Time is not a thing that's ours to lose...

"You know, I'm glad you're a bit of a tease," I said, thinking my gods the inanity, but she disconnects when I tell her she's lovely. I'll be a fool instead; I've enough practice.

She smiled, said, "Good," (Unspoken: I would be whether you were glad or not. And that makes me happy, too, honestly.) and went back to what she was doing.

I held back her hair and let go of the thought of being anything but present.
And she was radiant and graceful.
And it was good.

Whole

"So what were you thinking about?" he asks, settling me in his arms, his voice in my ear and his hands wandering.
"Nothing coherant. Flashes of memories."
"Such as?"
It's my own game turned back on me; I want to squirm out from under the question, but I hate it when he does. So:
"Kept coming back to those wonderful kisses of yours. The ones soft enough to drown in. And the sound of your voice last night, when you said..."

He chuckles, squeezes me, runs his hand down my stomach. "What else." The hand edges my thighs apart, finds my clit, begins the lovely tease.

"The first time I noticed the curve of her leg from hip to knee to ankle. The first time we were like this. Your teeth in my shoulder. A few memories that would make you twitch to hear."

His wandering hand doesn't stop, doesn't even pause, but the other one finds one of mine, catches, squeezes. "Them too."
"You sure?"
"Mmhm."
And I exhale hard, but I'm caught. One hand won't let me retreat to curl up around things that still ache sometimes, but the other won't let me fall, won't let me down. So.

"The way the bedclothes looked and felt like clouds, the way the rest of the world ceased to exist outside the borders of the mattress, except for sun pouring through the window and the warmth of his skin.
The sound he made when I took his nipple ring between my teeth and pulled."
(He laughs, and I'm relieved enough to continue.)
"Beardburn and warmth and the most improbable tangle of limbs.
The way all of you have bitched about my squirming away."
(more laughter, warm. Oh thank God.)
"And the way he solved the problem, when his mouth was on me, by sliding one thumb inside and pinning me to the bed by it."
"Like this?" my treasure asks, testing the gesture, and just like that I'm dropped into that warm, minimalist room in my head, a biddable and cherished girl.
"Yes. Like that."

And on. And on...
(The last time a man asked me to tell him all of what was in my head and I did, he curled up into a tiny ball and shunned me. "I love you," he'd said, "but you won't let me know you." So I tried. And he wanted nothing to do with me until I could go back to being the girl he was comfortable with.)
With every word, I'm afraid of the same thing from Tesoro mio, but it just doesn't happen. We wander into mental territory I haven't even fully explored, and he's beside me the whole time, yes, keep going. Steadfast.

As I'm coming unglued in his arms, it strikes me: he wants me whole, and he wants all of me.
And he can take it.
He amazes me.

"I know who you come home to," he says afterward. "I know who you've chosen. I know who you want.
It's easier to hear things that happened before we got together. It's easier."

Thank you.

Stripe

As the rope ends fall, I exhale. It feels like the force of impact goes through me, this way, instead of just sitting on the surface. My back becomes the head of a drum; my body hums; tension frays loose and fades.

It was hard, at first, to get you to believe that I like this, that I need this.
Then we discovered tapotament and you began to understand.
You don't feel comfortable pounding loosely clenched fists on my back and thighs?
Well. How about this nice thuddy flogger?
Thank you.

And for just a few minutes, the world is the slap, whistle, and thud of rope on flesh. The warm, heavy fabric of several strokes laid close but not overlapping. For a little while I'm liquid.

In a few hours, we can worry about making ends meet. In a few hours, we can budget and plan. We can worry about things that sink time away from eachother and don't show a profit in the process. We can try to find sleep inside all the dissatisfaction with work that we love. Later.

But right now, we're together in a very personal way.
And right now, all is well.

The Sea and the Rhythm...

I found a song today, and if you'll click the image, you'll find its lyrics.
There's just something about Iron & Wine that gets into the bloodstream...
~*~
Most of my life, I've been afraid of the sea.
Consider its qualities:
Beautiful; capricious.
Too thick to breathe; too thin to stand on.
Light enough to transmit light; heavy enough to crush a ribcage.
Sweet, gentle surfaces with nasty unseen currents under them, or else honest, gods-be-with-you-if-you-come-broadside-to-'em storm waves.
I've only ever heard the sea referred to in the feminine; for the longest time, this struck me as validation of my opinions of both live, open water and women.
(secret: I've been afraid of women for a long time, too.)

