Before the first kiss…

That moment when a crush turns into lust…

The time before any action is taken. When anything is possible and you don’t yet know how his lips will taste, there is a moment of dizzying anticipation. The heart beats faster, your palms sweat just a little, and your eyes dilate.

All the lovely physical signs of arousal.

When I was younger I would spend hours imagining what that first moment would be like. As I got older I found that the most erotic relationships happened when I could not imagine what kissing a new lover would be like.

Unknown territory attracts me.

People I don’t yet know, things I haven’t yet done, lips I have yet to touch.

Yummm…

It’s been too long since I kissed him.

Time apart can make everything feel new again. So I have a fantasy.

He comes to my door, tired from his travels, weary. I step up to him taking his face in my hands, brushing my thumbs down the curve of his cheekbones, memorizing his face again. His hands wrap around my waist. Saying nothing we stand there, caught in the moment, building a memory. My heart does a jig in my chest as his hands move down to cup my bottom. Leaning in, we almost kiss, as he pulls me to him. But I extend the moment… brushing my fingertips across his lips… stalling… enjoying the anticipation… waiting for the next heartbeat before....

I’ve forgotten what it felt like. Memory is capricious at times and although there are images that I hold in my head that bring me joy, there are holes.

Holes that I’ll fill with actual moments… soon!

Licks!

The Power of Touch

This morning as I was lying in bed, waiting for the sun to come out, I was thinking about touch.

How I miss it.

I miss the feel of a warm body next to mine. That moment, in the early morning, when you wake and wonder if you should wake your lover too and just how much you can touch him before he stirs.

Fingertips tracing a line of neck…
Lips gently brushing a shoulder…
Hands roaming between the skin-warmed sheets and his warm skin…

I miss sitting with my lover in the cramped space of my chair-and-a-half, more than a chair but not quite a love seat. It forces intimacy: sitting hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Accidental touching, intentional stroking, kissing as the ottoman shifts away from the chair causing us to slowly sink to the floor.

Once on the floor, we give up the pretense of watching our movie or interest in the discussion we were having and begin talking with our hands.

Hands that touch, tease, torment and tear at clothing…
Hands that caress in ways words never can…
Lips that speak eloquently of desire and the promise of pleasure, without uttering a word…

Oh, yes… I miss touching and being touched.

Licks!

Working the Sex

Writing is work.

Sex is work.

Anyone who says that sex isn’t work isn’t doing it right. It takes attention to detail, to your partner’s responses, and focus. It also takes remembering what worked before and creativity for finding new ways to thrill them next.

The delightful thing about sex is the payoff and that you don’t do it alone.

Okay, there are some times but I’m not talking about them.

Writing takes attention to detail, memory, creativity and focus. The thing about writing is you have to do it alone.

Ever had one of those nights where either you or your lover was more “on” than the other? Or a lazy night where casual caresses blossomed into an exhilarating evening?

With sex, you have someone to play off of, someone to pick up the slack when you run out of steam. With writing you are simply alone playing mind games with yourself.

I could use one of those creative nights between the sheets. As usual my lover is away. Someday I’ll take a lover who doesn’t travel… no I won’t I like too many things about the leaving and the returning. Whether I am left alone or we take the trip together there is something about travel, time apart, time together, different places, different people…

Hmmm….but I was talking about wanting one of those nights.

A night to stir the creative juices and provide grist for the mill rather than mining the past would be pleasant. But until he returns I’ll struggle though writing sex without my muse.

Licks!

Aaaa Chooooo!

If I thought writing sex or about sex was hard when I wasn’t dating… it is miserable trying to write sex when I’m sick.

It started with allergies, then a cold, and this morning stomach flu.

I might as well put myself back in bed and forget about today. No one wants to be around someone oozing from every pore. I feel horrid and obscenely biological and not at all sexy.

Who can feel sexy when they feel like this?

I can’t imagine kissing me… and I really can’t expect anyone to. There is nothing romantic about illness, unless you’re in an opera. I never understood how the soprano’s died of Tuberculosis – which destroys your lungs – and sing those amazing arias right up to the moment they kick the bucket.

Yes, it would be nice if the world was more like opera or a Nora Ephron movie. Oh, to look as good as Meg Ryan in that scene from You’ve Got Mail when Tom Hanks visits her and she has a cold.

But it isn’t, and I look like death warmed over and feel even worse.

…and I’m running out of tissues.

Licks! (oooh ick!)