in which we follow

“I want you to trace every place my fingers have been.”

“…with my hands, Master?” she asked.

“Yes.”

There have been few scenes as erotic as watching her press shaking hands along the inside her thighs, her breath ragged, her entire body trembling. I watched her replay where my touch had been. Breasts, hips, throat.

If I hadn’t traveled that path just moments earlier, I’d have been as envious as I was hungry.

after the rose (red)

scary, scary, bustle berry
walk the woods but do not tarry
you must go, go, go! and basket carry.
do not wait
or hesitate
but keep real close its familiar weight.
and if you spy his yellow eyes
feel his sharp, sharp teeth
or his smooth, smooth lies
do not look, do not believe
do not listen, he will deceive!
so walk quite fast, and hide your hair
he’s fond of red, like the cape you wear
and if he knows just what you bear
(the secrets in that basket there)
he will follow, follow, follow you most everywhere.

lost

once lost (at the least, slightly misplaced)
red-kissed, moon-touched (her skin, of course) girl
(sometimes a woman)
(unexpected)
last seen in woods
playing
(wolves, bears, nary a scratch)
and painting
(light
on trees)

tipped

Words like water flow
down into the toilet bowl
and if with one finger flexed
I could flush them out to sea?
would they join all the rest
and come floating back to me?

knock.

Knowing the state of the roads, you’re surprised that anyone is out today and you approach the door with curiosity.

Door opened, just a bit, and the man standing in the gray world outside offers a small, but real, smile.

You know who it is. But you wait.

“He could hear you.” he says.

“Who?” you ask.

“The wolf.” He steps up to the door and you are opening it without thought, too startled to think of a reply. In fact, in the time it takes for you to bring your thoughts back together, the door is closed behind him and his fingers are under chin, lifting your eyes to his and exposing your throat.

His next words are spoken against the slender heat along the pulse in your neck, his lips so close they taste the warmth and breathe it back out as words. “He heard your heartbeat. ” He nips your throat, “Here.” and then his hand rests lightly on your hip only and to trail down to your thighs, “and here.”

And then there is no room for words, or thoughts, or anything but his fingers finding ways to open you, to expose your skin. Jeans undone, shirt drawn up, it takes minutes, seconds, too fast, too right, and his lips are on your skin, really on your skin, and he doesn’t have to speak the words for you to feel his hunger. He slides to one knee, hooking your leg over his shoulder, and he draws your panties aside, his head tilted up to draw you in, to drink you, his tongue finding your clit, a pearl between his lips, and he teases until your fingers find his hair to grip.

He stops.

But only to stand, to turn you around, bracing your hands against the wall, two fingers buried expertly between your thighs, his free hand on your hip, firmly tilting you to let his fingers drive in deeper. But it’s not enough, the wolf demands more and his fingers are replaced with something that throbs to his own heartbeat; you are impaled, driven closer to the wall, and this is just a start, a single thrust that becomes two, three, six and then there are no numbers, just skin and the moment you both find release.

Finally, you breathe.

river behind me

Last night, I slept in my study with the window open.

Ella, my cat, curled in my lap as I listened to the rain from my leather chair. I moved in and out of sleep, and each time I woke to shift positions, two things happened.

The first is that Ella would get up, circle, and find a new nook in my lap to sleep in.

The second is that I would try to find the rain.

The rain was there – of course, it was a hurricane after all – but I found myself reaching through my sleep-addled brain to listen to it. As if hearing the rain as it hit the trees and creek outside were a touchstone I needed.

(that I put up with a cat in my lap all night tells me that I am somewhat attached to the beast, as I usually avoid anything that will affect my sleep; that I found myself searching for the rain tells me that I spent too much time as a child playing in the rain and may be a re-incarnated rain god)

nerieds

In one version of Greek mythology, nymphs spend each day in an orgy of wine and wickedness only to fall asleep and rise anew the next morning with no memory of the day before.

Youth is like that.

We are immortal in our youth, invincible. We fall often, mistaking impermanence for beauty, experience for wisdom.

And we are not wrong in that. At least, not yet.

Because this is how youth is meant to be spent – it is not a thing to hoard: the longer we try to hold on to it the faster it slips through our fingers. Time is the one commodity we cannot overspend on. It can’t be saved. It can only be lived as thoroughly as possible.

And it is better spent without extensive worry or weight. Consequence will follow – it must always follow – but we don’t have to chase it.

Because age and wisdom and second-guessing will come to dodge our heels; we will begin to use the word naivete as a sort of taunt, or a curse, but it will be born of jealousy.

Because we once lived more fully.

Before we knew better.