You Can Have Him As You Want Him

To be honest, I don’t even know that I could fall in love at this point. Not because I am the least cynical (well maybe in the least), but more because my feet have, through love, become firmly planted on the ground. There is no place to fall from. Or to. Essentially, there is only this. Just us chickens all together. In this crazy love disaster that is life.
In other words, I don’t know what to do with you.
I, in fact, for the most part have no words. No spoken words anyway. For any number of things from the long haired model that lies in my bed, daring to bare a soul that defies my well organized presorted and perfunctory expectations, to the people who upon hearing of my “situation” offer a prayer, hoping that I find my other half.
Maybe I have words that do not translate. I have moved to a country where the truth has no language but for hair follicles extending from flesh, and images of mouths coming towards my own, caught in complete holographic expression – no matter where you captured the experience of that person you would have caught the essence. Some so hungry to please me. Others just hungry with “please me.” That photo accidently shot in between the staged ones, where the expression that could be seen in pictures since birth appears. That is the face I look for.
That is everything I want and need to know. Which I have discovered can be disturbing to those who would want a man to get to “know” them or “respect them”. Or the men who do not understanding why I quietly place my finger over their lips when they begin.
The question is: what do you do, when you are so steeped in love, that the slightest manufacturing of love makes you want to shoe it away like a fly in your soup.
And at the same time I have begun to melt even into that.
So that these scenes begin to develop of their own accord and flavors. Where the Spaniard, the writer in Wranglers with a face that drips with love and boyfriend. Who tells me that his female friends tell me that every woman wants to “wife” him, while cocking his head like a Spaniel with each word that comes from my mouth. A devotion that belies the second meeting status of our engagement. A devotion so drenched that I can see how the parched mouths of women minions would come to suckle at his gaze.
I am at once both removed and inside of the experience in a way that I have never been. As if I have to live backward for a moment into a woman that I was, not so long ago, certainly not long ago enough that I would be so arrogant as to believe that I am immune. I still have track marks on my arm from shooting that stuff up and I know high grade when I see it. So, I speak a little and listen closely looking for inbound.
The men who inspire this use their language as art. To create the stirrings that elicit from a woman the ripe plum juice sensations of a man who loves women. Who sucks their lips and licks their teeth. Who, as he tells me, goes on a date with a woman who has grown disgusted with the way things are, and is moving onto her bus. It was the last day in her apartment. “Quite a commitment” he says. He tells me about how in Spain you drink your gin with a whole host of things, infused, juniper berries and such. He tells me he makes drinks for her on her bus, and that it was a good date because they kissed and she really liked to kiss he could feel it. I do not mention that I can feel it. Right now. I am on the bus.
I see how the tuft of hair above his forehead must have been pushed back, and how the stubble must have chafed his skin in the Marlboro man kind of way that allowed a woman, who not only lived on a bus but built the loft inside of it, to go limp in the arms of a man who dared still to be man. A man, so man, perhaps; so Latin that his wife has sent him with urgent delight to be with other women. The wife who has so much fruit on her tree that she does not want it to perish so she gently puts it into small brown bags and brings it around to neighbors.
It’s a neighborhood I want to live in.
The four of us, and likely many more gently bump into each other in shy flirtation, albeit only two of us possess bodies.
Until he pauses and asks me about myself and what I do and what it is like over here. What is it like in this territory of woman. I run through the calculations. Like a seasoned gambler at the track. I opt for the revealing.
And begin, that I am living in vignettes.
Like the man, so unbearably beautiful in that way that hurts, look away hurts, who contacted me and in three or four communications crossed the border over into my realm, and began to tell me that he was looking, slowly at picture after picture of me and that his cock had grown heavy, swollen with the thought of putting his mouth on my pussy, my clit in between his lips and teeth.
How each day I would have this man text me whenever that thought crossed his mind. How when they say “what is the nature of your business here” the only business we had, was this image he had of his mouth locked onto my pussy and his cock getting fat. Until, for weeks, he would be late for work, somehow texting me poetry about my pussy while he stroked himself into, into an offering.
“I do not know how he texts the poetry, and comes at the same time” I say to the Spaniard.
Sometimes two or three times in a row. Each time asking me, asking me if it is okay, if I am ready, and each time with me saying “this is good. Please. Yes”. At some point in the day. His text. Asking whether or not we could meet in person, and my steady “no”, until one night fairly late, with my pussy heavy and fat, weighted from his messages and the other men I have waking up mornings stroking in a kind of church without walls, with wailing and surrender, texting in their form of prayers. My own body waking up from the threads connected to these men, now being tugged and jerked as they pump and squeeze the shaft from various distances.
Swollen to the point that my lips filled out on either side of my panties. That an increasing spot was spreading without any provocation.
I texted “yes. But we will not speak. You will ring the buzzer. I will let you in. You will come in and disrobe. I will lie back. You will suck my pussy. And leave. This is probationary. If you ask for more there will be no more.”
“I agree” he texted back, “I don’t know why but I have never wanted to meet a woman the way that I do you”. Because, it just may be that I can afford to let you go
I sent my address and commenced with the slow ritual of the senses, the lighting of the nag champa, the rose water, the silk stockings, the hand sewn corset, the music, deep and hypnotic.
The sound of my heels on the beautifully painted, black wood, plank floors. The planks, the planks that carry the sound of a timeless time. As the music begins to turn a warm timbre, an almost rust orange fills the room. The sensation like fingers in heated paraffin.
He rings. I see him in the screen on my intercom. There is an unspoken terror one feels at beauty, one we do not often talk about. It cuts through. But it cuts into, it cuts into any doubt that might exist and unless you allow it to do its work you are merely sliced open. But should you hold resistance at bay it can come for you and activate the depths of your own beauty.
