Monday, March 30, 2009

Another Minute More is All I Need

He says he spoke to his therapist about me, told her about my penchant for damaged, dominant, intelligent males.

In turn, she said that he continuously found unhealthy women, like myself.

But, he told her, that while damaged, I am incredibly self-aware and, due to that, probably the healthiest out of all them.

It's funny, in a way.

The last girl he truly went for was also living in Los Angeles. She was a smouldering pile of self-involved, unaware wreckage. She doesn't want to know, doesn't want to see, who she is.

It's sad. Avoidant.

So much of my life has been a internal dive, searching for the core of myself, searching for visceris. I can't imagine any other way to be.

... ... ...

My legs are draped over his. Reclining on the futon, eyes half-closed, while he reads to me.

Sometime, this last weekend, things became intimate. It went past the point of fuck buddies, past partners, skidded past lovers, and almost into beyond that. I think it was when I would finally hold his hand without shying away.

We stand in his kitchen. The light is off, but the receding sun illuminates the high ceilings and the antique stove. The clawfoot bathtub, encircled by plastic shower curtains, the narrow spiraling stairway leading to the roof, and the tiny window overlooking the alley, bringing in the breeze of the day.

It's calm.

Music from outside drifts in the open windows, dances around before meeting the walls that enclose us. My hands are on his ribs, his chest, feeling the firmness and strength. My lips are on his neck, allowing access for my tongue to brush against the stubble of his jaw.

I'm on his bed, facing out the window, looking at the buildings stacked so closely together, like someone was assembling a difficult puzzle and realized that they could build up and overlapping, just given the right materials. The wind comes in, caresses my face, tosses my hair, runs down my shoulders, lower back, and ass, like a cool water following my curves. My tattoo looks even more distinct against his white sheets, white comforter, and the fading light. The black squares belie the softness of my body, taunt the softness of the bed. The wind comes in again and I lower my chin onto my hands.

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