detalles de memoria
When I think about sex, I don’t anticipate the orgasm. I don’t focus on the arrangement of bodies, the moans of pleasure, or the force… or the speed…
My mind wanders out over the minute details. She had a festive ribbon around her ponytail, blue as the ocean, as depression glass, as her eyes (or maybe that was me?). Beads of sweat left new trails through the soft hairs at the “small” of her back (however small or large it was). There was a light on in the kitchen. I shivered as her fingertips grazed my hips – I’m ticklish in all the wrong places. The ribbon came loose from the motion and eventually slipped out of her hair (or mine) and into my hand, my free arm extended around her waist. The edges of my stockings have started to roll down my legs, although these expensive thigh-highs had promised none of that. I didn’t even notice the silence until her first big sigh. Leaning into her as she was leaning into me, I can smell her sweat, her perfume, her hair. With my face on her neck, I feel her pulse against my cheek.
These are things I wish for. These are the images of my dreams. My body and my heart crave a body and a heart to be near, both concretely and abstractly, near.