In My Write Mind
That's what I remember about that evening--taking my pulse. Making sure I was still alive. I worried about it then, but only because never before had a woman excited me this way. Never before had a woman literally incited me to chorus, making me scream her name in three-part harmony. Never before had streams of tears been part of my experience, me being not upset at what I was experiencing but, really, upset that it would end.
So I remember that pulse. Taking it and feeling it. Living it and breathing it. It was literally a rhythm of the night. El DeBarge ain't had nothing on me.
It started off slowly, almost syncopated. A look. A laugh. A flirt. A touch. A hug. All uneven in their pattern, but all making up a blood flow, a life flow...that pulse.
It built slowly, gaining momentum, when the hug turned into an embrace, and then a meeting of the lips, and then a deep kiss...the pulse was building. A stroke of the back, and caress of the hair, a hand on the small of the back. Racing. It was evening. As the sun set, I rose.
I invite, she responds. A sensuous, affirmative R.S.V.P. I probe, she parts. I squeeze, she moans. I lead, she follows. I play on her lips. It drives her crazy. Drives my pulse even more so. Several deep kisses later, several beats later, I find myself exploring as if looking for an even more perfect beat. The perfect pulse.
My hands had a story to tell. They took it nice and slow like an Usher song. Feeling, touching, clutching, fondling...nothing was out of reach. They started with her face, flushed and glowing, each finger tracing her full lips with precision, as if they were taking notes for future reference. Each palm caressed a side of her face, drinking in her beauty. Working their way down past her neck, gripping her back, making love to her breasts with each squeeze. These hands were crafting their own ballad, following the body's pulse.
Each song has a bridge, a moment where everything is broken down and explained. Made clear. Each pulse has it's own crescendo--a starting point, it's apex, and a conclusion. Where my hands went next...was the apex. It was that one moment in time where fingers play the body like an instrument, pressing and massaging notes in the form of moans and groans and screams and exclamations. It's all about where you place the fingers...all about which notes you wished to hear.
The notes played. My pulse was on the verge of exploding. The song was broken down, explained. Raw. Uncut. Saturated. It was time to play that body to its heightened conclusion. It was time to see where the notes could take us. Time to concoct a Miles or Coltrane composition. Time to craft a masterpiece. My hands were ready for the rest of me to join in. My body was ready. She was ready.
But first, in the midst of all of this--the kissing, the rubbing, the holding, the caressing, the probing, the squeezing, the passion, the saturation, the moment...I had to stop.
And take my pulse.
scribbled by Will at 3/11/2005 12:17:00 PM
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I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. (Joan Didion)
The Write One
Will. Lefty. Since Summer 1971. Over the next six months, I'll be saying some hellos, some goodbyes. Living, laughing, growing. Don't.miss.a.word.
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