Hold your head in my arm. On my breast. Kiss your head. Over and over. Little baby, baby.
He knows about my inner fire. The first time that we make love as lovers I am afraid, afraid that my fire will burn and destroy. The first time that we make love as lovers I cannot bear penetration. I cannot kiss his mouth. Fears stream back along well-worn paths of the sexual subconscious; the male sexual urge, that selfish desire, that self-centred sexual urge which forces ego, body and mind into underworlds of lust and danger.
He ejaculates in my bed, over my hand, my sheets. At that moment, I feel cheap and used, even though he has not penetrated. At that moment , faces flash through my head. Faces of past fucks, images of men who have pursued me- disrespecting and ignoring my will with their false, degrading image they have of me; their degrading image of all women. Quick gropes. Talking to me in the guise of friendship. Following me. Frightening me. No one would believe me. They would say that I am just unfortunate. Unlucky. A while ago, at dusk, I saw a dark silhouette of a man approaching me on the street and I crossed over the road. I did not consciously fear him although I did cross the road before I really needed to, earlier than I would have done if he were not there. As I walked away the man shouted, “It’s all right, love, I’m not going to rape you or anything.”
So, so, thoughtless.
I feel as though I have been raped. I am a single woman, fair game in their eyes. Meat-heads. They goad me thoughtlessly with their lump of sexual meat. No care for me, no care for my fear or safety, and all beneath a mask of amiability. Always betrayed.
Just for a moment, just a moment, do I feel this way as his cock pumps and secrets a warmth unexpectedly into my hand. The thoughts then vanish from sight, the hurt, the fear, thoughts streaming back along well-worn paths of the subconscious. Along paths engrained in my mind, thoughts run back, hide. Then I kiss his forehead. Run a hand through his spiky hair. Sweet punk. I place another kiss on the top of his ear where it is pierced.
“I wish I could desensitise myself to the pain,” I stroke my fingernail along the lettering on his stomach.
“You have to have pain to survive,” he answers, kissing my hair, “it’s the body’s natural warning system.”
It seems that we wake simultaneously. He is warm and comfortable company in bed. I touch the bristles on his chin with my fingertips; rub my face against them like a cat. He places a light kiss on my nose. I kiss his nose. Then I am curled around him, arms cradling, maternal. Now, my face is on his chest, his arm around me, touching my hair. A man. This man exists as beauty, as a specimen of man beyond the boundaries of media imagery dictating what is sexy, and what is not; beyond those bounds of plastic, sanitised society.
The next time that we make love as lovers I have no emotional inhibitions. I kiss his stomach, on each letter of his tattoo. I know the pain he endured to receive the inked designs so I kiss him better. TAKE CONTROL. I kiss him on the mouth, for the first time. His tongue is pointed, probing between my lips, forcing my mouth open, then it touches the thick metal bar of my piercing. He can feel the metal passing through the flesh. He lies on his back and I straddle his strong, straight erection. Slowly he moves over till he is on top of me. He is looking into my eyes and placing his penis back slowly inside of me. He is speaking to me without words. I lose all strength. I cannot move. I am weak, placid. I have taken you, you are mine, he seems to speak from a primeval silence, a psychic sexual sight. He holds me down. Hands on my shoulders. I am his woman.
"Say my name."
He whispers my name again and again. I, Carly, who was invisible, unwanted, a grey cloud. He whispers my name. His skin is wet, my fingers outstretched upon his back. I hear the sound released from my throat. It is my voice yet I cannot control it. He is whispering, “Come, come.”
I like the feel of my smooth skin against his rough chin. He twists my navel ring and I kiss his pierced nipple. He places a hand around my neck. I am aroused as his fingers press tighter against my throat. He sits up, abruptly, accidentally scratching my skin with his nail as he jumps out of bed. He turns the rock music up on the radio and dances around the room.
Start at the neck. Move down to his shoulders, his back. At first, coldness shudders through me, perhaps memory of Suzanne’s clients, as my balmed hands massage my lover’s strong body. Perhaps the cold is from his past. Soon, the callisthenics warm frozen areas. Heart mind womb. A warmth blossoms from my solar plexus, not the fire of anger, a different heat. I concentrate on pleasing him. Smooth, oiled hands across buttocks, calves. He sighs, groans from his throat. Thumbs press hard in circles down the legs. Then I massage his feet, his duck feet, wider at the top. He loves to have his feet touched, tickled, his toes played with. His arms hang lazily over the side of the bed. I spend a long time massaging his feet. Energy is running between us. I search for tense knots in his muscles then knead them firmly, as hard as I can, whilst the exotic aromatherapy oil helps disperse the tension. “Harder,” he mumbles, relaxed. I undo the knots. I concentrate solely on caring for his body and in doing so am purging negative energies from myself. I work hard to please him. Our hearts pulse. Afterwards, we are both relaxed. I enjoy the massage, the tiredness, the satisfaction and the intimacy. A mutual pleasure.
...My god meets your god. My goddess meets your goddess. I smile a mad smile. Man. Woman. You smile. Crazy smile that seems to shift between us. Prick. Cunt. Balance of power shifts too. Till androgyny. Your spirit is inside me. I am you. You are me...
Outside: orange autumn sun. He says that he sees a sycamore seed falling in my iris.
I live for times like these. Precious, precious moments. Good times, lulls, cancel out all bad, all guilt and loneliness. I am sailing on another lever. We want to sail forever, never die. My lover, my friend. I am open, I tell him secrets.
My teenage years. The constant arguments with my father, which I felt did not affect me at the time; the arguments, and the making up afterwards, our only form of communication. A longing to become a woman, to be like my friends, to be normal. The longing for my periods to start. The unbearable ache of developing breasts. My mother refusing to acknowledge that my body was changing, not thinking that she should buy a bra. Then, two years later, the elation of wearing my first bra. Hours in front of the bathroom mirror. The longing to become a woman. Dressing in short skirts, high-heels and too-much makeup....I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him too much.
I lie naked on my back, we speak and laugh. I feel so healthy, light. Everything has changed. I have a future. A future with someone. He sleeps and his breath reverberates comfortingly as I lay my head on his chest. The noise is deep like religion. There are words, meanings in his breath.