Originally posted October 18, 2012
He starts by softly touching my pussy—whole hand, the hood still covering my clit. It’s more like a massage. A gentle pressing in. One hand on the left nipple, the other on the clit. He has me hike my left knee up high. It exposes me. Light caresses on my coarse hairs along the edge with the backs of his fingers.
He stops. Tells me to turn onto my belly. I obey. He puts his fingers into my shoulders and squeezes. Tender. Giving permission to all those pockets of unexpressed joy, anger, grief.
He has me turn on my side. I am facing him now. My left leg over his head, my right pressed tightly against him. He slides his fingers inside me. Gentle pulses in my body. A simultaneous relaxing and priming. His thumb occasionally grazes my clit. Red hot velcro. Each stroke he makes, his body is there to brace me. Hold me. Warm. Open. Slick walls.
Then he has me lie on my back. His fingers deep inside, he draws me forth. I am contracting in deep rhythm to my heartbeat, and yet there is still a small sweetness within the pulse. He strokes up. I feel a fast rush of heat over my left foot and calf—it’s almost too hot to bear. I want to cry. So I breathe. And surrender another layer. I want to feel all of this.
And the burning escapes out my feet and we float back down into a grey, clear pool. Hovering. His fingers inside me press upward, while his other hand continues to stroke my clit. I keep relaxing and chanting the mantra, “There is nothing to fear.”
I sink back into my body, feeling something deep within wanting to emerge. A round, bulbous heat—a burning pleasure—snowballs as it moves from my belly to my clit. I keep relaxing. I envision the bulb moving out, but without force. The heat has now opened into a canyon of potential.
“What if you just say yes,” I think to myself, “and trust that you are held.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
I feel the fog-tide rolling over my feet. Creeping in over my surrendered-ness. The cool mist-water makes its way up my feet, thighs, pussy, belly, arms, chest, head. My whole body is now bathed in orgasm. There is no thrashing around; just a quiet sparkle. I exhale and more mist-water rolls over us. Suspended in timelessness.
And then the tide recedes back to the reservoir at my feet. I have forgotten myself. The connection between us is viscerally human—and expands beyond cosmic comprehension.
It’s at this moment that I realize how very lonely I have been. I miss God. I miss having the constant companion of fullness and depth inhabiting my body.
I begin to shake and cry. “Oh God,” I cry out, “I miss God.”
A wave of gratitude grips my throat and I keen an ancient sound—a sound that is twisted with both agony and wonder. We touched love. Not ephemeral romance, that crunches and pounces and cramps. But love. Pure. Rich. Golden. Love.
I cry. And cry. His fingers inside me push up and forward. Releasing. He then pulls them out and presses his palm firmly on my pussy. Solid. Ground. I am held throughout the never-ending melting.
A bit embarrassed by my emotional nakedness, I murmur once more, “I miss God.” I cry a bit more. And then a bubble rises in my throat and I realize what really needs to be said. The hardest words of all. But the desire is so powerful that to hold it back would be like a slow, rotting death.
“I love you. I love you so much.”
Something sweet melts in his eyes. I cry some more.
I can’t help noticing the peachy-salmon tones of his shirt. “Peach and purple look good on him,” I think.
“I like that color on you,” I finally gasp out. We laugh.
The peak slips away and we simply hold on to one another. A raw, humble warmth of orgasm hums between us. I am deeply immersed. Present. There is nothing else to do but feel. Just me…and the man who taught me how to love.