His hot breath lingered on her neck as he kissed her, smelling faintly of wine and sexual tension. His arm was drawn taut like a bow, his expert fingers an arrow piercing the soft folds between her thighs. Without knowing her, he knew how to make her beg for him, for him to enter her. To join her, to penetrate her in the deepest possible way. To connect, become one.
His long, graceful fingers gently slid into her. Index, pointer, thumb.
The sheer force of his forearm, born through countless hours of sport and labour, made her rapidly catch her breath. He was winding her up like a clock and she gradually felt herself leaving her own body, leaving the bed they shared. Rising. Her spirit took flight, searching for a better vantage point. In a high corner of the sparsely decorated room, she took refuge, safely watching from a distance.
Her thoughts raced incoherently. She imagined her own rambling ideas like porridge in a fairy tale, overflowing out of her mind, filling the room, the house, the street, the whole noisy city. His strong fingers, wrist, forearm were gaining momentum. She felt as if he might be able to levitate her entire body through his fierce determination alone. Yet from her corner of the ceiling she could see that her body, fragile shell, was connected to the soft, rumpled sheets. Connected to him. On the canvas of her mind she saw Chinese hand shadow art, his three fingers drawn into the form of a beautiful swan or a heron, pecking madly at her inner-most self. Relentless bird!
She felt herself losing ground, sliding down a steep slope with nothing to hold on to. Awful human sounds made her cringe as tears, a sob, welled up inside of her. And then…she could not be sure if it was he who had released her, or if really she had released herself. All was wet, flowing from her into babbling brooks, small streams, rivers, seas, oceans. A fine mist of her filled the room, rising up all the way to her safe place in the corner of the ceiling.
She hadn’t realized before that he knew where to find her source.
Epigram by Samuel Shepard (1651)
“Some Sorcerers do boast they have a Rod,
Gather’d with Vowes and Sacrifice,
And (borne about) will strangely nod
To hidden Treasure where it lies;
Mankind is (sure) that Rod divine,
For to the Wealthiest (ever) they incline.”