Being the liberal open-minded person that I am (claim to be), I set out to finding once and for all, whether I was all-the-way straight or half-bent… as that would be the opposite. Might as well before waking up one day, hubby, 2.5 kids, a dog and picket fence years down the line, only to discover that I love of the feminine body feel, apart from mine, of course. I do have my fights as to why one group that adheres to a certain sexual conduct is called straight. I mean straight, as an adjective, denotes perfect, upright, undiluted, neat, pure, and my personal least favorite, unadulterated. Which goes not so far as to imply that the other no-so-popular group of individuals have to contend with the antonyms of the above oh-so glorious titles. Anyway, that is a fight I'll pick one day…
Did I like it? Yes …and No.
Yes, I loved the exquisiteness and marvel of the female body. The susceptible dip below the jawbone; that tender spot between the collarbone and the shoulder blade… that yielding part that if you looked really hard at, you would see the rhythmical beating of the heart…the gentle rise of the breasts, the swell of their fullness topped by the leisurely hardening nipples, begging, craving for attention, beseeching the tongue to skim over the tops, if only to lick, or even to brush gently with the thumb…The persuasive way that the breasts mold up, defying the rest of the body, jutting forward to proudly declare that they need consideration. And then the deep sigh I elicit when my palms enclose their full mold, encompass them in my hand and gently fondle, caress, squeeze and stoke. As my hand plays havoc with the little of senses that the fabulous and exciting mold has left, if any, my tongue sucks, nibbles, blows, and flicks over the other one. The underside of the arms, those covert places that respond to that ever so slight feather touch. And then lower along her sides, by the ribs so lightly patterned. Then move lower to the stomach, to the ever so elusive but wondrous navel, to the side where the definition of femininity resides - the moderate curve of the hips. And as she bends her knees - probably to receive more, probably because she can't stay still, or probably because it is a conditioned reflex that is directly proportional to the amount of pleasure that she is getting – exposing that inside of the thigh that is hardly ever seen. That silky-smooth skin that is kept hidden and secret, that which only the fingers, and sometimes the tongue knows the feel of. And then to view comes the sleek triangle, the invitation to veiled pleasures lower below. And past the triangle, draws closer the tiny bundle of nerves that by now is so hard it is on the verge of exploding. The legs that were bent are no apart, the pink opening leading to the dark delightful enclave, inviting, tempting, daring like the little mould, enticing, beguiling, appealing, engaging, tantalizing, and ah! wanting…I have not even gone beyond to the those places behind the knees, the curve of the calves, the supple skin below the ankles, the soles, the heels, the toes…
No, I still missed the masculine feel, the sinew muscles as they flexed with each move he makes; the swell of his arms as he stretches them forth to all parts of my body, catching every single cell unaware yet deftly pleasuring. Then the taut impression of his chest, those firm hard nipples that tighten with every touch of my fingers… the feel of him as he moves atop of me, his breath on my skin, taunting my pores to open to reception. The roughness of his chin as it scrapes on my chest, nipples, my stomach and lower still. His washboard flat stomach, down under to the aching maleness…and finally, as he pries me open, and drives home…not even a thousand dildo's and all other invented toys come close to the sensation I get when he fillls me, as my muscles relax to accommodate the size of him alive inside me, then the contraction of the same muscles as he thrusts purposefully in and out of my warmth…
Have to go, will continue tomorrow...(you know i wont)
Reposted...from Feb 2007
Haven't talked for a while… well, things been happening, and not really happening at the same time. I feel like I've been progressing, only to look back and feel like I've going under, and since I my eyes are still above the ground, I do not notice that my depth of field is getting smaller**
DVP (Danish Viking Prince) left for Uganda, for what is meant to be a month. Meant to be since he happened to mention in passing that he got himself 2 months visa. Now, I have no problem with the freedom he enjoys at being away (sounds like he is trying to get fresh air away from me… I swear it's not like that!!), but for a guy who is going to be gone from me for the next one and half or so years….
He loves the outdoors, no sweat, but Kenya is known for its great outdoor too!! And I'm always happy to relinquish the love-hold (mmmh) for my partner's hobbies and interest. I mean, he has threatened to leave me at the altar…. hold on, I'm jumping way ahead of myself here. Let me start well…
He is a birdwatcher. Not the 'Oh-look-what-a-cute-little-bird-that-is!' kind of birdwatcher. He is the 'That's-the –Seychelles-Magpie-Robin- (Copsychus sechellarum)-only-178-of-them-in-the-world-as-of-2005…' kind of birdwatcher. The kind that will leave bed at 5am to watch the birds, the kind that will be kissing you then whisper 'Beautiful' and I'll be smiling with all the adoration and he will say ' Not you, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak on that tree' and even 'oh' will be too much a word for me to say then. The kind that once told me a story of a birdwatcher who left his own wedding to go see a rare that rarer bird that had just been spotted. The said groom had to choose between being in his wedding read- risk loosing his future wife, and go see some f-ing (personal feeling) bird.
