I didn't come yesterday. Didn't want to. To be honest, I fell asleep before 9pm on the couch, so that kinda shot any evening opportunity I might have had, or wanted, dead. So, when my eyes flew open this morning, I thought about last night and felt a little ripple of disappointment flutter through me, before I reminded myself that self-love, for this month's project, is not limited to just one type, it's how I want to define it, recognizing all my needs and not apologizing for any of them. That not touching myself for one day, when my body clearly had other plans, is perfectly OK.
Yesterday, I didn't find the "Right Spot", not the one that would wobble my knees, riddle my flesh with goosebumps, puppeteer my muscles and force a scream from both sets of lips. Not the one where my body, tender and out-of-sync lately: sore back, complaining knee, protruding belly, swollen thighs, could relax into, steady itself and luxuriate in the idea, and act, of self pleasure. Not the one where my head settled the muck, my brain cooperated, and my emotions allowed it. For me, as I guess it may be with many other women, the "Right Spot" isn't just where that special nest of nerve endings waits at the end of a bump to be stroked and coddled, but it's finding the right frame of mind, the right overall physical feeling, the right moment to allow ourselves that peace, that space, that time we need to enjoy being with ourselves, being in ourselves, and hell, sometimes, if we're lucky, being outside watching ourselves. It's the Sweet Spot. The universal G Spot. The one where we may be able to stop time, forgive (or at least forget) everything that's bothered us that day, and dive into our own pleasure-- finger and feel our own worth. Yesterday, I didn't find the spot, so I found the escape of sleep instead.
But this morning, this morning was different. Almost immediately after that initial disappointment, my mind switched gears, my body perked and my ears rang full with the Siren song adrift and carried to me from the shower. No one ever escapes a Siren. Despite my desire to jump in fully clothed and go at it, I slowed down, breathed out, undressed. Hell, I even washed and conditioned my hair, and degritted and de-drooled my morning pillow face. Then, with a quick ear to the shower wall to hear any stirrings from the next room, I let loose the spout from its cage, and scooted down, skin hot against the cool of the porcelain. I started narrating again this morning, drifting more into the words of my head than into the electric impulses being conducted from the shower through the pulsing water to my flesh. So I closed my eyes. I pulled a curtain down between the noise of the spectators in my head and the actual performance, the pleasure. It was like cutting the nerves, cutting the feeling (in my flesh and in my mind )from everything else but what was going on between my legs. In the back of my mind I knew I had to be quick, relatively speaking. Already running late for work, and knowing the shower wasn't really going to be free for long, the urgency added to the need, to the want, to the tingling.
I didn't let it go, I wasn't ready yet to come, to watch the feeling wash away with the water, down the drain. I held on, fingers clenched around the grip, squeezing as I would a bent neck or a fleshy head. Today, with eyes closed, I saw myself more amiably, found the Right Spot, then moved the wet mouth, rubbing back and forth to stimulate then stop, stimulate then stop, right at the cusp. With my hesitance to release, and wanting more after not feasting on myself last night, the fantasy came. And hard. I saw me how you see me, how you would see me if you burst through the bathroom door for your morning routine and popped your head around the flimsy shower curtain just to stare at my nakedness, like you usually do. I saw my legs spreading into a smile for you. And then felt them clench, knees kissing, thighs tight and pulling the showerhead harder against my swollen lips. My fantasy slipped, migrated from the simple visually pleasing stimulation to a harder, dirtier, kinkier one, ripping out the stomach of my emotions. Overpowered, and covered in you, I rocked back and forth against it, rubbed myself in it, skin hot and flushed, tingling and prickly against the slick porcelain. Eviscerated and raw, I came quietly, letting the mouth with no voice do all the screaming this morning. And when my no-voice finally hushed, I fell slack-shoulder against the curved elbow of the tub's embrace, and the showerhead bucked and whirred its excitement at my coming. My fingers uncurling against the force of its exhuberance, it celebrated all over the bathroom walls and on the floor, as if it too was coming, as you did in my head, in the wake of its dominance over my prone body.
In what I'm considering the Universe's applause, or at least acceptance, of my morning's coming, before I left the bedroom for the last time, dressed and notebook in hand to distract me from a full workday, I opened a book of poetry for my daily writing inspiration, and fell at once to this poem:
you asked me to come: it was raining a little,
and the spring; a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled
battered by stuttering pearl,
to the jigging fragrance of newness
--and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress
...your kiss, your kiss was a distinct brittle
flower, and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge. So until light
each having each we promised to forget--
wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs, the electric trite
thighs, the hair stupidly priceless.
-e.e. cummings
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