and then in the midst of all this bliss
Feb. 14th, 2003 12:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wisdomeagleThis is the first Valentine's Day on which I have had a Valentine.
Valentine's Day Montage: The Stories I Forgot To Tell
infatuation
The hyperactive androgynous boy with his head and body in a constant whirl of conflict and consent, jumping from stage to stage, like paradise promised. The bright-haired punk rock girl in suspenders, shouting backwards lyrics through a purple megaphone, like paradise glimpsed. The matronly mother of two with red kinked hair and a wobbling smile, sitting on the props table with a clipboard and a rosary, like paradise lost. And the shy, awkward first-year drama major with gray slacks and gay tendencies, infatuated with the theatre people--paradise regained.
rejection
Hannah sat alone on a barstool, dark lighting reflecting her silvered hair, a graceful leg with just a hint of plumpness, a faint blue varicose thigh hidden by control-top pantyhose and a dainty flowing skirt that covered just enough to tantalize. Around her, drums thudded, percussion rattled--the pots and pans of her last lover's unfortunate farewell symphony. A lipsticked mouth grazed too near Hannah's, and she could feel the faint buzzing pleasure of another woman's martini. "No," she said, pulling away with practiced scorn. The black-corseted woman wobbled away, half a minute away from drunk.
"Why did you say no? She looked like a good fuck." Hannah spun around, the glare of the disco ball glistening into her eyes, shading the tall woman who balanced a lanky figure on two impossibly tall bright red stilettos.
"Precisely," she said.
love at first sight
She would have to pretend to be a New Yorker--cool, sophisticated, hip. Luckily, pretending to be New Yorkers is what people from New Jersey do best. She pursed her lips and typed the last sentence of her dissertation, then clicked the laptop off with a faint sigh of irritation. Next to her, looking bored, was a genuine New Yorker who had no need to pretend and was thus infinitely less suave than she. He turned to say hello to her, but a derisive glance cowed him. He flipped open his notebook and wrote in a careless, slanting manuscript, "New York romances often begin with infidelity and end with disdain. In rare cases, it's the other way around." Looking over his shoulder, she smiled.
warning
Go gentle over my white skin. Don't break me. Kiss my lips with bright sunshine, morning skyburst. The birdsong of dawn tastes of ginger and persimmons, like your mouth brushing the edge of mine. This was an irrelevancy in the age of Grace, but we are skeptics now. Cynicism tastes acidic (you ate it at eleven o'clock tea) and has no antidote. So please, love my fear, but love it like the fragile beast of dreams.
falling in love
Her mouth tasted like candy hearts, pink with red lettering, too sweet in his mouth, against his lips, overlapping his tongue with the magic of hers. Her hands dug deeply against his lower back and he stroked her ass gently. A ripple rose in the back of her throat, fear. Her eyes slammed shut against his tongue licking the back and bottom and sides of her mouth. Save me, she thought, not sure if she was talking to him or to God. Save me. The growing wetness threatened her, the briny, pickle-taste of his mouth caressed her, and she felt her legs go weak and threaten to collapse beneath her. It was too dangerous, and it meant death to give in, to surrender to the feeling of burnt copper flaming against the back of her legs. She circled his mouth once more, pressed her lips against his one last time, and let go, resting her shaggy head against his strength. At last she spoke aloud, an hour, two hours, perhaps only ten seconds later, the liquid soap sweetness oozing into him from between her legs. "My God, I love you so much." He held her tighter, stroked her back, let her exist as his girlchild, his beautiful bride, his adored one.
"I love you, darling."
daily
The floor was still slick from last night's waxing. Sarah slid a sticking foot along the tile, feeling the smoothness of clean. Em looked up from black coffee and a stale muffin and put an icy finger to her unpainted lips. Sarah, startled, stopped mid-step like an awkward ballerina or an overgrown flamingo, her beige slacks hanging on anorexic-thin legs, her black-clad feet dangling from her shoe-horn ankles. "What?"
"Is this your great-grandmother's antique bone-thin hand-painted china?" Em was hangman, judge, and attorney for the prosecution all carved into one modern art sculpture, a woman with three finely carved faces, all livid, all lovely. The china lay in the sink, unwashed and sticky, and it was Sarah's day to clean the dishes.
forever
To have unlimited access to someone whose very being makes you sweat with desire, whose lines, whose skin shines like lust, is very bliss. It shakes to have your hand in mine even now. Even ten years later, even when I've felt your hands and thighs and strong firm self more times than I can count, I still shiver every time you touch me. Every time we make eye contact my hands twitch; I have to push myself away from you or I will never eat, never sleep, only press myself against you constantly, needing your whole body. Not only the heat of friction, but the kiss of your soul against mine.
You and me, he and she, one and one make two in all the old arithmetic, and two are still enough to save the world.
And then in the midst of all this bliss, something: I miss you.
