How could I tell her that he wrote me poetry and laid a single pale pink rose from his mother's garden at the base of the candlelit steps leading up to his loft bedroom . . .

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ROMANCE OF THE FORBIDDEN KIND

I go about writing my letter to Lisa. Literally it is about the twelfth. Each one starts out okay, satisfactory and then, one by one each gets tossed. The writing gets too sloppy, my hand gets too tense, one sentence read, "I have been justly accused into the flaming evil pit of unsisterly wayward friends”. It was supposed to say 'unjustly'. I went back and tried to add the 'un' part with a little ^ but it made the word look crowded and obvious as a cover up. This is a clear slip of consciousness. I mean, I slept with a man she asked me not to look at, talk to, or go near. But I didn't just sleep with him. It was beautiful, passionate, scrumptious, gorgeous making love. He knew my body like he'd studied its map for eons. He unwound me, unfurled me and I unfolded like an origami bird. I was profoundly moved afterward. I was shaking. I was silent. I couldn't talk for days. Nothing was more important to me than not breaking that feeling with words, so we didn’t talk; had entire dates where I wouldn’t allow him to speak to me so it could build inside and I have all of it, every last drop, unfettered by common, stumbling language. I didn’t know anyone could be so instinctually connected to my every twitch and anticipate what would feel the best even before I did. It was magic. And the guilt I felt over it was hell. I wanted to be with this man. I could give him what he needed. He could touch me with the knowing hands of a Gemini. I had written in my journal months earlier and had asked the universe for a Gemini’s knowing hands and here he was.

His smell was intoxicating to me. It was so intoxicating that other people asked him to bathe. But for me, I couldn't get near his hair without plunging my whole face into the mess and breathing deeply. He looked, walked and touched with the earthy, raw sexual manliness and sensitivity of a young, tight Walt Whitman. He had a lush, unruly thicket of dark blond hair and a faint lingering of motorcycle repair work, with just a tracer of hand cleaner. He said I moved like an eel. He said he’d never known such a sensuous creature. He lost his breathe with me. He lost his heart. But I couldn't have him because it would kill Lisa. She was still clinging to some frayed split thin strung out piece of floss that they would get back together soon. And she knew if I got near him he would move onto me and it would finally break that thread. I knew this because she told me so. It was late summer and we had been going to painstaking measures to pretend we didn't know each other. We would sneak to the woods and just walk hand in hand, nothing else. It was like we had been married for ages and our time spent together had a calm, easy weathered feel to it. The question was never weather or not we were going to have a relationship, but how. Lisa was my best friend and now he was my best lover. And the reason we snuck around was because of me. He was full willing to be out in the open with this beautiful thing. I insisted because she had specifically told me earlier that summer that she was meticulating her get together back with him and to back off because it hurt her just knowing I might have a faint interest in him. “It was downright unsiterly,” she’d said. Even though at the time she was kind of, sort of dating, but not sleeping with Eric, the pottery technician at the art school. He was tall, absolutely gorgeous in a cultured-yet corn-fed kind of way, into her art, physically fit, well groomed, socialized, funny and rode an awesome BMW motorcycle. Everything my boy wasn't.

But Lisa was so convinced in her mind that he just wanted to be friends and she had to quell her desires for more to avoid not only scaring him off but more importantly, to avoid the fear of rejection that might at some point possibly arise if they ever did become a couple and then split up. Talk about extrapolation. So she would spend countless conversations with me over what she should wear to this event or that. So clear did she go to make the point that she was not a hopeless love junkie who was ready to latch onto him for eternity and suck the living life out of him if he would just be her boyfriend that every time he asked her to something--go see a band or go to a festival--she would make it into a harmless and light group outing where she'd invite Amy, me or anybody else that might dispel the energy pulsating tension that makes two potential lovers want to rip their clothes off by the end of the night. Countless hours would be spent with this guy but with all the commotion and all the people there, they'd maybe get to talk for a total of 15 minutes. At the end of the night he'd want to come in and spend some time with just her but she'd want to maintain this image of, "No, No, Don't worry, I'm not going to trap you in my web of love and become an emotional burden for you when you try and peel yourself away from me in a few months”, bullshit that she'd just jump off the back of his bike, peck his cheek and hustle inside. He would sit there confused and longing and she would sit inside confused and longing and then call me and ask if she did the right thing. It would turn into one of those he-said, then she-said word for word playback of the conversational exchange always followed by an "Do you think what I said was too forward or sounded too eager?" Lisa was constantly second guessing herself. It drove me nuts and I told her so. Now, all these group outings had various combinations of different people but one was always there. Amy. Blonde, cute Amy. Strong, tough Amy who rode her own motorcycle. Independent, socially experienced Amy who worked at a TV production firm with the young and chic. Gemini flirt Amy who had money and attitude and the zodiacal twins on her side, one working on Eric and the other downplaying him to Lisa. Amy, who two months later was living with Eric in his apartment and avoiding Lisa. That Amy.

