It's 2 o'clock in the morning and I'm lying in a hot bath, letting my arms float and leaning my head back. The April wind's howling round the house, and I'm wide awake and really horny.
Spring is coming even though it feels like winter, my lover is thousands of miles away, and this moment is all about me wanting to have his mouth on me so badly I could scream.
Three and a half years ago I met the man I call my angel. The connection we had was immediate and otherworldly. We spent two days together, and then he went away.
I cried and cried at my friend Aya's house, listening to Joni Mitchell's A Case Of You over and over, damning the universe for playing such a cruel trick on me.
How could he be gone when I needed so much more of him? I soon realized that my life had been changed completely by our encounter and that it didn't matter if we never saw each other again; I now had a standard against which to measure the quality of intimacy with a man. I had always suspected that love could be synonymous with freedom and that sex could be a way to access the divine.
So I carried my angel around quietly in my heart from that point on. Carried him around and felt like he was holding me at the same time, in his beautiful cupped hands, keeping me safe wherever I was, wherever he was.
I spent two years with someone else and a year and a half on my own. Then, five months ago, I tracked him down because he was suddenly in my head as well as quietly in my heart where he had always been.
And he came back. Just like that. He'd been married and divorced, and it was like he'd been waiting for my call.
He's my soul, I tell people, because that's the word that best describes what he means to me. We must have known each other many times before - as brother and sister, as queen and consort, as shaman and mystic bride.
I haven't dared to really let myself act on love for years, and yet I stand before him transformed, laid open, stripped bare.
There is nowhere to hide: the only thing to say is "yes," the only thing to tell is the truth and the only thing to do is to learn how to breathe up here where the air is thin. Anything else would be madness, because he doesn't only show me who I am - he shows me who I'm gonna be.
I come roaring, like a lioness, in orgasms that last for an eternity, that peak with me floating weightless and blind in black, star-studded space. I call out for him and reach for him, pulling him onto me and into me, and he catches me and fills me, and then fills his mouth with hot tea to go down on me and make me roar again and again and again. Oh. Oh, baby. There is nobody else who could even come close.
Except that, at the moment, we do not live in the same city. We don't even live in the same province. This man of mine lives in lovely, damp Vancouver. And I live here, in freezing cold Toronto. Which is fine most of the time, cuz we talk and we e-mail and he's coming for the summer and I have faith that everything always happens exactly the way it's supposed to anyway - but sometimes, just sometimes, it gets difficult.
When the moon is full or nearly, when I'm ovulating, when my friend Sandy and I have planned a tequila night, when I wake up from an erotic dream that's when it gets hard. Which brings us right back to the moonstruck girl in the clawfoot bathtub.
I want him to be here right now. I feel like a boy, all selfish grasping lust, powerful, and potentially just a little bit cruel. I rock my hips and start to fantasize, telling him that I don't have much time, that I won't want anything but exactly what I want from him, that he'd better get here quick.
Yeah, sometimes I want to flirt with him for hours, sometimes I want to kiss and kiss and kiss, sometimes I want to take it slow and easy. Not tonight.
Tonight I want it in a driving, urgent way, which is why I'm reaching for the Waterpik and adjusting the frequency of its vibe to what it is that I'm wanting. The press of teeth, the slick precision, the liquid flicking of a tongue It's too bad that I can't cast a spell to summon him. It means so much more responsibility for me, because this body is mine, and the choice to be in this relationship is mine, and this place between my legs where needs collide is mine.
So I'll make myself come with my new silicone dildo and my showerhead, with my eyes closed and my lover's name tattooed on my breath. My Leo fire draws down the energy of the here and now, and I feel it moving through me. The visual images disappear because I don't need them any more. I lick my lips and taste the memory of my man; I taste him, touch him, feel him. He's inside me, right where I want him to be. He doesn't need to be in this room for me to be with him. I want to do this, I realize with some surprise, as I arch my back into the first wave; I really want to do this.
I ride that thought up into the stratosphere, coming, and then coming back down in a light rain of cathartic tears. I touch down into a calm and certain climate. He's still on the other side of the country, I'm still here and I'm feeling more than fine.
If there's one thing I know for sure it's that I want to stay in this. I want to follow this story line, at least for a while. I am curious. What will happen next?