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the clock ticking, as usual |
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Psst. Come here. I want to tell you about one of my favorite places, and it’s kind of a secret thing so forgive my whispers and gather near. Now this isn’t a place I can reach by car – remember that sleek black number that sits in the driveway? Careening recklessly over the highways or even a leisurely drive with the top down on a moonlit night won’t get me where I want to go. It’s not a place I can reach on a trans-Atlantic first class flight, or even by using what some immortals call the ‘cloud gift’, which to me is a childish expression of our powers in that regard. I can’t get to this place on a cruise ship, though if it were one of the registered destinations, I’m sure business would increase. In fact, I know it would. It’s hard to imagine such a marvelous place would exist and yet be inaccessible by these means! Do you want to know where it is? Well only because I’ve already started, I’ll tell you. It’s Louis’ belly.
-smiling- If he happens to read this, he’s going to poke me and give me that mock glare in which he raises his eyebrows while turning down the corners of his mouth, but I am still going to profess that when I’m off doing something lately, getting home to this sanctuary is all consuming. Usually, I’ll find him in bed, naked beneath the sheet that is pulled up casually about half way, his legs visible and enticing. I’ll undress and crawl in with him, mumbling about whatever it was I was out doing, and then of course our kisses, sometimes long and slow, sometimes short and sweet – I’ve written before how that can go on for hours, but listen – what I’m really talking about it what I find as I move the sheet down and there is this perfection, not just the “six pack” thing… but you know, farther down; That in-between place that’s fascinated me for years. There is that almost imperceptible swell, and a change – it’s softer there. I rain little kisses there, and along that line of black hair that leads to other pleasures, but that’s another story and I’m sure you can guess how it ends. Finally, I’ll lay my head down there on that gentle rise and listen to him breathing. I’m usually on my stomach, hands on either side of his waist or moving up to his chest, nipples or whatever I can reach and he, oh this is where I get lost in something of a foggy bliss: He’ll tenderly stroke my face or run his fingers through my hair. On some nights, he’ll sing a little. He’s shy about that, probably for all the teasing I’ve done, but I can’t begin to describe how all of this just soothes me. There are few places in the world I’d rather be at the end of the night. I most often drift off to sleep, if I don’t suddenly think of something (not) astonishing to tell him, and for one such as me who in case you didn’t know, suffers like so many artists, from insomnia – it’s a welcome relief.
Thusly I am posed, in repose.
Now I’ve been a tad obsessed lately with this and it might seem odd given that Louis and I have been together for so long. Part of the sacred happiness you find in being lovers, is discovering such things in and about one another over and over. Who knows, years from now it might be his earlobes or the curve of his hip that lend such fascination, but for now I’m content to rest my head on that lovely place that welcomes me home and takes me to my dreams.
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