Savasana

At the end of a long and tedious day of stressful work, I find myself attempting to sleep with an over stimulated mind and a fatigued body which is restless.  I have the "syndrome" in my legs, which rocks my husband to sleep -- soothing him (or so I tell myself), but leaving me running mental marathons, joogling my feet side to side or else twitching.  

Yearning to and finally entering that loitering space between wake and sleep ... my happy place ... eyes closed, I imagine the sun filtered and softly glimmering through leaves swaying in the breeze, warmed again by reflecting the sand that I'm laying upon.

I want to be the two circling hawks in the bright sky dancing in lazy circles in the hot current lifting them while cool air keeps them from floating too far away, holding them midway between flying and falling into thoughts of you, both making me feel lighter while applying the comforting weight of your body on mine while you kiss me gently.  

Your breath is warm and delicious on the side of my face as I hear your voice, a resonant deep whisper which I recognize reflexively, delighting in this hazy reunion.  It is relief, like an addict tasting the drug I’ve been kept from, locked away for too long.   I survived the excruciating withdrawals and shaking, the itchy skin … until what I want is so close.  All I have to do is reach out and allow myself to let go, no more jonesing.  I will feel better.  I will "sleep ... perchance to dream ... ay ... the rub."

Your voice in my ear.  No need to convince me of anything, I am so into you.  I am so ready for you.  

I imagine you with me as I softly and very slowly move my hands under my faded baggy t shirt.  I am both benefactor and beggar, touching and craving touch, my fingertips enjoying the stereognosis, my stomach pretending it's not me while also attempting to feel the hair on your stomach, your chest.

I conjure your hands on my breasts, squeezing fully and so hard that when I move on from them, the heat and redness remains -- hot marks and creases on my skin made by your hands.  My nipples erect and wanting.  When you lick and wring out each one, electricity zaps through my middle like lightening.  It's tendrils striving to rearrange internal molecules but finding no ground.   Goosebumps and the little hairs on my arms stretching into the air stirring above me.

I like the feeling.   I like what you are doing to me, but my needs are becoming fervent .  One hand slides down inside my pajama pants -- the draw string has always been fake.   A soft elastic waist band is a defenseless deterrent and my fingers know the way.  I am already wet, my cunt salivating wanting you.  

At first I am very light with my touching -- I like tactile sensations.  Tracing my fingertips along my pubis marking the soft stubble from a day's regrowth from shaving in the morning.  I feel my own soft skin and imagine you parting my knees to have better access.   I want you to taste me.  I want you to take your time and enjoy it.  Little circles over my clit, dipping down and inside to spread around my wetness.  The pleasurable sensations increasing with the addition of this conduit.  

I am picturing scenarios:  body parts, different places, positions.  Your hands pushing my legs as wide as possible.  Use me for filthy, dirty fucking.  Invite others to watch.  Invite then to use me, too.  There's a rhythm.   I am alternating pulling and twisting my nipples with one hand, and rubbing my clit intently with the other.  I seep.  I become more swollen -- more erect. The nerve endings from the fingers on my left hand will soon feel as though they unite with my right through my abdomen with the feeling of electricity and melting and convulsions blurring the fantasy of us because my eyes are clenched so tight and my brain ... just shut completely off.  

My orgasms are intense.  

I soften my face and my legs twitch again, releasing the energy outward.  The hawks' lazy floating circles drift up and out and disappear -- the warm air winning and the weight lifting.

I listen to the deep contented breathing of the one I love sleeping next to me to insure I did not disturb the safety of our bed. I smooth down my shirt and relax as I lick my fingers and fade into a dreamy sleep.   

"For in that sleep of ... a little ... death what dreams may come" for sure.

Weekend Pass

The celebrity hall pass -- a hypothetical situation where one finds themselves within the proximity and ability to have sex with a person of their choosing, no strings, no ramifications, no problems, no questions, no guilt.  Top 3.  

My list has changed over the years, but began with -- in no particular order and revealing my age very much indeed:  

LL Cool J -- "Lady's Love Cool James Todd Smith." Yes, I did. When he'd lick his lips and tell me what his mamma said to do in that boxing ring ... the perfect combination of soft and hard that could make me question my plans for college.    

