A Love Song of a Story
"Camisole," by K.M. Fields
"Hot Day in the Garden," by Roger Jazilek (available at ObsessionArt.com)
And so last night she came to see me, barefoot and wearing a white camisole under a long coat, and nothing else.
Before me, before I took her in my arms and showed her, she didn’t realize how beautiful she was, didn’t realize the power of her contained inside. But my words have slowly seeped into her blood and being, and my love tugs at her petals and she blossoms even more, and when I touch her she knows that she’s desired by a man for what she truly is, a woman.
I gaze at her now as she stands in the dim candlelight of the bedroom. “You’re beautiful,” I say. I am sure that my love is transparent and can be seen on my face.
She smiles and shyly looks down, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. She is embarrassed but pleased. Her brown hair has fallen and covers her eyes. “You make me feel beautiful,” she says quietly.
“You’re made for the use of a man,” I say softly.
She looks up quickly with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes grow wet and shimmer. “Yes,” she whispers. She bites her lower lip and grows even softer before me, more beautiful. “I’m made for you.”
Her words, the kiss of her breath, flow into me. The sight of her makes my chest ache with something I haven’t felt in a long time, don’t know if I’ve ever felt before her. My heart expands and my sex stirs and my ears roar. The candlelight brightens and breaks into shards and slices into my belly to shatter inside me, and I am silenced.
If there were other words I would use them. If there were other words I would caress her and make love to her with them, spread them over her body like petals from a flower and cover her with their scent, and suck the breath from her with my lips and take her inside me and warm her.
If there were other words I would throw her to the ground and force myself into her, fill her, and leave her trembling and shattered and laying spread and wet and dripping on the ground. If there were other words, whatever walls that remain inside her would be torn down and her flesh would be ripped from her bones and I would surround her with myself and own every part of her, each thought and touch and breath and heartbeat.
But there are no other words.
There is only this: I take her in my arms and kiss her, mouth open, my tongue plunging, tasting. I know a kiss can be made without feeling, with cold lips touching, a mandatory slip of the tongue. But not for us. When we kiss, something hot, sweet, something screaming and electric tears through us, shaking and ripping inside, and the kiss becomes no longer a kiss, no, it’s never just a kiss. It’s an electricity that grips and surges inside us and makes me want to cry out because it is hurt and ecstasy combined, frightening and exhilarating, opening me and forcing me into a new life, the old life dried and dead, a skin to be scraped off, a husk shed and abandoned.
I want to keep kissing her, touching her. It’s impossible not to touch her. To sit and look at her from across the room is impossible, maddening. I have to touch her hands, arms, her neck. I have to feel the firmness of her belly and slide my hands to her breasts, and cup them. I have to touch her legs, slide my hand across the silk of her inner thigh, lift her feet to my cheek and caress and hold them in my hands. Everything about her is soft, and softness must be felt. I asked once her how she stayed so soft. She laughed and wiggled her toes like a child, thinking I was joking, and did not answer. No one but a child could be this soft, and laugh so joyously, or bring such joy to me. But she is not a child and I will know this again and again and again forever.
I place her on the bed, and run my hands down her legs and back up her belly, and then she is beneath me, her legs open, surrounding me. Her hands grasp me and pull me deeper and deeper inside, and we are clutching and crying out alone and then together, and my seed is flowing and mixing within her and she’s holding me warm inside her, deep and warm inside her.
And later, when I ask if she realizes the power she has over me, she laughs at this too.
Originally published January 2010