And so Lisa, unable to make heads or tails of any of the mess, automatically tossed Amy into the flaming evil pit of unsisterly wayward friends; feeling like Amy was the evilest of all -- luring away Eric and intentionally hurting Lisa by doing so. And what Lisa missed in all of this was that Eric didn't give her anything she really needed in the first place. He was vague, wanted to date around, didn't really talk about his feelings, kinda made everything light and airy and for Christ sake Lisa, he kept a loaded gun next to his bed. You are the most anti-gun person I know. And Lisa was miserable, always playing this easy-come, easy-go, whatever is ok with me non-committal role to try to match Eric’s version of this. So the two, in trying to be alike, with Lisa on the same page as Eric instead of true to her own self and based on my polarity theory, cancelled each other out. They morphed and then ironed the exciting variables out.

So this blow to Lisa followed close on the heels of her sisterly talk with me to lay low on her old boyfriend put me in a tough spot. With her funneled mindset and quick on the heels of her latest rejection how could I tell her that I was lying awake at night in the cold sweat over a man that had flushed his feelings for her six months prior? How could I tell her that he wrote me poetry and laid a single pale pink rose from his mother's garden at the base of the candlelit steps leading up to his loft bedroom. That he massaged me for hours and melted my mind and then my body. That I felt colors, waves of purple, hues of blue and reds that bled together in hot blazing passion when I was lost in his touch? That all my logical, practical functions lay paralyzed at the foot of that bed, tossed in a heap with my clothes. That I read nighttime stories to him in delicious whispers and he revealed in every moment of this attention. How could I tell her any of those things then, when last year for Christmas he gave her a tub drain? And how could I tell her now? So I didn't tell her. About any of it. Especially not the times he would ease his double-jointed thumb into me and rock my g spot, bump against me, pivot, push me out. I nearly died. He stood me firm against a wall and pushed into me until my knees gave out, but he was pressed so tight, so solidly, so warmly against me that his weight held mine stuck fast upon that wall. He would lay me out in his romantic candlelit attic loft after I’d climbed three Robinson Caruso haphazard ladders to reach it and eat everything between my legs, turn me over like on a rotating spit, move over me, devour me, sweetly, tenderly, wholly. Like clockwork, getting to every inch of me.

His hands were genius. I’d never had anyone so expertly know my body and rhythms. It was if he had the same intrinsic feeling and could feel what felt best on me. I couldn’t have done it better myself and to this day I never have. It would be all I could do not to come, not to stop him short. But during the time of all this I did purchase two tiny items that I thought would help me live a larger truth. A little set of pewter earrings that had the word ‘Passion’ etched on each one and a matching pendant that read ‘Truth’. Somehow I engrained these two items to be physical manifestations of my heart and how I wanted to live and guide me out of all the messes I had guided myself into. I overlooked the fact that I bought them with money stolen from a part time job I’d recently quit. I’m lucky a lightening bolt didn't strike me as I walked out the door with them but nonetheless I thought it would change everything and a sultry summer night on impulse I went to D'lyn's house to test the waters of truth. Rubbing the cool, smooth surface of my mantra charm around my neck, I knocked.

END

Each fantasy is crafted from an orgasm-rich personal experience, seared in my head and poured onto page. These are my fantasies, my dreams, my ultimate orgasms. If you provide the necessary components, sparse but clear, I’ll craft a personal fantasy for your own collection but I’ll have to feel it first. If it’s fake or wimpy, I won’t deliver. Make it original, deep, penetrating and you’ll have a first class flight to coming, twined in my style.

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