself, quickly, almost imperceptibly. I feel esteemed to be there listening to it. I rub his stomach and just let him talk. He says he's glad he doesn't need to explain his feelings about death to me because I already know. And I do. He tries to be callous about it, but I can tell it pains him, much the way I am. We oddly realize that about each other in that moment. It feels good to not have to say it aloud. As we revealed, I stopped to make note of this in my head. We were pouring out some deep and significantly morose experiences to each other and each of us knew it. Weirdly, or maybe not so weirdly, the sexual tension rose up a few notches on the dial. We half-heartedly talked about cooking, while he smoothed my braid between his fore and ring fingers.
He reaches over for the lamp's pull chain. He turns off two of the bulbs and then says, "Fuck it," and pulls down on the third, leaving only the sparkle of lights that drape the window and a few Medieval-looking candles burning on the far right end table. I knew if I looked up at him he would kiss me. So I did. My leg draped over his lap, our toes touching. We start kissing deeper and he whispers in my ear, "I wanted to rip that dress off you the second you walked in the door." I whisper back in my coquettish insolence, "So why didn't you?" I think this catches him off-guard a bit. He reiterates his neighbors just stopping by unannounced. I wonder if he is trying to gauge my jealously, but I don't think it showed. He uses that word I don't like, "friend." "Yeah, my friend Francesca is coming over." I do like the way my name sounds in his deep tone, though. We start kissing again. He smacks my ass and then apologizes. I say, "Don't be sorry, just go wherever the mood takes you." He smacks my ass again.
He pushes me down on the couch beneath him. He tells me that I'm beautiful while he kisses and licks my neck. All I can squeak out is a sincere "Thank you," because my breath catches in my throat. It's not long before he asks if I want to go to his bedroom. He leads me by the hand, like last time, into his candle and lamp-lit room. He says he'll be right back so I wait for him, mounted on my knees, on the bed. I think he is grabbing condoms, but he comes back with his phone. We start kissing and intertwining our bodies at the bottom of his bed. Pretty quickly, he slides my panties off, but leaves my dress on. He kneels over me and throws my leg on his shoulder. He kisses it all the way down. He lies on his back and says he wants to watch me take off my dress. So I instinctively get up on my knees and untie the back. It slips easy over my head and I cast it to the floor. I realize I am perched there with a bra and no panties on. I quickly unhook my black polka-dot bra and fling that to the floor. He begins to undo his pants, but I say, "No. I want to do it." I unbuckle his belt and in my signature move, pull it from it's loops and send it sailing across the wooden floor in one fluid motion. I undo his fly, which is already halfway down, and rip the jeans off his legs. I start tonguing his belly and sides. I run my mouth along the outline of his cock, still trapped in his plaid cotton boxers. I slide them down off him. He motions for me to come there. I straddle him knowing his hard cock is dangerously close to me. We start kissing again. He flips me onto my back and asks me what I want. I answer honestly, "What I really want is for you to fuck my brains out." He let's out an agreeable moan, but then says, "This might be a bad time to say this, but I don't have any condoms." He then says, "Next time, I promise." I immediately just blurt out, "Isn't there a store close by?" He replies that there certainly is. I say we need to go to the store like, right now. I couldn't take it, I just wanted him inside me so badly; I was too overcome to care about sounding wanton. He starts playing with me. He asks me if I like his fingers in my pussy. I respond with an emphatic purr and lift my hips up to meet his hand. He then asks, "Did I really make you this wet?" His throaty voice voice hangs on the word 'this'. I purr even louder, "Mm-hm." He says he wants to get me off before we go to the store and that we might need to go two rounds because I turn him on so much that he wants to come right then. He goes down on me and I move his hand into me. I ask him to fuck me faster and he makes me come rather quickly. I want to go down on him fervently, but I know we have to go to the store at some point because I'm not going to be satisfied unless he fucks me. He whispers in my ear, "When we go to the store, I just want you to wear your dress and no panties." To which I can only reply a breathless, "Okay," because it turned me on so much; I couldn't even think. I haven't been with someone in ages that can mindfuck me like that. I really lost all sense of control. Right around this point, WC would be coming out to play, but she is mysteriously absent. It's all me. I'm not compartmentalizing as I always do. So much so, that after, he even commented that it was just me the whole time. He didn't see any change because there wasn't any.
