An unfinished entry I started writing about Chris’ visit in December 2023…. I’m sure that annual holiday depression robbed me of the rest of my words that were needed to complete this entry… But I feel like even with what I was able to get down, the love we have for each other is present and accounted for….
He once called our texting the start of our Beautiful Everything.
Our beautiful everything, our lovely kaleidoscope. Colors of bruises and lipstick on the background of skin white with sunlessness and the shadows of a bedroom spinning in our eyes at the sight of each other.
He drove up to see me on December 15…in efforts to draw me out of my typical hermit crab Christmas depression. He rented our usual Airbnb in Rome. A place situated next to a nail salon where we wonder if they can hear us, as well as we hear them…and the church bells at the old tall spindly Presbyterian church across the way. Sometimes a little orange cat watches us judgmentally from a window overlooking the parking lot, as we walk chummily inside a place that has come to feel like our home away from home…A couch that holds us comfortably, a bed with a perfect headboard for restraints and a well-stocked kitchen that we never make use of…
Being that he lives a little-bit-closer-although-still-not-close-enough, he arrives early, earlier than we can gain access to our Airbnb…We bide our time by getting lunch at Crust, a place we frequent when he’s in town. We both get their version of a KFC bowl—mashed potatoes, umami gravy, sweet corn, scallions and fried chicken. I note how he always reaches for my hand…walking into places, between bites of food, on the couch. His hand that later will hold both my wrists inside of it while he bites me to tenderness, also absentmindedly rubs my knuckles gently. Our hands sew a seam with our fingers. A quilt of different fabrics. Patchwork lovers.
We stop by Aldi and pick up charcuterie fixings. We then stop at Dunkin to kill another hour, gazing at each other…while I watched my handsome string bean mash 2 donuts together to house them, much to my amusement. This is how it could be, I think. This is how it could be all the time.
If only…
We finally went to the Airbnb…
We exchange Christmas gifts with an electric joy. He gets me: an Edgar Allan Poe ornament, a boombox wireless speaker, cassette tape sponges, a signed book, a Cats Cradle blanket. (Which I have told him is like sleeping curled up on an angel’s ballsack.) I get him: A copy of Asteroid City (which we went to see on one of his previous visits), a couple…ahem….couple’s toys…an 8X10 framed painting I had made from a picture we took last visit…a bottle of these cute little capsules I filled with secret messages…a collection of H.P. Lovecraft’s work.
We migrate into the bedroom, where he hauls me over his lap and spanks me raw, while holding my head down onto the bed in a display of pure domination. The red firework of arousal blooming in the sky of my brain.
We engage in our typical sluttery. He knows where my limits are and walks me up to the line, till I’m nearly a tightrope walker…biting me so hard that my skin responds with the colors of a garden. Red and blue and purple petals unfurling on my chest…Then he begins laving my breasts till I tell him I can’t take anymore, even though he knows I don’t really mean it. So he grabs my hands, holds them over my head and takes more and more. I’m a bird held captive in the cage of his hands. And I sing for him.
Only for him.
He is the only partner I’ve ever had that can make me cum on command. I love what we have.
Eventually we pull ourselves out of bed and watch a movie together. It’s become our thing. We each pick 3 or 4 movies and bring them with us. Then we let the other person pick from our selection. I am not a person who ever relaxes. C-PTSD has mostly robbed me of the ability to ever just…be. I am always looking for the emergency exits, hyperaware of all the nearby threats. But with Chris, every breath is an exhale. I lay with my legs over him or my head on his lap. He caresses me and kisses me and holds me. I think a lot lately about how consistent he is with showing me love. The way he gently plays with my hair when my head is on his lap…the way he always seeks out my hand…the way he turns the flashlight on his cellphone to guide me back to bed when I get up to use the restroom in the middle of the night…the way he tucks me into bed at night. There is never a moment that I am not in the searchlight of his love.
After watching a couple movies, we retire back to bed. He takes complete control of me, his quiet strength so incredibly attractive to me. Sometimes he looks at me like he is going to consume me with flames…flint in his fingertips.
We go to bed. Chris opens his arms for me to curl up into….He is the most loving envelope for this scared little letter. His kiss on the back of my head is the stamp to send me into dream land.
The next day, we wake up and snuggle. We kiss. We get an early lunch at Raspberries. Conversation is never lacking. It still amazes me that we can text all day and never run out of things to talk about. I think about a poem I love.
*The Quiet World
by Jeffrey McDaniel
In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.*
Song Choice: I Love You, Honeybear by Father John Misty
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