David Duchovny -- knowing more about him now than I did when I yearned of his existence playing Fox Mulder, perhaps he'd take me up on on the offer?  He can be so pained. He feels it (yes, I know he's an actor). His mouth is ... dirty.  In my memory, he describes a cheesecake drizzled in a decadent white or dark chocolate ganache with clotted cream and a raspberry or strawberry or some kind of berry compote as garnish.  And sprinkles.

Lenny Kravitz.  Ok.  He is still on my list.  Have you seen this man? Admit it.  He's on your list, too.  

Wouldn't it be lovely to spend a weekend ...

Fucking.

And Fucking again.

Shower.

Go out for food and drink.

Playing.

Returning to a hotel?   I didn't think the details through...

Barely making it through the door before wanting more.

Collapsing into each other for sleep.

Waking again with the light.

Fucking again.

And again.

Upon arrival to an agreed upon city, we would meet at a hotel.  Whomever arrives first would check in and go up to the room.  If it were me, I'd freshen and be anxious.  If it were you, you'd be patiently waiting on my arrival.  I'd knock.  No need for mannerly introductions, this isn't a mixer, we know what the agenda is. 

Pull me through the door and press me against the wall.  Our kisses hungry as if we've never heard of any other sustenance besides spit.  No time to get clothing completely removed -- this is not romance, I want you inside me immediately.  

In this moment, there is nothing other than breathy grabbing and thrusting and fulfillment of what seems an eternity of anticipation and want.  A very quick introduction, but we have the entire weekend for an encore.

Now, I'll freshen -- taking in the bathroom, noticing the adorable hotel soaps, tiny shampoos and lotions that smell of oddly coupled things:  bergamot and white moss, cocoanut and sandalwood, Italian summer and ginger, you and me. 

Free of traveling grime and clothes, I join you on the bed.  A bed is useful for two things.  Sleeping and fucking.  We will not be sleeping now.  This is the time to spare no effort, but we can move deliberately and slowly, ensuring each touch is memorized.  Every molecule consumed by fingertips and tongues, tactile tasting devouring swollen and dripping offerings.  Getting to know the truthful honesty of things mentioned as preferences.  I do love to be kissed on my neck.  I do love a strong hand.  I do love to give power. I do love to be worshipped.  Nothing else matters until we've become very intimately acquainted with every shuddering nerve until exhausted we sleep.

Waking to find you here at my back, arms encircling, pulling me close, erect ... let's begin this day right.  The brothers Kellogg would be entirely disappointed in our decision for breaking the fast both in calorie intake but also in enjoying fleshy pleasures.  

Let's then have showers and pretend to be normal as we get ready and find some sort of coffee or espresso or tea and walk in the sun. I have this fantasy of pretending I'm interesting.  I want to go to a gallery and view art and talk about what we see. I want to go to a sidewalk cafe and observe others as they observe us.  I would delight in every word spoken, entranced in your sexy intelligence and life experiences and the cleverly silly things that make me giggle stupidly while I sit across from you, my toes touching your legs.

Others will be jealous of me.   They will look at us and know exactly what we do, and imagine what we are. 

It won't be long before the proper need for privacy is calling us back to the hotel.   I have already forgotten what we have eaten as I am hungry again for you inside me...

In the afternoon's shadows we find an alley for you to hike my summer dress to my waist and bend me over while I brace my arms against the rough exterior of a brick building?  Parting my legs by nudging my feet wider while you wrench your zipper down.  My cunt already wet from your voice.  Fuck me while your hands search for something to grip -- my dress, my hips, my elbows, my shoulders, my tits.  Eager and sweaty grunting. Sodden undergarments are discarded in a trash bin as we leave.  Cum oozing from my cunt as we attempt to return to our room.

When we finally make it through the doorway, it is the floor where you'll splay me to lap the latest deposit you've filled me with.

It is the late afternoon and I don't want to think of Sunday.  

I must remember to drink water, but I want is you.

Saturday evening, the bar downstairs.  My hair is unkempt.  A little sheen on my skin from today's untidy activities.  Wind swept.  Free. You always look put together and gorgeous.  We invite conversation with others and entertain thoughts of inviting them to join us.

But now, I want you alone.   For the final moments before our weekend ends.  Softly stroking and soothing, aftercare and what could be considered basking if the sun had not set hours earlier.  When you wake, I am already departed.  Thank you.

My souvenirs from this weekend:  Slight rug burns, a scrape from bricks on my cheek, and an intense magnetic need to return to you as soon as possible.  I won't call it a come back.  We've been here for years.  

I wonder if celebrity crushes have lists.