I tell him I want his cock in my mouth, to which he replies, "So put it in there," almost automatically. I can't resist, so I take him right into my mouth, no teasing or trailing to it with my tongue. I can't help it. I slide down his thigh and start at his balls with my tongue, licking all the way up. I deep-throat him until I gag and let the spit ooze down on his rock-hard cock. I do my signature twist and take him into my mouth again. He confesses, "I masturbated to you doing this when I was sick over the weekend." This makes me fucking hot and content. I say, "Good. I didn't let myself masturbate. I wanted to build up the tension so I could unleash on you. I almost couldn't take it." I keep blowing him. I feel like he is close. He pulls me up to his mouth and kisses me hard. I can feel his cock creep dangerously close to my pussy. We rock back and forth as we make out, playing with fire. I tell him we better go to the store soon because I have like zero self-control right now. I knew by saying that it would have the desired effect; we would either go to the store and then fuck each other's brains out or what I wanted, deep down, and had a funny feeling he wanted too, was for him to just slide it in. I keep teasing him, running my pussy along the tip of his cock and sliding up and down across it's length. He says we better go because he is just going to slip it in pretty soon. "Fucking teasing me with your wet pussy," in feigned frustration. "I know, you make me want to be so bad," I reply in my pouty, childish cadence. "I know, me too..."
At this point, I kind of knew what was going to happen. I wonder if he does too. I kept trying to wiggle myself right above his cock so with one upward thrust he would be inside me. I lusted for him to just reach down and guide it in. So overcome by this notion; I grab his cock and start running it up and down my pussy. It glides easily. I reach behind me and finger his balls to which he moans. Finally his cock is positioned just right, so that if either one of us moved there would be no turning back. He would slide right in. It was only a mere moment, but it felt like time was frozen and just hung there; taunting us to decide. We had the choice to be good and do what convention says and go to the store for condoms or we could be bad and give in to our incredibly strong, animalistic impulses. There wasn't much of a question at that point about which we were going to choose. I saw his eyes widen as he knew the position he was in. I was leaving it up to him. He looked up at me and thrust forward just a split-second before I sank down on him. That was it, just that quick upward motion and the matter was settled. We started fucking, so naturally, so fluid. He felt so good inside of me. We fucked furiously in this synchronized rhythm. He flipped me over on my back and threw my legs up over his shoulder and began pounding. He was nailing my G-spot, perfectly. He pulled me back on top of him and I rode up and down more slowly; deliberately. I lean back and circle his cock with my hips. The look in his big bright, round eyes fascinates me. His long, smoke-colored hair draped in his face, the subtlest of curls bounced on either side of his cheeks while I pirouette. He pushes me back underneath him and I ask him to fuck me hard. It feels amazing. I call out for him to make me come. At this point I was so wrapped up in pleasure that I realize I don't know if he's enjoying it. He would emit a few low moans here and there, but he wasn't saying much. I wonder if he's trying to concentrate on not coming. He finally moans, "You feel so good wrapped around my cock." He pushes my legs almost clean behind my head and drills me as I cry out for him to keep fucking me harder as he is going to make me come. This must send him over the edge because in the next instant he sputters, "I'm gonna come. I'm going to pull out." Before I even had time to respond, even though my initial thought was quite a devious one, he pulls out his rigid cock. I reach for it as he shoots hard and sudden across my stomach. He collapses down on top of me in exhausted satisfaction while I stroke his abundance of hair. We lie there and just soak in the release. He grabs his t-shirt from the floor and thoughtfully cleans his come from my belly and hip. He slides in next to me and we wrap our limbs around each other; our bodies touching at every possible contact. We make silly little after-sex chit-chat. He says his arms feel like Jell-o; my body is abuzz with electric energy. Not before too long he is asleep. I am far too excited to sleep. I feel like I am going to lay there, fully awake, in his arms until morning. But inevitably, my racing mind calms, drowsiness sets in and sleep eventually overtakes. It's hot in his room that night, but I instinctively reach for the blanket. We stay wrapped up in each other the entire night. He even holds my hand as we sleep. It feels damn good. I have this vivid dream where we are snorkeling in this incandescently-lit, tropical cave with all these dolphins swimming around us. For whatever reason, I am frightened by them in the dream, but he comforts me and tells me to look at them underwater and I won't be afraid anymore. He helps me put on my diving mask and holds onto me while I plunge under the surface. Fear is replaced with exhilaration and I feel close to him. I don't realize the symbolism until later.
