Monday, July 10, 2006

Love letter

Is it normal to want someone this badly? Is it usual to harbor such lust that the mere sight of his hands, his large, strong, golden hands, turns me to silvery fire? I remember one night, playing pool in my parents' basement, watching his impossibly long arms, his fingers gripping the cue, and wanting him to bend me over the couch and fuck me right then. It took every ounce of my self-control to appear nonchalant.

I could write a thousand florid, purple words to describe his body; such an exercise would be almost, but not quite, as pleasurable as feasting on him in the flesh. He is beautiful like a thoroughbred horse is beautiful: all long limbs and graceful strength. He'll probably scoff at being called graceful, but he's not like other tall men. They are all awkward gangly arms and legs and rounded shoulders whereas he owns his height, and makes it sexy. When we went to Wreck Beach those few weekends ago, we swam naked and I, being cold, left the water before him. As I dried off I watched him, and was pierced neatly through by his unselfconcious beauty. He was like Venus emerging from the surf, only, you know, a guy.

The things he does to me, well, I've written about them before. He knows me, largely by intution. The wonder of that hasn't quite worn off yet. The sheer pleasure of it all, the constant fleshly wanting, is almost frightening in its intensity. Now that we're apart, we have phone sex and I, nonverbal as always, rub myself and listen to his familiar, low voice, cling to it until its sound and my imminent orgasm are the only things in my universe.

The amazing thing, the shocking thing, is that despite all this, I haven't, for a second, been afraid that I'm losing myself. I am no stranger to lust, but this is both alike and different, an all-consuming desire in which neither of us are consumed. Like Moses' burning bush.

On the last night of his recent visit, we lay together in my bed after sweet love had been made. He had his head on my chest, a switch for us as it is usually the other way around, and I was stroking his golden hair with painstaking tenderness, wanting to memorize the way it felt under my fingers, the sight of him, this easy companionship. I was suddenly seized with the desire, the need, to tell him something. The weight of it settled in my chest, and I could not let it out. In fact, I didn't even know what it was. I just knew that it was massively important.

He left before I could sort it out for myself, but I have since realized that it was only (only!) that I loved him, and there was no adequate way to express it. That is, perhaps, a fundamental problem with love: the inability to really show its depths. So I lust, and I fuck, and I long, and I have phone sex and write poetic missives and post them to my blog because these are the only ways I know, beyond those three flimsy, throwaway words, to demonstrate how much I really feel. The intensity, depth, magnitude of my love.


Blogger LocuTus of Borg said...

I wish someone would wrote words like that about me ... wonderful

go to him

tell him

9:56 AM  
Blogger Adora said...

He reads this blog, so I pretty much have. :)

10:16 AM  
Blogger LocuTus of Borg said...

Good for you! :)

11:36 AM  

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