...under the cover of sighs...
2003-05-27
7:40 p.m.
My lover sends me poetry through the mail. Three letters arrived today. Two with rose petals. One with a picture over two years old�she is almost unrecognizable with long hair, but I�m able to find familiar spots in her lips and the height of her cheekbones.
Like my lover nearly unfamiliar in her senior picture from high school, I feel unrecognizable to myself. I stare into the mirror and note the obvious changes like the fifteen pounds I�ve lost since moving to Boston, but the other changes come softer to me.
They come in the barely audible sigh of �at last�. I realized this evening, as I sat on my front stoop reading Amanda�s letters that the emptiness I�ve carried faithfully for years has left under the cover of my sighs.
My lover fills the empty places, because I allow her access and what we say to each other is how we�d say it to ourselves.
We talk about the difficulty of having orgasms. How close I�ve come to spilling over the edge with her�closer than I�ve ever come with any other lover, though while with them, I�d never admit to such a shameful thing. But I�ve told her, eyes downcast even in the dark, that I�ve never had an orgasm with a lover, that the thought of it scares me into flashbacks. And I admit to lying in the past to cover my shame.
And she lowers her lips to mine, her eyes bright even in the dark, I have trouble, too, she says, I take forever and I�m picky.
In her pleasure, she tenses, holds her breath, pulls me closer to her, leaving biting marks on my shoulders. In my pleasure, I grasp the sheets, her shoulder, clinching and un-clinching my fists.
We would be violent without our kisses and open palms caressing.
Each time, I ask her to stop closer than the last time to the edge. I fall back to my pillow, floating, and her joy in my happiness fills her laughter.
Does it bother you that I haven�t had an orgasm yet? I ask.
No. Does it bother you that I haven�t? She asks.
No, because with you, I don�t mistake sex with intimacy. We make love all the time. I say.
Yes. She says. When we walk and when we sleep together. And in our letters. And the way I lean against you in the subway station. We make love, always.
And without realizing it, I�ve given myself freely.