A lover and I exchanged the following letters on May 5th, anticipating a
July visit. Both of us are bisexual, and it amused us to note, as we read
these over later, that -- aside from the clues "nightdress" and "his lover's
face" -- we'd succeeded in creating completely non-gendered erotica.
... Goodness, what will I have to do to return you to your former
self? Will some abject begging do it? Maybe it will help if I kiss
your feet, followed by some gentle stroking of your calves, feeling
them quiver beneath my touch, as slowly my lips whisper over their
surface on the trip upwards ...
Is that a good start?
I'll accept it for the midterm, but you'll have to be much more explicit
on the final.
Last night I lay on the couch in the living room -- we have a big wall of
windows looking out over Greenwood Avenue, and a couple of large trees
out front which in the summer (all two weeks of it) fill the view with
pleasantly fluttering green leaves -- and let the breeze caress my skin,
as I lay there in nothing but a short nightdress. I eased the dress up
my thigh, delighting in the breeze, and the cat came and crouched on my
belly, watching me intently, and I closed my eyes and thought about
driving with you through the streets of Hyde Park of an evening, pulling
over, leaning to touch your face, caressing your hands, so very aware
that the car has a back seat...
It's the line of your jaw, isn't it? You told me somewhere that the
underside of your jaw is extremely sensitive, as is your throat. I
have grown quite adept at the feathery caress, and all I need right
now is to find out what that edge feels like. Sometimes it's almost
as if I were a blind man trying to find the shape of his lover's face
-- the need is just that intense.
The tips of my fingers are fortunately still quite sensitive, and now
they have touched the soft side of your face. The contours of your
skin are powdery, almost downy with their sweet softness. A razor, I
think -- think of it as if you're holding a straight razor. The last
thing I'd want to do to that effervescent skin is to damage it, so I
remain particularly gentle and unassuming. The tips of my fingertips
trail downwards, tracing the line of your jaw to your chin and back.
Steady, steady. Now it's your throat, as your head tilts backward
slightly, the thin edges of my nails adding a very slight point to
this angel's massage. You are alabaster, and I marvel at the texture
of your skin. It seems almost a sacrilege to let my stained, sweaty,
calloused hands touch the miraculous surface of your body -- but then,
a little sacrilegion never hurt anyone.
I can keep this up for only a few minutes before my desire demands
that I raise the stakes of the game. It seems like traveling without
a destination, but when I see your jaw trembling and your teeth
chattering ... I know I've gotten somewhere.
You aren't really mad, are you?
Every inch of my skin is aware of your proximity. Your shirt pressing
against the inner surface of my arm raises a faint flush, a print of
your presence on my body.
In sleep, sometimes, I'm known to raise my arms languidly to the
ceiling, stroking one, then the other, gently ...top to bottom, bottom
to top... To me, it seems, these caresses are as natural and as vital
as breathing. I begin now, unaware, to run my own fingers along the
skin of my arm as your breath flutters against my throat.
You wish to raise the stakes? Trail your hand down my side, to the
lower back, touching me so lightly that you barely graze the flesh.
My world will suddenly spin and abruptly focus, as my body pleads for
your skin to caress mine, unwilling for you to cease stroking, yet
unable to bear such faint contact, wanting to crowd against you, the
pressure of your fingertips like the weight of thunderclouds, signaling
an approaching storm. The rise and fall of our breathing is all I
am aware of, all I wish to know.
After an infinitely prolonged moment, my hands act of their own accord,
grasp yours firmly. One of your hands is placed on the seat against
my leg, hesitantly, though the intention is clear. The other, lifted
to my face, attempts to trace my lips; but not for long, as my lips
part, envelop the side of a finger, the heat of my mouth promising the
smoulder of coals, the flicker of flame on a summer evening.
so very warmly,