“Spunky pussy,” the Mormon said tenderly, as he tapped the aforementioned region with two firm fingers. I was pleasantly full of our juices, and I basked in their heat like a parched lakebed soaking up a long summer rain.
My homecoming was celebrated with much sex. The Mormon has pumped away at me tirelessly many times over the past 36 hours, and joyously, he finally flipped me over. It’s hard to believe that we’d always had sex face-to-face up until now, but I derived so much pleasure from his full frontal contact that I never bothered to suggest doggy-style.
I love being entered from that angle because, like a virtuoso violinist, his dick drew he most extraordinary sensations out of me when it hit those depths. Another delightful side-effect was that my nose was significantly further away from his armpits. However, he was uncomfortable on his knees, and it was too cold to stand on the floor, so we ended up just flopping forward on the bed inelegantly, his belly to my butt. It was an animalistic pleasure: two wildcats fucking desperately in the face of extinction.
When I got back to his caravan 36 hours ago, it was a little messy. The bed was just a pile of soft things; clothes jostling for space with blankets and pillows. The steel countertop that was the kitchen was invisible under the remnants of meals: past, present, and future. I breezed in after our ‘welcome home’ kisses and immediately started tidying.
As I was clearing off the bed, I found a little bottle of lube tucked between the wall and the mattress – something I hadn’t seen in the previous 2 weeks of cohabitation. That naughty Mormon! I had to say something.
“So, looks like you had some fun while I was away,” I chuckled and winked at him.
He was abashed, and wouldn’t look me in the eyes as he organized his clothes under the bed.
“Yeah, I missed you, doll.”
“I missed you, too,” I replied with a loving hug. It was so nice to be with a young man, a simple man; a man who wasn’t afraid of animalistic passion, and whose pleasure didn’t rely on conquest.
Since my return, I’d decided to invest a little bit of my heart into my new home. I made plans to clean and organize the kitchen. This could work, and I had the tools to help make it so. The Mormon might not be a perfect fit for me intellectually, but we both had the same sex drive and the same level of hope for our future. If I had to quantify that level, I’d say that we both scored a 6 out of 10. Yes, life was an impossible game to win, but if we could fill our present moment with enough sex and weed and kindness, life could be downright tolerable.
Yesterday, the Mormon and I were talking about how we could improve the storage situation in his caravan, and he sketched out a plan for new shelves above the sink. I went to the grocery store, and by the time that I came back, he’d built the shelves!
What?! Who was this proactive, highly skilled carpenter? He’d used old scraps of wood, but they were sturdy, and he’s cut them precisely to fit the odd angle of the kitchen corner. Now, there was more space for us; for a life together.
I’m glad that I was alone in the caravan when I first saw the shelves, because my heart swelled and I smiled girlishly. This is why I love him.
Ok. So, I’m not completely unreasonable.
That afternoon, I was cleaning the dishes the best way I could: outside, next to the tap on the shed. A round glass table that belonged on the farm owner’s patio was the perfect spot for a drying rack, and I’d bought myself rubber gloves, which kept the bitterly cold water at a comfortable distance from my stiff fingers. I was almost done when the Mormon returned from a chat with the farm owner.
There was an unease about him that clouded his brow and set his shoulders inward.
“What’s up, sweetie?” I asked.
“Nothing.” The Mormon set to drying the dishes with more thoughtfulness than I’d ever seen from him.
“You seem a little… heavy. What did the owner say? Is everything ok?”
“Well, not really.” He finally looked at me. The cloud over him darkened his eyes, and his lower lip softened to reveal the truth. “You can’t stay here like before. You’re only allowed to be here one day a week.”
I’d always thought that his lower lip was an exact replica of Brad Pitt’s, and all I wanted was to kiss it into silence, but the story kept spilling out.
“It’s getting towards winter, and there’s no work, and he’s lost money because of Covid. He’s kicking everyone out except me and Colin,” the Mormon continued, mournfully. “You have a few days, but then, you’ve got to go somewhere else.”
The vague fantasy I’d had of marital bliss with the Mormon slid to the ground, washing into the pores of the rocky earth with the dishwater. A whisper of joy shamed me. It would be so much easier to maintain my Self if I wasn’t constantly being irritated by the Mormon’s inanity.
I let the Mormon’s sadness take over this interaction, and we held each other close. We promised ourselves that we’d make it work somehow. Neither of us wanted to let go of the sweet comfort of union.
I had a dream last night about my ex-husband. I don’t dream, and I never think about him. Those ties have been long broken. But there he was, and for no good reason, I wanted him. Badly.
He wasn’t obese in my dream, so he wasn’t the boy that I’d married. He appeared as the muscular man that he’d transformed into shortly before our marriage dissolved, but he was still an asshole. That aspect of him had never transformed: past or present, dream or reality; that’s how I recognized him.
In the dream, my ex-husband rejected me firmly and with some kindness. He told me that he was interested and awaiting my next blog post. Well, there you go: at least I have one fan, if only in my dreams. The dream took me to a dessert buffet, and I filled my plate with sugary treats. By the time I got to the table, they’d all melted down into a brown, syrupy mess.
I’d eaten nothing, and I still had no cakes. Had I taken too much? Would the cakes have melted down into nothing regardless of my actions? Or did the act of removing the cakes from the table ensure their immediate demise? Why am I not allowed to enjoy the sweetness before me?
There is a separation that happens when you write about something. It’s usually a beneficial widening of perspective. But, the moment you step back from your life and see it as a story, you are removed from ‘I’. Of course, that is the truth.1
‘I’ is an illusion. It is a dream that we all dream. And if we’re all dreaming, why shouldn’t we fill our imaginary plates to overflowing with imaginary cakes? That’s where some other part of the dream that we call ‘reality’ kicks in. We start to stagnate in the sweetness, but our spirits want motion.
Fulfillment calls to limitation, and challenges creep in; just as lions hunting a herd of wildebeest, narrowing their path and giving them impetus. The wildebeest can now use the entirety of his physical being to express his nature. He runs as far as his legs can stretch; he feels the strength of his muscles and the strength of his entire herd protecting him. His lungs expand fully, and he may now find reason to call out, where as before, he remained silent in his satiation.