Fingers / July ’06

by feyruhan

Thief of Emotions

I’m wanting, now that I’ve been away and reading; but only mildly so, and besides there’s my cycles to consider.  Never mind that he doesn’t care, but I do, though I can’t say why, except that it’s disgusting to think of; and if I don’t care to do it now, what with my cycles, then I’ll not do it now, what with my cycles- and I’ll leave it at that.

I’m worried that my appetite is unhealthily lacking; it’s been that way for a very long while.  I remember cravings when I was younger- fifteen, sixteen- a number of occasions I could count on one hand when I truly wanted.

I want to go to a… woman’s doctor.  To check some things, nothing particular, nothing to worry, just to make sure all is right in that place where the sun doesn’t shine.  It’s nice, it’s the greatest of reliefs, to know that there’s nothing either of us can give each other- both of us being virgins- except maybe a baby, in which case I’m not sure if I’d rather the pill or the rubber.  The pill is mood swings, acne, an assortment of side effects.  The rubber, what?  A little uncomfortable.  Temporarily so.  But still, what I wouldn’t give to have the pure, unmedicated trust of it without the aid of plastic or mineral.  Without worry, without precaution, without consequences beyond a closeness unmatched.

He said he hoped for a night of sleep naked.  That’s all, nothing more.  There could be more, of course, before the sleep; but to sleep together, with nothing between us save our own skins.  And I wanted that, I wanted him for wanting it.  There are other things he wants, hopes for, but all of them in good time, when we’re there, when we’re ready.  When I’m ready, I think darkly, self-conscious and guilty, but if one of us isn’t there yet, then surely the two of us together aren’t there yet either.  This is something I regret, but that doesn’t mean I can help it.  I wonder sometimes, rare occasions only, if I would have to tear my soul apart and put it back together to be able to do what we want me to be able to do.  This would be a relief, as it would mean no more waiting without a hint towards when I might be ready.  But it’s nothing more than wishful thinking; this is not James Hetley’s The Summer Country, I am not Maureen Pierce, and he is not Brian Albion.  I want him to read it some time, to show him one of the ways I crave, one of the scenarios I imagine, one of the mysteries about that part of me which, to date, not even I know entirely.

I remember his hands in me, on me, with me, and my breath catches.  My eyes glaze over.  I want more.

I see angles of limbs entangled on screen, and my breath catches; I want this.  There is something in that mess of limbs that I want; a connection, an intimacy, and abandon; a trust, a surrender, a deliverance.

What I want most, besides to know that I love him, is that he will not let me slip from between his fingers.

2 Comments to “Fingers / July ’06”

  1. This is gorgeous.
    You have a real flair for language. I love it.

  2. I agree with F, this is wonderful. It’s well-written, very expressive, and very vivid. It’s easy to know and understand what you’re talking about, and just about every woman knows from experience what you’re talking about, as well. Which helps it speak volumes beyond what it would if it was an uncertain thing about whether others had experienced such a thing. It’s easy to relate to, and that’s great in a venue like this. That’s important. Great post, very hot and very beautiful! 🙂

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