He wanted her like this, on display, open to the city, an offering to the vibrating life surrounding them. He wanted her delicate flesh to be feasted upon by the soft-beaked eyes of pedestrians, office workers, cabbies, and lovers in cafes. He wanted her in his hands. He wanted to trace her curves with his fingertips, to watch her move in response. This was his doing, his responsibility, his fantasy, his dream. She was his dream.
She, also, had dreamed him and this moment before. Before there were fossils and the tracks of lust, formed in ancient mud by pressing hooves and flowers and ferns and talons and claws, before the oars of native canoes churned the saltwater to a phosphorescent froth, seemingly before the end and beginning of time, she had dreamed him. Long before anything, she had dreamed this moment – this electrifying moment when the sweat of their cells and the flame of the very pinprick of their creation began connecting and reconnecting and recollecting until they arced like lightning into night, illuminated and revealing everything.
The rain ran in vertical lines upon the glass, defining her abstraction in geometric form. Line after line dripped the length of her arching torso, as he thrust into her from behind, spreading her against the glass. Her nipples felt the coldness of the glass. Her neck felt the dragon breath of him, the wolf howl of him, the caveman grunt and groan of him. The first nipple touch against the glass was a light brush, accidental, circumstantial. The next one was not and she held herself there for a moment, taking in the ecstasy of his hot flesh inside of her, contrasted with the delirious cold of the outer world pressing against her.
She closed her eyes and felt her stripped form sucked through the pane and onto the outside ledge where his wide, strong, hands circled her hips. The icy, dark, wind on her breasts was a collective whisper of a thousand strangers on the street and in the offices all across the dazzling skyline. Their feathery voices swirled around her, brushing her lips and thighs and the smooth underbelly of her taut breasts. She stood breathing, silent, absorbing him with every nerve in her body.
“Show them how you come,” he whispered. “Show them your pussy and how good it feels.”
Clearly, this man had flown to her, a thousand stories high, a superhero, stripped bare of tights and cape, stripped bare of pretension and ego and self-consciousness, even of need. He had flown here to rescue her from some kind of unspeakable darkness. He had come to her in a single wing beat, lifted her to the thin black line of the window ledge as effortlessly as if she were constructed of bird bones and woven of starlight and silk. He held her there before the flickering lights of the city, suspended and exposed, and utterly shameless. She sucked in a ragged breath and pushed away all fear as he urged her on. “Show them,” he whispered. “Show them who you really are.” In the presence of his confidence and strength, she spread her wings and legs wide and smiled as he radiated into her depths. Suddenly, she desperately wanted to be seen this way, observed in this manner by him and a hundred million anonymous eyes. Through half-closed eyelids, she could see shadowy forms working late in their offices. She imagined their desire licking at her wet, naked body. She felt their longing to taste, if only for a moment, the magic that was theirs to share. She was their secret passion, blaring like neon from the sky.
She leaned back against the tree-hard column of his body and moved her legs apart, as far as they would go, opening herself to the world. At that moment, she wanted everyone to touch her. She wanted to feel hair and nails and breath and skin and oil and sun and saliva and cum and wind and water and the hot blood inside of her. She was his. She belonged to Seattle. She belonged to men and women and life.
“Spread your pussy,” he continued. “Show it off, baby. All the boys are hard. Show them how you come. Come for the girls. Open it up, baby. Open it up….”
That was what she wanted so badly. She thrust her hips into the open void as he ravaged her, there, slamming into her, filling her with the lightness of release.
"All the boys are hard, baby. They're stroking for you. The girls thirst for your juice. They want your cum all over them." He kept telling her about what she already knew and wanted. She knew she was an offering, a sacrifice to her gods, the embodiment of passion and freedom. This was what he wanted; this was what she needed. Her knees went weak as she let go, trusting him with her life. She fell, and fell out of her sky into his. She let go and flew, unleashed, into the future. The wings of a thousand hummingbirds lifted her body into the air, a flower held at the end of a thousand sugar-sweetened tongues. She was a twirling, dazzling, blossom, sucked dry but forever replenished. High above the shimmering lights, she opened herself completely and spilled her nectar onto him, feeding him her heart. She spilled her freedom onto the streets below, against the office windows, onto the scene of her deliverance. She belonged to him. He held her tight against him, as she sang the song of a woman caught in the mad rushing energy of the beginning of the universe.
Originally published June 2009