I am awakened by the sound of a rooster crowing out of his phone. This intermittent crowing along with NPR blaring from his clock radio goes on for an hour, which he sleeps right through. It doesn't bother me nearly as much as it should because I am so contented to be wrapped up in his arms. But I can feel myself getting excited. I want to fuck again, but I think I had better not make him late for work. I have a ridiculous and childish fantasy where he calls in to work and we spend the day together making love and lounging around. We make some lunch and find our way to the DIA, for some reason. And then we go back to his house and have sex again, only to wake up the next morning wondering where the day went.
He finally gets up, but kisses me before he does. I feel slightly dejected as I don't want the night to end. I find it hard to drag myself out of bed. So I just lie there, facing the window for a while. He comes in and chuckles sweetly at my apparent sleepiness. I know I have to get up. I wait for him to go spit his mouthwash before I pull myself out of bed. I want him to see me naked one more time before we have to leave. I quickly dress and squeeze past him to get to the door, deliberately arching my back so my ass brushes against him. He grabs my arm or my side, I cant remember which, playfully. He apologizes again for having to rush out the door. I want him to kiss me. We make our way outside, the sun just barely rising in the sky. It's warmer today. He says sorry once more for the rush. He pulls me in for a quick kiss, but I want more. It must have shown on my face or he felt the same because he pulls me in for another one. He said he would call me later and I wonder if he means it. I walk to my car and look over at him pulling out of the driveway. I smile genuinely and he waves. I wave back. And with that, he is off. The car is completely fogged up, but I have this sense of urgency to leave so I pull out, hardly able to see out of the windshield. As I search for something good on the radio, I realize I don't remember how to get back to the freeway. I finally figure it out and make my way back home. I don't know how to feel. There is no compartmentalization , so I am forced to confront my feelings head-on. The writing is simply pouring out of me. I feel inspired. And it's not my usual overly-verbose, flowery, garish descriptions and meandering, loquacious run-ons. It's pithier; succinct; I'm not hiding behind semantics. I realize I've been writing for close to four hours. Tom Waits' "Jersey Girl" keeps playing in my head; especially the line, "When I'm wrapped up in my baby's arms..." It symbolizes something for me about this that I can't quite pinpoint. I like that dream I had, strange, but I like it. I purposely don't shower. I don't want to wash the the feel of him off of me. I want to keep the scent of him; that essence, on me all day. I realize I am hungry for the first time in days.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Long Black Veil Listening Project: A playlist for the somber, but sado-masochistically loyal mood.
This is the original recording by Lefty Frizzell, but by no means the best.
A rock-a-billy version by Johnny Williams and the Jokers, produced by the now infamous "Crazy Cajun," Huey P. Meaux, which as it turns out wasn't just a clever nickname.
A watered-down and slightly too upbeat version by Johnny Rivers
Jerry Garcia and his first wife Sara doing a version supposedly at their wedding reception. Slightly buttoned-up.
Bob Dylan version live, I'm sure you get the idea.
The Band's treatment of "Long Black Veil." Fittingly following Dylan's.
Rick Danko of The Band doing a live acoustic version. I like the audience's enthusiasm coming through on this one. Plus I am a sucker for a stripped down version of any song.
New Riders of the Purple Sage version, completely different from the Jerry version. It's noticeably New Riders, but I dig that desert-leaning sound. It takes the song somewhere it seems it should have been all along.