The fact that he could identify with the said groom's predicament made me shiver… down to my last nerve ending! He could what? See what a tough decision the man had to make? Mmmh. So that's here the altar leaving threat came in. And, being the woman that I am, the one who does not let anything – not even a double breasted cuckoo (if that's what's it's called) get in way of my happyness (tells you I've watched a movie recently). So I vowed, to him, that if ever we get married, No one in the wedding hall (or whatever we get married in) will have a cell phone. If I have to pay a bouncer to perform a body-search at the entrance and confiscate all cellphone..or any other type of communicating gadget, so be it! And if that is not enough, the wedding will be held in he remotest of islands where not even smoke signals, echos across hills or even drum beats work.. He got the picture alright. And to drive the point home, as we watched Apolcalypto, I thought, ' couldn't get a more perfect setting for my wedding…if I indeed end up with the DVP.
I realize that I have talked a lot about wedding… funny. Thing is, I don't even know if I want one.. with him or any one else. I mean, every time I see a wedding dress (and I'm not talking about those that make you look like you're about to defy gravity and use it as an air balloon for your honeymoon destination) and look like the tailor had nothing else to do with all the yards of laces in his shop), I want to be in one. Walk up the isle (I'm pretty sure brides walk up the isle and I'm ready to argue that out.). Other times, I just thing, what an effing cliche! The wedding doe not mean that you are going to keep your vows more seriously, love each other more...
Gotta go now.. stolen enough company time.. not that I feel guilty or anything- I mean, who bothers when I spend my lunch hours working?
**depth of field: the distance between the clearest and discern-able object and the eye. Used in filming. Basically.. how much can the eye see that is not blurred?.. that is your DOF (don't quote me though, I caught the teacher at the door when I was walking into that class.)
Everything has an end; especially those that you never want to. Like a nice long holiday in one of the world's most beautiful islands, or a candlelit dinner by the beach with the waves lapping gently on the reefs and the shores, like making love in the calmness of the ocean in the middle of the night, and seeing a shooting start just then…being so excited that you forget to wish on it.
I had promised a day to day update on what happened, and now as I think about it, it's flooding back as memories, and I'm tearing. Think lying snuggled in bed next to the love of your life, as the sun rays stream through the curtains and fill the room with tiny crisscrossing beams of light on the walls. And all you feel is magic. Your heart beating, beating for the love you feel then, that particular moment when nothing matters apart from the two of you on that bed. And you treasure each second because you know, one day, all that will be a memory.
One that you know you will play back over and over in your head until you can't stand it anymore. One that you know, one day that is all you'll ever have to look into. And one day is now; it is this minute, this hour, today. It will be tomorrow, next week, and the next months to come. I'm clutching at memories, even the tiniest. Those that I never thought would count. Like looking up from a book and finding those gray pools of love staring at me, then those fabulously full lips break into a smile. That lasted about 2 seconds, I forgot all about it 3 seconds later. Now, days, months later, I have dug into the deepest crevice of my brain and retracted that episode. That is what is putting me to bed every night; what is making me get out of bed and face the day, knowing that in the evening, I will have to go back to that lonely cold bed. I have gone through all the time we spent together. And I mean all. Fighting, laughing, talking, joking, crying, almost-breaking up, saying goodbye very early in the morning to Uganda, picking him at the airport, picking him at the bus station, traveling to a tucked away ranch, cooking our first dinner there, sunbathing in the natural pool naked, making love in the open, taking pictures, him attacking a tree stump, him injured, me having to pull out splinters from his blood-flooding leg, him to hospital, cooking together at home, diners at an Ethiopian restaurant, coffee, snuggling on the couch, watching movies at the cinema, drinks at the pub, football matches, bus ride to Dar es salaam, forgotten passport, first night in hot hot hot hot Dar, sweating profusely on the bed as we fought for air, making love in the heat and gasping for breath afterwards.
I getting sea sick on the ferry, overrated restaurant that took forever to serve food, which was cold when it arrived, fans switched off at 1 am in a hotel min Zanzibar and having to switch hotels at 2 am after 1 hour argument with the caretaker (one I should actually forget), trudging through Stone Town with our backpacks and him sweating so much that you could wring the sweat from the shirt. I rejecting one hotel after the other, him holding on the last possible shreds of his patience, getting to a cozy hotel, overcharged since the owner saw the weariness in our faces –worth it though. Drinking Funky Monkeys that tasted like shit (not that I know how that tastes)Being overcharged at the car to the beach, making love in the beach hotel for the first night, fighting about something I cannot remember, making love some more, pregnancy scare, diner by the beach front, making love in the water at night and during the day, him lying on the hammock- tanning, him looking at me from across the table, then bending ever so slowly towards me, kissing me so softly, so tenderly.
And my heart skipping a beat…just then.
Switching hotels since we loved the beach so much and had run out of money, and had to look for one which takes credit cards. Our last day in Zanzibar beach and Stone Town, our last night in Dar, and our 24 hour journey from Dar to Nairobi! Me in hospital waiting for my biopsy, him looking down at me after my biopsy as I struggle to fight the anesthesia as he kisses me ever so sweetly.
The last night before he left, making love- feeling like a virgin after the biopsy… me folding his shirts to fit into his backpack, crying all the while, crying some more all the way to the airport in the morning, crying too much I have to leave. I walking away, pausing, turning back, him waving, last memory. One that is to last me till maybe, December.
With many more that I have not included, not that they were not worth remembering, but because I simply cannot state all of them.
He is my Danish Viking Prince. My Gentle Storm. My Boyfriend. My Lover. My Bestfriend.
I miss him.
I love him.
Blogged in April 2007.
This Angel would have fallen worse had she been here