Something in the Way She Moves

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Journal entry, April 18, 2002:

Dear Journal: I have to write this down. I have to do something to get this out of my head. I’ve tried everything else. I don’t know what to do. I want to forget. And yet, I never want to forget. Jessica. The name I want to say over and over again. I want to be with her. I want to stay in that place where hot summer breezes caress gauzy curtains while we stand on the verandah of some weekend hideaway naked beneath our silk robes, exploring each other’s bodies with the most gentle touches. I want to feel her hands roam where mine do beneath the covers at night. Forget gentle. I want to drag my nails over her back as my teeth leave a trail of hungry bite marks from her neck to her ankles. I want to press my face to her wetness and breathe her in, drink her in, drown myself in her.

I have shied away from most every woman that has ever tried to get close to me after one relationship several years ago. It ended badly. My shying away from other women was nothing more than the wear and tear on my heart. For me, it’s easy to lock my heart away from men. Women are different; especially Jessica. I don’t understand how she got to me. For days after we parted company I wondered how it would feel for her to touch my bare skin. It was a chance meeting that brought us together. It was a chance friendship that has fueled my fantasies and haunted my dreams for many nights now.

We met at a company seminar in Chicago. We were seated next to one another, and during the breaks chatted over a cigarette. The attraction was instant, but there was nothing spectacular about her that could be pinpointed. It was nothing and everything. It was just the way she moved. She had this way of tilting her head that constantly beckoned you to kiss her. We lunched together, and after figuring out we each had an extra day for sightseeing before we had to return to our normal lives, she suggested that we spend the day together. After all, sightseeing was much more fun together than alone. I immediately agreed. I would have illegal bahis endured pretty much anything to be near her for a little while longer. I was mesmerized by her that soft hollow spot where neck meets chest. I tried hard not to stare.

Intimate, innocent touches were exchanged during the day, nothing more. We were just two friends enjoying each other’s company. A hug here, a hand-holding there, an intimate closeness between two friends sharing a secret as we talked and explored the many crevices of Chicago, but the chemistry was maddening, the way it affected my brain. I wondered if she felt the same electricity, but dared not ask. Our touching was not sexual, yet it was nothing less than sensual, the way it is between two people who seem as if they have known each other an eternity. It was nothing more than that, and yet it was so very much more. She had to feel the same fire I did. I could feel it smoldering beneath her skin. Yet she never acknowledged it. But then, neither did I.

I remember being in the Oriental Institute on the UC Campus, the look of wonder on her face at the mystery of the mummies. We were on our way out after our tour, and this tiny piece of paper got caught in her hair. I reached to remove it and she smiled at me. I suddenly wanted to be taken control of by this woman. It left me utterly confused. Why? After all, when it comes to intimate relationships, I’m always the one in charge, always the one calling the shots. What was it about her that made my entire being beg to be her plaything? She was no demander of attention, no bitch personified that reeked of power and dominance. She wasn’t small, yet she seemed to be made of delicate, wispy tendrils of lace and flower petals that seemed as if she could be swept away by the least wind.

Something in the way she knows … And all I have to do is think of her… Something in the things she shows me…. that song, it whispers through my head whenever I think of her. It makes me yearn to feel her lips as they brush against mine. I can taste her illegal bahis siteleri breath. She tastes of diet sprite and orange Tic Tacs. I can smell her perfume even now. It smells as if the ocean has been captured beneath her skin. Her soft voice invades my thoughts even in the daytime hours when I should be concentrating on the Harrison report. The memory of the gentle tinkle of bells in her laughter still pulls at my chest and causes the strings to tighten, nearly cutting off breath completely. And her name as it rolls from my tongue onto my lips. Jessica; the sound of her name spoken is like the hushed, breathless whisper of a dawning spring morning.

My sleep is invaded by dreams of her soft fingers turning to iron as they grip my long hair and cause me to yield to her will. I can feel myself slide down her body and kneel at her feet, heart pounding, breath rasped as I beg to touch, to taste, to feel her skin, to worship the goddess within her. I should have touched her. I should have told her. I should have offered my body and soul to her.

Physically, I feel the halting of breath, the pounding of my heart in my ears as she presses against me, pinning me against the wall behind me with no force except the curve of her body against mine and the warmth of her breath and soul surrounding me. Her long, slender fingers making a trail down my side, over my hip, daring me to move. I wouldn’t move if the earth quaked, if all the oceans threatened to swallow us whole, I’d not move from this touch. I’d stand there forever as long as she just continued to touch me. Opening my eyes to reality is painful. I want to stay there in my dream world where she lives now. I want to stay lost in her sweetness.

Our voices, rasped and hoarse, would be a beautiful symphony in the throes of our lovemaking. There isn’t a sound ever created that would match the depth of that sound. Her soft, round, fleshy bottom pressed into my hands as I pull her closer to me, feeling the wispy tendrils of dark curls brush against my own thigh. canlı bahis siteleri The scent of her womanness and ocean-scented perfume mingled with the Carolina jasmine crawling its way up the posts outside her bedroom window are enough to drive me to near insanity with desire. I shiver now just thinking about it. I want her with my very soul. I want to devour her. Yes, reality is painful, waking each morning, knowing that she is now hundreds of miles away. I wonder if she thinks of me this way.

Weeks have gone by now, since I last felt her touch. We hugged tightly, for way too long before we each boarded separate planes, headed in different directions and left the opportunity to go that one step too far. What would it have mattered? It isn’t as if either of us is attached to anyone? I should have told her. I should have whispered in her ear how much I wanted to kiss her, to sleep naked next to her, to hold her. I should have. Regret is a nasty thing.

I daydream of calling her, whispering in her ear as she sits at her desk, professional and perfectly dressed. I want to whisper hot, wet, nasty, lesbian sex talk in her ear as she tries to concentrate on the client files in front of her. I daydream of being bound to her bed, left there as her plaything for days on end. My sleep is invaded with thoughts of her fingers tangled in my long hair as she rides my thigh, my hip, my mouth, my face. Showers are haunted by visions of her hands soaping me, our bodies slippery and slick as they rub against one another. Christ! How do I make her go away? I need serious help.

That’s it. I’m calling her. I’m calling her this very minute. I’m just going to tell her how I feel and get it over with. The very least that can happen is she hangs up on me, right? Or tells the entire company what a freak I am? Fuck it. I’m doing this before I lose my nerve. If I don’t have her, if I don’t take this chance, it’s not going to matter anyhow. This torture is killing me. Wish me luck, journal…

“Hello, Jessica?”

“Bliss? Hi! How are you?” There is pleasure in her voice. This, I hope, is a good sign.

“Jessica, are you very busy at this moment? Can we talk about something personal?”

“No, I’m not too busy for you, sweets.”

“Good. I have something to tell you….”

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