eros, logos: Invention

Friday, June 09, 2006

Invention

He is a talker, a storyteller. It runs in his family he tells me, and I can believe it. What's bred in the bone will out in the flesh, and this is something as essential to him as blood type, encoded that deep. Lying together tangled after love he talks, and it could be about anything really, as far as I am concerned, because he always talks well. This love of narrative he has, it is one thing that made me fall in love with him despite myself, and almost before I knew it was happening.

It's very seductive, especially for someone like me.
I know he knows this. It's worked for him before.

And he weaves a narrative too in bed with me. This stream of words, sighs, whispers, groans. These filthy and tender exhortations, exaltations. He tells me what he is doing, what he is going to do. His voice strokes me, it gets inside me and touches inner and dark places. It's as if there were a long corridor in my mind with a series of closed doors, and they unlock and open, one and then another, some empty stretch of hallway, many rooms. I feel like Alice falling: the doors unlock and open as I pass with dreamlike slowness, the earth receding from me infinitely. It makes sense really that I should fall in other senses.

He tells me sometimes about fucking someone else, and here too what I feel is something like that. Some kind of uneasy thrill, some dizzying mixture of jealousy and arousal and hunger and greed. Like vertigo, like the pull of high places.
I picture it. I want it to have been me that he fucked, but I also want to hear about it. I need to get as close to it as I can, and I must handle it carefully because there are edges here that will cut me to the bone if I do not take care.
Hearing about it is like an itch I can't scratch because it's just out of reach, it's something that lodges in me and twists, an insinuating whisper, that tremor of warm breath on skin before a tongue or lips touch you at last. It makes me wet. It makes me want to fuck him, right away.

Whenever we fuck, Tell me when to come, I beg him, though this has never been one of my desires before. One of the first times he fucked me he suddenly begged me to come, told me to come, and I did, hard, hard, shuddering, the violence with which he demanded it, the suddenness--all of it made me come like that, violently, suddenly. And now I hold back, I won't let myself come until he tells me to. There isn't anyone else for me, what I seem to want is him, and whatever of himself he can give me. Waiting til he tells me to come, coming when he tells me to, is like some gift I give him, not just the gift of me coming, but even the gift of telling me when. Like me also, it's a gift he has on loan.

I don't own his cock. I share it.
But I know I own his erotic imagination. It's mine alone, and I know which I value more, if I must choose.
Which of the two means more after all, to such a narrator? I'm cunning.
Inside his head also doors unlock now. It's like I hear the lock turning, the handle is moving.

Behind some of these doors of his there is an impersonal room with only a bed. Behind some there is water, in some fire. There are books in many, both written and not yet. Other doors as yet unopened, rooms not explored or known yet to him. But I have the gift of sight here, of divination. I can see what he doesn't.

(In some of his secret rooms I know I am a whore. In one I am naked on a bed with my legs open masturbating and waiting for him. In another I am on my knees and bent over the bed, my hands holding myself open for him.

In still another he finds me with another woman, the woman.)

In still other rooms, I am something else again, his other self, the secret one.
In finding me he finds lost parts of himself, and new ones too.

He brings me his narration, he lays it at my feet. On his knees for me he parts my thighs and tastes me.

It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
This word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
Margaret Atwood, Variations on the Word Love

Update: listed on Blogstormz

posted by O @ 14:48


1 Comments:
At 08 August, 2006, Anonymous said… Forgive me, please for posting to your blog; my literal facility is sorely lacking next to your gorgeous and enveloping prose, your own storytelling. i would say to you, though, that i am sub.lingual, on my own journey of self discovery as a maybe submissive. Thank you, sincerely, for you narrative, which inspires me in my search for my Self, rather than for my Sir. i will visit often, and hope that you will never stop writing to us, the masses of yourself and your journey. May you walk in Light, ~~sub.lingual~~
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