Filed under: personal
All of the small things about you have lost meaning for me.
There are certainly enough hours in the day. And Lord knows, there have certainly been enough days. Getting treated like moldy bread by you made me numb to things long ago. It’s a wonder that I can actually look at you without that queasiness creeping into the right side of my gut. A feeling like some vile bodily fluid building up at the back of my mouth.
And, sometimes, I think it’s a damn shame that we ever met.
Because every day, I let it happen again, and again, and again. By someone who means less than you meant to me. By someone whose kiss I’ll never feel, who will never drawl out my name like you, by someone who touches me then flinches away…very unlike the coy grab of the inside of my arm by my elbow.
Damnit. I wish that I could make this all stop. I wish I weren’t so focused on things like this.
Today someone told me that they didn’t know why I let her treat me like crap. Told me that I should push her, because unitl she realized that no one will ever be like me to her ever again in her life, I will never be satisfied. I thought about it, but I probably never will. Because hating her is even easier than hating you.
Trying to hate you is still really hard. I still have to make a conscious effort to ignore you when you call, to be frigid when you touch me. When you ask me how my day is going, and then instantly segue into what i can do for you, you make it so easy.
The forbidden nature of us, when we were us, makes me sad about how much time and energy i spent. It didn’t really end up being something that was worth our time. Thinking about it, i feel a somniferous aura drift over me, like a thick fog over a backwoods lake.
I think I may try to get some sleep now, but I think I just thought I would thank you. For letting everyone bring out the part of me I dislike the most. But also, for making it easier for me to know when I’m being an idiot.
The air flowed over her body, like a wave of cool ocean water is released onto warm sandy coastline. That fan had been on for some time now, but had she noticed it before? It was so hard to pay attention to anything outside of her own emotional toil. It was even harder to pay attention to what was happening to her body.
She knew the love that was being imparted to her. It had a familiar stench to it, reminded her of lovers long gone. To be fair, Marchéline really did love her. From the glistening sweat that had broken out all over her body as a result of the arduous fervor with which she licked, kissed, tugged, scratched and caressed, to the numerous amorous whisperings that she uttered. “Est-ce bien comme ça?” “Mon dieu, je pouvais mort en raison de ton beauté.” It was beyond clear.
It didn’t really make sense, then, that these tears would be running down her face in a torrent of some emotion that she couldn’t be exactly sure of. From that first kiss, as the two women lay naked in her bed, Elise had been weeping. A certain amount of credit ought be attributed here, for Marchéline was not deterred in the slightest by her crying, carrying on in spite of the twin rivers that streaked down her face.
Through the gentle but purposed removal of her clothes by a glowingly exuberant lover, Elise sobbed. At the first meeting of quivering lips to sloping neck, punctuated by the matching of kisses to the deep throbbing of her heartbeat through her neck. During the vigorously laborious oral gratification of her seemingly delighted nipples. As a determined tongue slid down the cavern created by her heaving bosom. When that same moistened organ made its way through independently slick lips that protected that source of intimate heat between Elise’s legs. Once that was followed by first one, then two, then three fingers, each of which explored her core as though in search of some long-forgotten truth. In response to the kneading of flesh between those same digits, and the gentle stroking of that inexplicably fascinating area at the small of a woman’s back by Marchéline’s luxuriously cold nose. Those salty manifestations of deep-seeded emotions poured out from her eyes in a torrent at every pull, tug, kiss and caress.
As the intensity of the erotic dance between the two women grew more elaborate and more intense, Elise began to focus on the bare walls of the room, in a futile attempt to calm herself and stop her tears and in a naive hope that the impassivity of the decor would bring some kind of understanding. Why was she so possessed? Why could she not control herself? And why could she not enjoy this more? Deep within her, she felt an undulation of passion that so desperately wanted to express itself.
But something was blocking her, something was keeping that held that part of her down, as would an enormous weight.
Marchéline’s heartbeat was imitating the rapid beating of hummingbird wings. She positioned her body between Elise’s legs, and, as she tongued the streams of tears from her face, began to cavort her body against her lover’s. They lay chest to chest, stomach to stomach, mons to labia. The pacific bucking of one to the other produced a nearly electric reaction in Elise, and she stopped. Ceased to move, to hold, to cry. Looking up at Marchéline’s spent face, she said, “Je suis désolé. Je t’aime. Avec tout mon coeur.”
What resulted was greater than elation, greater than ecstasy, greater than any sort of bliss imaginable. The two women, in that moment, became one.
The question remains, why was Elise so sad for so long? Was it her inability to get over her lover’s gender, an attempt to avoid the obvious femininity of Marchéline? Or was it an engendered repulsion, resulting from an inability to find that part of Marchéline that screamed female, and a fear laced to the idea that it was a man that did these things to her?
Regardless of the why, the story ends well. They loved each other, in a microcosmic sphere consisting of only themselves. Selfish? Maybe. But after the ordeal, it would appear that Marchéline had been trying to organize Elise’s freedom from her fear. It would also appear that she succeeded.
**This started out as a dream I had. Special thanks to Kicy for helping inspire me to turn it into a story.**
So, had to get a new computer. Blew chunks as I made that purchase, but swore I would treat the new baby (named Harper, in case anyone cared, the middle name of the author of To Kill A Mockingbird) much better.
That has already begun. I bought a LaCie 500Gb external drive. It’s super-sexy. It’s the F.A. Porche design, so it matches my baby. I’m gonna upload another post with pictures. That I will have taken about thirty seconds before I upload them. (I named my drive Churchill. That made me chuckle some.)
Purpose for the drive: to really back my stuff up. Lemme tell you, it’s annoying to back things up with Mozy (see earlier, bitchier post). As it turns out, I should have found it in me to have a little patience. I put in the restore request a little before midnight, my stuff was ready the next morning by eight. I’m just not patient. So, I’m gonna fiddle with some lil’ progs (right now, I’m giving iBackup a shot) to do back things up on my drive.
Um, also I got a tattoo the other night. Commemoration of adulthood, or something to that effect. I’ll post my pics of that, too.
And, then, I have a website to finish. Who knew iWeb would ever come in so handy for me…?
