From Shiver to Quiver, Dust to Lust.
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I want to know what it’s like in your head, not just in your bed. Does your mind have the same ease as your smile, or does your brain bleed the same as your heart? Could our hearts ever have the same harmony as our bodies? As the bed beckons, this pursuit of knowledge is lost. At least for now, Jesus isn’t watching. Knowing I’ll soon succumb to temptation, I remove the crucifix from the wall above my bed and place it in the closet with a couple of skeletons.
Together, Jesus and the skeletons make a triumvirate of judge, jury and executioner. They fire their judgment upon me with the velocity of an execution-style bullet and shoot to kill. I shut the closet door.
The light makes it hard to lie. Hiding behind the lace Irish Catholic curtains, and under the cover of blankets and darkness, we can be anything we want. The darkness enhances my desire — the desire to be adored, ravished and worshiped. For all you know, I’m a myth. A fable. A tall tale to tell. I lift my leg high, and admire my stiletto heels. I add them to my arsenal of sex, stockings and scotch. Your fingers run the length of my leg to where the thigh-high stockings stop.
I lie doe-eyed, biting my lip, a forlorn expression on my face. You’re charmingly focused and relentlessly persistent as you slowly remove my thigh-highs. I gasp as I remove your pants. All of your obscure references about being blessed below were true, and perhaps then some. Your cock rises up like you’re under oath about to give sworn testimony. My tongue runs over your flesh, and my hips yield to you. You bend my leg at the knee, and enter me from the side.
Your sweat drips off you and onto me. I feel you in the wasteland of the tomb of my womb, and smell you between my legs. We fuck fervently and, momentarily, the Hundred Years’ War in my head and the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral in my heart are both silenced by friendly fire.
My inner walls pound against my pelvis, ready to explode. We pass out like we’re in a game of Twister, and when I awake, you’re gone. I’m all alone like morning dew, delicious and wet. Lying there, I’m like a pig, comfortable in my own metaphorical shit.
I wonder what it’s like in your head, not just in your bed, where orgasms preside and emotional baggage is checked at the door. The bed you enter in the dark like a tornado, and escape from in the light like an illuminating lightning storm. The kind of storm one wants to get close to because of its rare beauty and brilliance, but must run away from for safety. My outer walls rise up to protect my fragile emotions that yearn to nest whilst yours long to fly.
I try to compete, but lose miserably to your emotional baggage containing the reasons why you claim you aren’t good at relationships. From what I infer from the bits of insight you’ve given me into your life, it has to do with emotional trauma, which you may have been referring to when you said I deserved better.
Maybe it’s your mother’s death when you were 11, or the car crash that killed your fiancé. Maybe it’s survivor’s guilt from the years of military combat or your failed marriage, knowing you think you can only give to me what was given to you. Maybe I stay because I know you think giving yourself to anyone is a losing proposition, and because I think maybe I can do something so you’ll feel quivers instead of shivers, and lust instead of dust.
Maybe I hope I can turn your combat cacophony into a symphony. Maybe it’s because I want your cross to bear to be my burden to share. Maybe I think I can be your Army, and your last search and rescue mission.
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Amy Blanaru is a left-leaning Celtic Gypsy based in Boston. She works in addiction treatment and likes her pasta al dente. You can find her on Facebook.
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