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“I love the time I spend with you when you’re not around.”

“I’m having one of those mornings where I’m finding it hard to sort my feelings from symbols and my memories from dreams. Do you ever feel like that? Like you’ve left some part of yourself waiting in the driveway like a latchkey kid. I feel sort of like a little slug, crawling through a salt mine of ambiguity. It sucks out my enthusiasm and shrivels me down to a husk of ambivalence…”

He pulls his face from between my thighs, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What?” He asks. I always forget that he can’t understand a word that I’m saying, because I press the inside of my legs against his ears so snuggly, like a pair of muffs. There are times that I’m actually afraid I might accidentally break his neck, with all of my frantic motion. I was born with all of my sensation knobs cranked to 11, across the board. Sometimes all it takes is a brush of the hand, from the right person, to get all of my sexy bits in a fluster. 

I love a man with an articulate tongue, when he knows just how to coax his mouth around my soft vocabulary. The way he enunciates my intimate syllables, until I’m crying in simple sentences that end with hard punctuation. Yes. Please. Don’t Stop. Oh! 

Occasionally, when he’s just flirting with the folds of my pages, loving the space with a lap of silence moving from the top margin to the bottom, and back again… I babble insightful personal truths. Sometimes it gets philosophical. Utilitarian, “If you keep doing that I’m going to…”  Existential, “This is unreal.” Or even spiritual, “Oh god(s)!”

One of my hands clasps the sheet, crumpling it up like I’m about to discard it right after I get out this first draft. My other hand covers my mouth, I don’t want the neighbors to accuse me of soapboxing hedonistic propaganda, or sermonizing my seemingly unbridled enthusiasm for religious figures…

I bottom out, losing myself to a haphazard thesis of jumbled words, hard sensations, and abstract feelings. Complete concepts communicated in animalistic grunts and moans that come rapidly like an instinctual atheistic response, “There is nothing beyond this.” Nihilistic posturing, “Nothing that means anything.”

No longer present in the moment, I flicker out of reality and hold up in some surreal pocket that hides me from the obligations of time and space. I am nothing, except the feeling. This is not consciousness. This is bliss…

He collects me in his arms. He pulls me back to the edge of my mortal ego, back from the void of transcendent pleasure. His voice brings me back from the fringe. 

“I love the time I spend with you when you’re not around.”

He teases me gently. I’m too breathless to object. I kiss him with trembling lips, tasting the sweet residue of my experience. 

This is everything.

comments

46 notes

  1. aliveanddyed reblogged this from ordinarywonder and added:
    This is fucking amazing. Oh my God.
  2. otterproseless reblogged this from ordinarywonder
  3. bluebell-the-rabbit said: Oh my God, this is so cleverly written Noelle, I don’t know whether I found it slightly hilarious or a huge turn on. “…loving the space with a lap of silence moving from the top margin to the bottom, and back again” THAT LINE - oh my God, I love it
  4. takingstockofwhatmattersmost said: You got a match? I need a cigarette! ;-)
  5. outofherhead said: I love that title! I haven’t even read it and I know I will love it. =)
  6. ordinarywonder posted this
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