She believes herself to be the rule maker. She takes the routine and shakes it, makes it what it needs to be to sustain the learning. She practices the yoga of lovers, sculpts her calves and thighs by arching to meet his hand. So her coming of age waited a few decades, she’s still a little girl at the heart of her love-making. She doesn’t know she needs the tender, the exquisite pace of anticipation brushing softly against impatient thrusts.
Cheers to the man who lets her seize her grace, who feeds her mind. Cheers to the honey of a lover who kisses character into a lifetime of scars. He’s surprised at her capability to feel, to meet him where the sky meets the earth. Three days of lovemaking translate into mere hours. Vacations on islands? They melt into minutes.
She finds she needs the taming and timing, her urgency nurtured by a lover with practiced patience and equal intensity. The fit of their bodies is the critical mix; the pleasure of frenzied exploration nothing compared to the slow, sunlit moments where he finds her rhythms, studies her lines, traces his intentions on the inside of her thighs, and relentlessly asks for her words.
And for him, all for him, she speaks up, spills over, expounds in awe of the intensity. He’s the only witness who matters when the pitch of her voice climbs as he brings forth the woman, breathes in and gives way as her shuddering, panting, begging voice is born. He gives her no mercy, won’t take her defenses as truths; maybe before that’s how she was- but now- she’s with him and he pushes her to whisper, then say it- Say It- then Goddamn it – Scream It- if that’s what it takes.
There she is. That’s it. Yes, there it is… she…gives.
If she cannot ask for what she thinks she deserves, she becomes even smaller than she thought she was.