I hesitate for a moment in opening the door. But choiceless choice prevails. I buzz.
Until I hear the ascent up three steps. His boots, the boots of a man who has been drawn down into his body by woman after woman until he is fully landed in his heels. First step. Next step. Next step. I am looking down over the railing at the top of his head. His head, like Medusa of black curls. His coat still heavy with cold from the New York winter walk.
He senses me and looks up. He stops. Black eyes. Black glass marble eyes. Some magical creation that because what is looking through them is like the resin of reverence, the most potent and concentrated, and because they reflect in that glossy pupil way, the being that exists in my depths. That too fragile for this world dwells in the realms of beauty responds. She knows him well.
He stops for a moment. Smiles.
I have lived with men I have been less in love, than these two inside of each of us are in that moment. I smile back. We laugh quietly for a moment at both the poignancy and the humanity of a man who has daily masturbated to images of the woman standing before him, ascending the stairs to move his lips across her actual flesh.
I walk him into the bedroom built for this moment. I pull him against what had prior to been maybe my tit or my breast, but in this moment becomes my bosom as the humanity takes hold and his body is trembling. I pull him in close to all the flesh of me. To the older woman of me. To the everything soft and full. I cushion his nerves with bounty.
Until I remove my robe and underwear but keep my corset on so that his eyes accustomed to feasting can continue. I open my legs. I open my legs and he comes down as if yanked by a force deep within my belly that pulls his tongue and breath up inside of me. Pulls his fingers up inside of me. Pulls his fear and his devotion inside.
And I realize that in the silence he can hear me. Because this is where and how I speak. I tell him in silence to calm, to allow, to take, to have. That he is wanted. That he is ached for. That he is moving me. That he matters. That not a single drop of his reverence was lost. Every last drop made it to me and built up the well that I will feed back to him. That every thought made it here and that although he feels that he is tumbling I will use my gravity to pull him back up to me.
Until I am coming and pouring forth into his mouth and he is putting, I don’t know, his finger, his fingers, his hand inside of me and a well is unleashed into his hand, and the bed is drenched and soaked and again, and again.
I hear that voice. It’s funny like the thermometer on a turkey that pops so suddenly. It is done.
I stand him up. My legs shaky but my resolve strong. Because that which spoke is what is providing for both of us. I put on his jacket. I look again at his face. His eyes. And here is where I drink. I drink for a moment and smile. He smiles.
We care about each other in a way that few would understand, because we care in silence where what is inside can have a conversation with the other and not be drowned out by words.
He descends the stairs and I watch the top of his head, the black glistening curls. He stops and barely barely looks up. Enough that were any doubt to arise it would be quelled, but not so much that I am called back into the only physical.
He texts me that he listened to brown shoes the whole way home. Oh and that this is the sensuality he had been looking for. He was confirming that his suspicions had been confirmed, that wells did indeed exist and that his dousing rod had indeed found a true on.
I tell this story to the Spaniard and a little bit about the hard thrusting firefighter that fucks so good, I pretend to believe that he was late because he was picking up his daughter. And the beautiful model as good at his game, as I am at mine. But thank god I stopped playing or I might find myself knocked out. And I think I say something about the football player. Oh yes I do. I remember.
And the Spaniard is revving, that grind like the grind of the kids who did mdma at the club and their teeth are gnawing as the machinery of their sex begins to turn. And I am smiling, asking if he wants to hear more, words I say only for the delight of torture, because I know.
“I want to kiss you” he says because in truth, although we are really just meeting, it’s always a return. He has been every man, and I every woman, and we carry the legacy of anger and passion and disappointment and yearning into each time our forms collide. Only my stories allow him to recall with greater clarity what his cells, the cells that only 7 days were not in his body. All new. From somewhere else. From a black curly haired man, a fireman, a football player perhaps.
And he takes me, which sounds so harlequin romance until it actually happens; until as a woman I am actually in the most bona fide way “taken” and the body falls limp. 1800’s woman in a fainting chair limp. And he inhales me and kisses and licks and moves his nose under my arms, and there is not enough of me to fill the vacuum of his sex. I need to open new gateways as quickly as possible to flood him back into calm.
I suggest we go upstairs. The sofa already soaked. Suede. Entirely practical.
And this, the fields of Spain pouring through him. More like a bullfight with dirt, and earth, and him seeing red everywhere. The gaping red of my pussy, the red of my fat nipples, the red of my tongue offering itself to him and he surveys where to charge. We both relax when he lands on my pussy, and moves along the grooves of the silent one that I just told him of.
He marks his territory with his scent. I am a tree they all stop at. They read each other’s news. They meet each other’s sex in my pussy. Compare notes.
We move in perfect unison. The sway of one now who can ride the bull as one with it. There is only this motion. That is it. Just pure unimpeded motion. Rhythm itself liberated from sound or vibration until it is just percussion in air. And in this we are suspended.
Until I hear the voice that says now is the time to stop and I do the quick fire alarm gathering of self to pull us back to earth.
I stand quickly. We put our identities back on. I’ve left some extra for him to bring home.
He is now rugged again with corduroy, and denim, and the dirt kicking energy absorbs any last hint of the room we just exited.
I glance his direction and appreciate again that lover in him, that man who had it been a few years earlier I might just had stepped off my road to freedom for. In this moment, I think we both appreciate that I didn’t.
I can only have these men because they are plural. It’s like a joke where the punch line is “so long as you let them all go.”
The start of that joke is that “you can have every man you want exactly as you want.”