Our Story Today In Two Acts

Act One: Here
in my bed--cool sheets.
beau's broad back, my touch tracing
fingers down to ass.

beau's ass, a split round
moon, perfectly curved, ready
for me to slip in.

Act Two: There
The alley outside the club is busy tonight. Two men get out of a pickup with 40s, two girls follow them with beers. They try to get in but are turned away. Back to the truck. Hip college kids smoke cloves while others just take in a needed a breath of fresh air. I see them all, but I'm not paying attention. I've got better things to focus on: my beau's rough kisses at my neck, his fingers dancing with the hem of my skirt. I cock one knee forward between his legs and lean back against the brick wall. He's hard against my thigh, packing just for me, knowing how he turns me on. I want to give myself over, to feel the feel the rough bricks at my back and the tender insistent stud pressing me into them. I take the thick hair at the nape of his neck in my hands and pull him to my mouth. I'm so hungry for him, hungry to taste him, hungry for him to fill me up with his cock and his hands and his love. We lay claim to each other in the alley. As people pass us their eyes slide by, hot but embarrassed; they stare at my skirt high on my thigh and Beau's big hands there; they pretend not to hear my hot breath; they can't stop looking. They don't know what to make of this tough beau with the leggy femme.

I know just what to make of us.

Because that's the only part actually written in the history books.

Can't even wrap my mind, my body, or my emotions around myself these days.

So instead, I'll just revel in the fact that apparently Netflix has decided that my favorite genre is "Biographical Dramas with a Strong Female Lead." I'll say.

Beau is at a conference this weekend and the last day of school was a week ago, so my work schedule has changed drastically (mostly for the less-stressful). Therefore, I'm watching movies. Last night: Dangerous Beauty, the story of Veronica Franco, a 16th century poet and courtesan in Venice. Tonight: Agora (which I've been wanting to see since it came out), about Hypatia, the 4th century Alexandrian philosopher/mathematician/teacher. They're both great -- or rather, exactly what I want to watch (which is the joy of netflix instant). I want something that won't make me think about how fucked up it is every five minutes. I want something that doesn't make me think too much but doesn't feel like junk food for my brain, either. I want to see beautiful things, beautiful women, beautiful places, and I'm okay with taking a few liberties with history to do it. Voila.

Now if only I can find one in which the strong, smart, beautiful woman is not persecuted as a witch.

Rainy day

So then it was so bad that all I could do was strain, stretched tight around nothing, trying to contain the emptiness and keep anything from getting in -- drawn like a bow, quivering and taut, unable to move for fear of bursting, unable to speak or even to breathe. I am compelled to try and put words to it to make it less terrifying, but there are no words. I cannot write, cannot speak, can't hardly think -- I'm straining to keep from thinking. Everything around is sinister and grotesque and it's hard enough not to cry much less think sensibly.

I can't imagine what it's like to be around. We went to pick up our first farm share of the season. Beau was driving and I just sat numb in the seat beside, staring out the window, utterly hollow. It felt like Beau was driving around a corpse. I could see it from the outside, almost, but without comment or feeling.

I don't know what to ask for because I don't know what I need. I feel as if I am a huge burden and yet I need so much tenderness. In that moment I just want to know that someone is there, loving me but leaving space, not asking for anything. That seems impossible to ask, impossibly huge and selfish. Yet somehow Beau is so good at giving it. I am scared to depend on it. We came home and I stroked my cat's ears and cried, and then came into the living room and Beau stroked me and wrapped tight arms around me and I cried.

We're still sitting here but it's different. We're connected -- hand to hip, legs to lap -- and I'm calm and breathing and okay. I wish I knew what it is that comes over me. I wish that I didn't judge myself so harshly for it.