Saying it all. . .

In honor of the posting of the link to this blog by the phenomenal Ms. Bliss, I’m gonna tell a little story. . .

I traveled north, into the mountains; measuring the miles by the rise in altitude. I went to see the poet who has wooed me these last few weeks. . .sending me verse from his favorite poets, photos that he has taken, and resounding prose to waken my spirit. While he calls me to him to explore “the art of eros”, I will also be treated to museum visits and massage. . .wine and winsome writing. I have agreed to this trip, not for the money, but for the experience.

As I drive, I spend my time listening to the hum of my wheels paired with the music of my high school years. In this time of so much soul searching and internal change, I find comfort in the fact that I can still sing along to songs I haven’t heard in more than a decade. And, as I drive, small snatches of poetry and lines of prose whisper to me so that I have to stop several times in the winding river gorge to write them down. I don’t want them to pass me by like the motorcycles that give me the Hi sign. The poet promised that this trip would be a time of artistic emergence and inspiration. And even at this early stage in my journey, my expectations have been fulfilled.

I find the coffee shop where we are to meet and let my Chai and espresso mix soothe the slight agitation that getting lost has left behind. And as the sun warms me, a handsome and distinguished man in a white hat arrives. He gives me a smile, an inquiring look. . .I know it’s my poet. I can tell simply by his look, the light in his eyes as he begins to outline our day, that his excitement and passion can hardly be contained. The room he has for us is lovely, with a hot tub and stunning bed tucked under a loft in the corner. The fireplace is crowned with a gorgeous mosaic and decked with candles. . .but no sooner did we arrive than he has to run off to handle some business concerns. He recommends a nearby restaurant that has wonderful food and promises to return as soon as he is able.

I dawdled over my meal. . .an amazingly flavorful quesadilla with cactus and squash. . .then I read the magazines. Finally I decide to nap to counteract the effects of the altitude. He finds me there, two hours after he left me, curled up and snoozing. We shared a few stolen kisses and a glass of wine before heading out to explore the artistic history of this tiny hamlet, all the while maintaining the ruse that I am a tourist, he the tourguide. We spoke of D.H. Lawrence, and Victorian Era women with more passion than society could handle. “Your life, my dear, is so much a mirror of the reality these women lived” he says, with the past sighing in his ear. He even leaves me alone in the parlor of one historic home to soak in the history and peace of the place.

Later, back in our room, he changed into a bathrobe, took a seat by the fire and I perched on a cushion next to his feet while he read me poems about the desires of the spirit and the passion of the flesh. The heat from the flames was so insistent that I peeled the layers of my clothing as his words washed over me. . .first the long flowing skirt. . .then the small blouse. . .the pale pink bra, the small whisp of lace that passes for panties. My breasts were heavy from his glances. I could almost feel his hands on me as they caressed the pages of his favorite book. Stoking me with the cadence of his language.  In the end, I was displayed before him in nothing but a rosy glow. 

Perhaps he was overcome. . .he stopped in the middle of a poem to take my hand and pull me to the bed. I lay on my stomach with my head off the end of the bed while he stood before me and poured warm oil on my shoulders. As he stroked my back and eased my muscles, I opened his robe to run my hands softly up his thighs. It wasn’t too long until it was my turn to be overcome. . .I rolled to my back, placed my hand on my yearning puss and tilted my head back far enough to take him between my lips. I felt him grow harder and larger on my tounge and couldn’t contain my squirming. As he poured his fluid onto my face and into my mouth, I set myself free to let my orgasm wash over me.    

Not long after that, it was time for me to begin my journey home. We left each other with a warm kiss and a promise to share more time in the future. The drive home seemed so much shorter than the drive into the mountains had been. I carried with me a book about the woman with the trapdoor under her bed for escaping lovers and a mind full of words and beauty. I think I will carry this trip with me for a while to come.

I finished the wine that the poet sent home with me as I wrote this tale. . .the bottle is empty and the words are spent. . .thank you for sharing the journey with me.