Johnny Cash and Joni Mitchell duet. I can sort of get into the 70's cheese-factor of the seated performance on a ridiculous, stylized prairie set. It's a cool match-up in any event.
Hank Williams Jr. version. It's pretty much what you would expect.
This is a live, acoustic version by Mike Nesmith of The Monkees. Granted the Monkees blew, even taking into account the kitsch factor, but this recording has got some heart and he's got a nice voice, especially for this tune.
Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band live. Bruce can be very hit-or-miss for me, especially when it comes to his cover tunes (Jersey Girl immediately comes to mind, bah) but this one I dig. His gravelly, iconic voice lends itself to the gravity and solemn tone of the song. And all of his Seeger Sessions material really came together nicely in general.
Chris Robinson and Marc Ford try their hand at "Long Black Veil." I am a pretty big Black Crowes fan, so it's hard for me not to like anything that comes out of Chris Robinson's mouth.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds pretty much can do no wrong in my eyes, but I almost wish this was just a tad spookier. It's a little lounge singer-esque, which I can totally get behind, so it's still kick-ass.
Mike Ness' raspy voice barely gasping over the music; I like it. The audio in the clip is kind of crummy though.
The Seldom Scene's modern-ish bluegrass treatment.
But the definitive version of "Long Black Veil" has to be Bill Monroe's. His voice howls and cackles over the banjo and fiddle in a haunting, ghoulish manner. That wailing befits the emotional intensity of the song, making you feel just as tortured as the orator. There was not a copy of this to be found on YouTube, so Groove Shark it is. (Just copy and paste the URL and play any of the three that come up.)
http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=bill+monroe+long+black+veil
A rock-a-billy version by Johnny Williams and the Jokers, produced by the now infamous "Crazy Cajun," Huey P. Meaux, which as it turns out wasn't just a clever nickname.
A watered-down and slightly too upbeat version by Johnny Rivers
Jerry Garcia and his first wife Sara doing a version supposedly at their wedding reception. Slightly buttoned-up.
Bob Dylan version live, I'm sure you get the idea.
The Band's treatment of "Long Black Veil." Fittingly following Dylan's.
Rick Danko of The Band doing a live acoustic version. I like the audience's enthusiasm coming through on this one. Plus I am a sucker for a stripped down version of any song.
New Riders of the Purple Sage version, completely different from the Jerry version. It's noticeably New Riders, but I dig that desert-leaning sound. It takes the song somewhere it seems it should have been all along.
Johnny Cash and Joni Mitchell duet. I can sort of get into the 70's cheese-factor of the seated performance on a ridiculous, stylized prairie set. It's a cool match-up in any event.
Hank Williams Jr. version. It's pretty much what you would expect.
This is a live, acoustic version by Mike Nesmith of The Monkees. Granted the Monkees blew, even taking into account the kitsch factor, but this recording has got some heart and he's got a nice voice, especially for this tune.
Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band live. Bruce can be very hit-or-miss for me, especially when it comes to his cover tunes (Jersey Girl immediately comes to mind, bah) but this one I dig. His gravelly, iconic voice lends itself to the gravity and solemn tone of the song. And all of his Seeger Sessions material really came together nicely in general.
Chris Robinson and Marc Ford try their hand at "Long Black Veil." I am a pretty big Black Crowes fan, so it's hard for me not to like anything that comes out of Chris Robinson's mouth.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds pretty much can do no wrong in my eyes, but I almost wish this was just a tad spookier. It's a little lounge singer-esque, which I can totally get behind, so it's still kick-ass.
Mike Ness' raspy voice barely gasping over the music; I like it. The audio in the clip is kind of crummy though.
The Seldom Scene's modern-ish bluegrass treatment.
But the definitive version of "Long Black Veil" has to be Bill Monroe's. His voice howls and cackles over the banjo and fiddle in a haunting, ghoulish manner. That wailing befits the emotional intensity of the song, making you feel just as tortured as the orator. There was not a copy of this to be found on YouTube, so Groove Shark it is. (Just copy and paste the URL and play any of the three that come up.)
http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=bill+monroe+long+black+veil
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