But...
Maybe it's a question of understanding...

I'm finding out that the terrible volatility of the ocean isn't just the nature of the water; that what the ocean does at any given moment is a product of the wind across it, the earth beneath it, and the moon's pull through it. All of which are either constant things or things that move in patterns. Thus making the sea, for the most part, quite reliable...once you know the patterns of change.

Which...also sounds like the nature of Woman...
~*~
Most of my life, I've been afraid of open, live water.
I can't even swim.
But recently, I've been daydreaming about the rhythm of a rocking deck and the song of wind in canvas.
And longing for it.

The interesting thing about fear is that it tends to hang around long after its period of usefulness is past...

Rope Anniversary

(Technically, I'm a little early. The day itself is the 3rd of July, recorded verbally here and visually, above.)

Tesoro,

For demonstrating Newton's Third Law on my bratty self (it's why I do it, you know),
For Hot Pockets while I'm still fuzzy with endorphines,
For wrangling my little monster for an hour so I can enjoy a bath,
And for a double handful of other things, large and small,
Thank you.

Ti amo, baby.

Time=Care

"Where your treasure is, there your heart is, also."

Well, yes.

But where your heart is and where your attention goes aren't necessarily obviously the same things. Some translation is often in order to bring the mewling kitten of the body in line with the fisherman of the mind:

Just because I am out catching fish all day instead of sitting here scratching your ears does not mean I no longer love you. In fact, it means just the opposite: that I love you so much I want to feed you--and myself, also--as well as I can. I wish I could do both, but sweetheart, you can't swim. Go catch mice and I'll scratch you as best I can with net-burned fingers tonight. Deal?

And of course it's a deal, it's always a deal. I'll even clean your hands afterwards, although I admit, it's as much for the taste as the service.

Just...in all the casting of nets and scrubbing of decks and provisioning of voyages? Don't forget to put your hand down now and then and scratch a bit, ah?

It's what makes the mice worth chasing.
Well.
That and I love you.

And sometimes, they're entertaining mice.

Type

"I've almost given up trying to figure out your type," he says conversationally.
Part of me is perversely pleased--being enigmatic has been a favored pass-time of mine for most of my life. But part of me is a little...(what's the word? Frustrated? No...too much... Exasperated? Still too strong. ...Weary. Weary is almost right....) meh, too. Because from where I sit, it's easy to pick out of a crowd the folk to whom I'll feel attracted. Provided that crowd is interacting with eachother, not just walking past, oblivious.

The shoe-in-the-works is that Tesoro Mio is looking at the "problem" with male eyes...not just male eyes, but aquisitive male eyes. The sort of viewing you bring with you into a bar when the purpose of the exercise is to not go home alone. You follow? He's looking for a string of physical features that recurr often enough to classify. "Luca likes x." I can't throw rocks--it's how the man's wired, and he's sweet to try and learn... but he's using the wrong set of assumptions-of-true to try and "solve" with, and I don't know how to hand him mine so they'll grok.

Because attraction is rarely ever centred on a look, for me. It's more...a matter of carriage. A matter of how someone exhibits his/her nature. How they stand, how they move. How they gesture, how their faces express. What thoughts come out of their mouths. What art they embed in their flesh and how willing they are to talk about it.

I once saw a gorgeous piece of colourwork across a stranger's shoulders, complemented her on it, and somewhere in the middle of the ensuing conversation, got blindsided by the grace and lusciousness of the curve of her leg from hip to ankle. Typify that, ah?

It's not a matter of compartmentalising what makes beauty and only seeking that.
It's a matter of finding the individual's beauty.
Finding out whether they'll have enough faith in me, having just met me, to show their own beauty to me.

"Good," I answer pleasantly. "Maybe you'll let me lead this particular expedition, then?"

Because, honestly?
With one notable exception, involving other people in our play and our sanctuary is...not highly prioritised on the list of things to do this year. For the gods' own sake--we're still learning the dynamic between us. How in the world do you throw a stranger into that mix before it gels?
We're not ready.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?"
"It would work better that way, yes."