Comments welcome, encouraged, solicited, requested even.
Valentine's Day Montage: The Stories I Forgot To Tell
infatuation
The hyperactive androgynous boy with his head and body in a constant whirl of conflict and consent, jumping from stage to stage, like paradise promised. The bright-haired punk rock girl in suspenders, shouting backwards lyrics through a purple megaphone, like paradise glimpsed. The matronly mother of two with red kinked hair and a wobbling smile, sitting on the props table with a clipboard and a rosary, like paradise lost. And the shy, awkward first-year drama major with gray slacks and gay tendencies, infatuated with the theatre people--paradise regained.
rejection
Hannah sat alone on a barstool, dark lighting reflecting her silvered hair, a graceful leg with just a hint of plumpness, a faint blue varicose thigh hidden by control-top pantyhose and a dainty flowing skirt that covered just enough to tantalize. Around her, drums thudded, percussion rattled--the pots and pans of her last lover's unfortunate farewell symphony. A lipsticked mouth grazed too near Hannah's, and she could feel the faint buzzing pleasure of another woman's martini. "No," she said, pulling away with practiced scorn. The black-corseted woman wobbled away, half a minute away from drunk.
"Why did you say no? She looked like a good fuck." Hannah spun around, the glare of the disco ball glistening into her eyes, shading the tall woman who balanced a lanky figure on two impossibly tall bright red stilettos.
"Precisely," she said.
love at first sight
She would have to pretend to be a New Yorker--cool, sophisticated, hip. Luckily, pretending to be New Yorkers is what people from New Jersey do best. She pursed her lips and typed the last sentence of her dissertation, then clicked the laptop off with a faint sigh of irritation. Next to her, looking bored, was a genuine New Yorker who had no need to pretend and was thus infinitely less suave than she. He turned to say hello to her, but a derisive glance cowed him. He flipped open his notebook and wrote in a careless, slanting manuscript, "New York romances often begin with infidelity and end with disdain. In rare cases, it's the other way around." Looking over his shoulder, she smiled.
warning
Go gentle over my white skin. Don't break me. Kiss my lips with bright sunshine, morning skyburst. The birdsong of dawn tastes of ginger and persimmons, like your mouth brushing the edge of mine. This was an irrelevancy in the age of Grace, but we are skeptics now. Cynicism tastes acidic (you ate it at eleven o'clock tea) and has no antidote. So please, love my fear, but love it like the fragile beast of dreams.
falling in love
Her mouth tasted like candy hearts, pink with red lettering, too sweet in his mouth, against his lips, overlapping his tongue with the magic of hers. Her hands dug deeply against his lower back and he stroked her ass gently. A ripple rose in the back of her throat, fear. Her eyes slammed shut against his tongue licking the back and bottom and sides of her mouth. Save me, she thought, not sure if she was talking to him or to God. Save me. The growing wetness threatened her, the briny, pickle-taste of his mouth caressed her, and she felt her legs go weak and threaten to collapse beneath her. It was too dangerous, and it meant death to give in, to surrender to the feeling of burnt copper flaming against the back of her legs. She circled his mouth once more, pressed her lips against his one last time, and let go, resting her shaggy head against his strength. At last she spoke aloud, an hour, two hours, perhaps only ten seconds later, the liquid soap sweetness oozing into him from between her legs. "My God, I love you so much." He held her tighter, stroked her back, let her exist as his girlchild, his beautiful bride, his adored one.
"I love you, darling."
daily
The floor was still slick from last night's waxing. Sarah slid a sticking foot along the tile, feeling the smoothness of clean. Em looked up from black coffee and a stale muffin and put an icy finger to her unpainted lips. Sarah, startled, stopped mid-step like an awkward ballerina or an overgrown flamingo, her beige slacks hanging on anorexic-thin legs, her black-clad feet dangling from her shoe-horn ankles. "What?"
"Is this your great-grandmother's antique bone-thin hand-painted china?" Em was hangman, judge, and attorney for the prosecution all carved into one modern art sculpture, a woman with three finely carved faces, all livid, all lovely. The china lay in the sink, unwashed and sticky, and it was Sarah's day to clean the dishes.
forever
To have unlimited access to someone whose very being makes you sweat with desire, whose lines, whose skin shines like lust, is very bliss. It shakes to have your hand in mine even now. Even ten years later, even when I've felt your hands and thighs and strong firm self more times than I can count, I still shiver every time you touch me. Every time we make eye contact my hands twitch; I have to push myself away from you or I will never eat, never sleep, only press myself against you constantly, needing your whole body. Not only the heat of friction, but the kiss of your soul against mine.
You and me, he and she, one and one make two in all the old arithmetic, and two are still enough to save the world.
And then in the midst of all this bliss, something: I miss you.
Comments welcome, encouraged, solicited, requested even.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-02-14 03:45 am (UTC)(forever.)
happy valentine's day :)