It’s good to see I’m not the only one who thinks sometimes dialogue is a game to be won or to be lost:

“I had an orgasm on the subway,” she said.

I nodded, and pretended that I had something perfect to say that didn’t need to be said. I poured her a glass of wine, and sat down next to her on the couch. I could wait. There was no way she wouldn’t finish.

“Where is the wine from?” she asked.

She was playing hard to get, but I could handle it. I knew it was a game, and I knew the only way to win was to stay strong.

“So, tell me about the subway.”

“The wine?”

“Argentina.” Fuck, not only was I losing, but I was losing badly.

South American wine can be quite good.

(from 17-December, 2008)

The four short months I’d taken of high school introductory French were definitely not enough to save me.

I stared at the one page menu in the overly dim candlelight— I could tell one side was wine, the other side was cheese. And… that was about it. Lost, and letting the menu fall flat on the table, I instead took to observing my companion. Not that I could understand her either— one side feminine and softly sweet, one side sharp-bitter and intensely dangerous.

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One of my favorite sayings (and I can’t claim ownership of it, even after the 507th use) is: “idle hands go straight to the genitals.” But honestly, is that even such a bad thing?

I’m already naked. I shed my clothes to the bedroom floor and now lie on the bed. The ache deepens. My fingers slide down my neck. I shiver with anticipation. My nipples are already taught when my hands find them. I feel the ache intensify. I roll them between my finger tips and gasp as a pulse begins in my cunt. I squeeze my thighs together wanting so much to cum. My breasts are soft and full in my hands as I caress them. My chest heaves with anticipation. If only you were here to watch me.

I slip one hand down. I know what to do to ease the ache. I know how to satisfy myself. I know you know this and the thought of having you as a voyeur stokes the flames further. The decision now is to make it quick and hard or draw it out slowly. My fingers slide through the wetness pooling between my thighs. Slick juices coat my fingers and I spread it around my clit. I moan softly. Electric waves run through me as my fingers start to circle my clit. The room has disappeared. The outside world has disappeared. Desire, need, want is all I feel.

And sometimes, that “want” can swallow us whole.

I should have asked for my keys back but then again I should have returned her the keys to her own apartment, so fair’s fair— I just don’t show up unannounced— on a school night no less.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch, the sound of her on the phone— the voice loud and chatty in one half of a conversation not intended for me— slipping through the fog of sleep.

“Yeah, I’ll be back, okay like don’t leave without me— uh-huh, yeah— no, it’s okay— well— just hold on, okay?”

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I’m fascinated by the scenery our minds dream up, the places we feel describe what is going on in our minds. Maybe it’s the wanderlust in my own imagination, but it’s a question I’ll silently ask other people: where would you put yourself?

I think of lying on a beach, gleaming golden, and baking in the heat as the warm salty waters lap at us and I pull her to me to taste her now salty flesh and long to take her right then and there on the bleached sand, in the surf, beneath a fiery jealous sun as the undulating waves mimic those of our own…

Thoughts of a beach, heat, warmth, sun. Spring might be here, but summer is only a dream away.

And again I think of those damned delectable lips; lips as delectable and damnable as fabled forbidden fruit. If such lips Eve had possessed, she never would’ve needed anything more to lure Adam to her whims.

Poor, poor Eve. She gets such a bum wrap.

She said she’d painted her nails a pretty pink, and that I’d see them soon enough. My phone buzzed about ten minutes early and it was really “soon enough,” I joked to myself, letting her in. Dressed in a white pea coat with skinny jeans and butter brown boots up to her knees and her blonde hair was messy in that intentionally-styled-flowing-carelessness that makes other women jealous of her on the subway and street, she carried a gaudy floral print duffel bag which seemed way over-stuffed, but I thought maybe she was planning for contingencies.

“Ta-da!” she said, fingers pointed down and showing me the back of her hand, but her wiggling fingers were to be the focus, and I’m sure that I said something clever, maybe even grabbed her hand to hold it still so I could see it better. But whatever touch came first it could not come faster, and even though we had the whole weekend (our first spent together like this), there was a rush movement of our hands, a hurry in the press of our lips.

I forgot who grabbed the bag and which hand led who, but we were in the bedroom next and on the bed with her coat thrown towards the dresser and maybe landing on top of an open drawer but definitely off her and my hands under the loosely crocheted sweater and tugging the tank top out from the waistband of her jeans as her hands were already pulling my t-shirt up over my chest and shoulders. Someone gave in first and maybe it was me because I was too preoccupied with my lips planted on hers and my hands on her bare skin.

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