Once upon a time.

I liked the stubble on his cheeks and head, and his eyes behind the glasses watching me, waiting for something, sparkling only rarely, breaking through the fog.

He lies on the bed so still it is like he is afraid to move, talking, talking, as I inch up the bed toward him. I rest my head on his chest, his arms, the only muscled thing about him, sliding around me. And when he finally turns his head to kiss me I whisper, "What took you so long?"

He laughs that nervous laugh and whispers, "What took you so long?"

I feel like I've been waiting for this for years, for the feel of his mouth on mine, like melting. He kisses like I always wanted to be kissed and so rarely was, with his whole body yet not smothering me.

Like he's thought about it. And I hope he has. His hands on my face and suddenly I don't feel anything that's changed, any of the mistrust and fear and the extra pounds and spots on my skin. Nothing has changed in these moments between us, where we fit together like we've been doing this much longer. So many more times than the three.

He whispers something but I want to hear him say it out loud. He denies me his voice so much, makes me read the words he has more confidence in that way.

"Please," he whispers, roughly.

And I do what he wants because I want it too, want to taste him, want everything at once. And I love the taste of him, the feel, the little silent laugh I get inside when I know at this moment how completely he's mine.

It's the only moment that he's mine.

He pulls me up almost roughly to kiss me again, taste himself on my lips. Then he throws me down, buries his face in my cunt like he's been dreaming about it. And his talented tongue keeps me on the edge, breathing ragged, hands sliding over my own skin and reaching for his head, for the stubble rough, sharp.

When I finally pull him up to me and he slides inside me I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, from saying something I can't say to him. I shiver like it hurts but it feels so good--I want to bite, scratch, claw at him but kiss him softly, keep him close.

On top of him, I rock back, grip his thighs, force myself to move, thrust grind until I'm there...yes...there.

But not done, no, not done, even though I collapse on his chest and those arms pull me close.

We roll over and he's on top of me and whispering in my ear "I don't want to come yet" and I don't want him to either, don't want this to stop. I feel like one raw nerve, can feel each tiny movement. Our eyes meet, my eyes wide, and I beg him no, don't stop, you feel so good and the point that matters there is the you...you...you.

And I know that when it stops he'll be scared to be too close to me, or maybe he only wants me when we're this deep in each other and when we're not he doesn't care.

When he finally comes I don't want to let go. I hold on as tight as I can, and I hear his rough voice say "That was amazing" but he's already moving away, and my answering "yes" and my giggles that come without warning when my skin is flushed like this. I hear it like I'm not the one doing it, because as soon as we're done I know he's not mine, not mine, never will be.

And I wonder how he can not know how I feel about him, wonder how he doesn't see right through me. Does he, after all, see through me and just pretend he doesn't?

He puts his shirt back on like he needs a layer between us now. Falls asleep with his back to me, and leaves me tracing patterns on his t-shirt instead of sleeping. But when he thinks I'm asleep I catch him open his eyes to look at me.

I haven't forgotten you

We've been sadly, sadly neglecting you, I know. I wish I could tell you that it's been because I've been busy with fabulous adventures but sadly, that's not the case. It's been work, work, and more work, and in between there's this little election going on in the U.S.

Still, I have time to think about things for you.

I didn't dress up this Halloween, but many many times in the past I've laced myself into a corset, put on a wig, amped up the makeup and transformed myself into someone else for display, for your amusement and viewing pleasure. I've been an angel, a devil, a pirate queen and several comic book characters.

I dream delicious mixed-costume fantasies, my pirate meeting a space cowboy, zombie makeup mingling with my glitter lipstick, down a dark New Orleans alley on our third night of costumed revelry. Pretending we each don't know who the other is.

I want to wake up with bits of my costume strewn across the floor, makeup smudges and round ringed bruises and the last bits of the night's drinking clouding our heads, and feed each other candy to chase away the hangover.

But instead I am haunted not by ghosts but by memories of holidays past spent in the arms of various loves. I can taste them now as much as I can the sugar sweetness of the chocolates I sublimate desires with. Skin of one, thinly coated with sweat, mouth of another, flavored with beer and something slightly tangy, and the seed of yet another, that bitter salty flavor slightly different each time.

They all wore costumes, not just for Halloween, but every day. Put themselves together an identity from bits and pieces lying around, a scrap of rock star here, a piece of athlete there, sculpted bodies and personae to hide their hearts in.

When we dress up for Halloween, do we really just let out a piece of ourselves that we were keeping hidden?

Lines.

I've only ever humbled myself for one person.

I would have crawled on my hands and knees across broken glass for him. I begged him and cried for him and chased him and sent him letters years after he broke my heart. I loved him and offered him my heart raw and bleeding in my hands.

I won't do that anymore.

It's a strange thing to know at the same time as you feel like it will never stop hurting, that someday it will. That you can laugh even as you want to cry. To not even be able to give over completely to the sadness because you simply know that yes, this too shall pass.

When you look at me I see mirrored in your eyes our time together. I don't know if you think of conversations halfdrunk allserious or if you think of me naked pressed against you, of my lips, of the taste of me.

They are one and the same thing, really, anyway.

Doesn't matter if you never fuck me again, if I never feel you inside me and hear that little sigh and gasp when you come.

It doesn't matter if I never fucked you in the first place, so there's nothing there to regret.

We crossed a line way back when and we can't go back across it. We certainly can't pretend it didn't happen.

Everyone I've ever walked or skipped or leaped or dived across that line with, I can see it in their eyes. They remember the feel of me. Even if they only brushed my skin with one finger, then headed back the other direction out of fear or honor (who can say), they remember that feeling. They know.

And so I won't chase it, I won't ask for it, let alone beg for it. I know that this will pass.

And I'll go back to dreaming about the one that never did pass. The one who still comes to my dreams and I offer him, smiling, pieces of me. Another chunk to add to the parts he already owns.

After all, I can't ask someone else for what I don't have to give.

I Remember

I drempt last night of him, of my baby, my soul mate.
I dream less frequently of him now, after nearly 3 years, but it still gives me the same feeling, that slightly sick, slightly happy feeling of being close to you again. It wasnt a sexual dream, I think we were shopping, its usually the mundane things you remember, not the moments of intense passion or happiness. But it got me thinking of you. Got me remembering of how it was with you, my first, and, i wished, my last. It inspired me to write...

"Your fingers caress my flesh as if they would push through it, as if they sought to enter my skin, to touch my soul and never let go. Your mouth eats at mine as if you would breathe your last breath from me. Such urgency I have never know, never understood till now. Never been a part of till now. Its not that I want you in me, thats not enough. I want to be part of you, flesh melded into flesh, spirits entwined, pressed so close that we are only One, moving together, living together, dying together. If only"

And how I've grown since then. How my apetites have changed. How responsible I now know you were for bringing my true self, my true passions and desires out of me. Just for being you. How much fun we would have had exploring them, understanding them. I hope this makes you happy, cos it certainly makes me smile that old wicked smile of mine.

A long time ago

I remember his lips. Very well. The way they felt on mine, on my skin, the way his hands felt.

It was so long ago, our fumbling mistakes and miscommunications. Our perfect kisses and not-so-perfect orgasms.

One night, though, when we kissed for hours until our lips were bruised, our bodies pressed together, even when we moved and shifted positions we didn't lose that contact, as much of his skin on mine as we could possibly get, and we ended with him behind me, his arms so close, his lips on my ear and his fingers on me, moving slipperysmooth and his whispers against me.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Nothing I've ever felt has topped that. Never.

He was so fucking beautiful. And so very much mine.