Driving, post-sunset, with a wet wind whipping my hair into tangles and snares. Your fingers resting on the nape of my neck, slow circular motions that leave gooseflesh, not fingerprints. My dress, hiked above my knees, my heels digging into the carpeted floor, foot on the accelerator. I am literally shifting gears while we are metaphorically doing the same.
We will arrive home, my shoes clacking against the cobbled pavement, hand in hand, stopping to kiss, only once, and closed mouth, but hard. The door opens, so we kiss again, and our mouths follow suit, though much softer now. My gooseflesh returns.
I have been fucking the same man for seven years. Sometimes I wonder if I am, in fact, any good at this game we silly and simple humans have fashioned for not only ourselves, but one another. How well do I kiss? How thoroughly and fantastically do I stimulate? Can I turn others on? Do I turn others on?
Do I turn you on?
Before I die I would like an annotated, yet succinct list of every person who has ever fantasized about me in bed with them. On many levels I understand that this is but one manifestation of my over-rampant and highly destructive vanity. But I honestly can’t help being curious. I have spent so much of my life with the same man (a loving, beautiful, exquisite man) I fall into extended periods of time where I forget that I even exist as a woman to the entirety of the world’s opposite-sex population.
But on the occasion that I remember, it hits me hard.
And during these times I fuck my husband with an almost maniacal ferocity. As if I believe I could exorcize my lust-stained demons the more I bite and scratch, and banish all manner of my narcissistic character through missing strands of hair and my aggrieved and red swollen lips. I want to be ravaged as much I want to ravage. Lay waste to our bodies, my sexuality and his. And I imagine every single male I’ve ever found attractive sitting in the room watching me, in my savage, erotic fury. I want them to digest, but never comprehend, what they are missing, what they could have experienced, in another age, on another planet, had I not met, loved and viciously fucked, a loving, beautiful, exquisite man.
I strip the sex off of me, out of me. So that I will forget, for some period of time, what I think I may be truly afraid to acknowledge, afraid to know.