From: Hindy Bradley Date: Fri, 10 Jul 1998 18:10:12 -0400 Subject: REPOST: Landlocked by Hindy Z. Bradley Oh what the heck. It doesn't seem to be in Gossamer and didn't garner much comment first time through. Have fun! HB (and proud of it) Landlocked by Hindy Z. Bradley Please Archive! Disclaimer: No names mentioned in this story, but neither I nor anyone else could own such lovely free spirits. Summary: Vignette - NC17 Blessings on the editor, BeckyD, Pastor, First Church of Mulder http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Lair/4576/churchm1.html -------------------------------------------------------------------- What is life, what is pleasing without Golden Aphrodite? May I die when these things are no longer important to me: Secret love, sweet gifts, and the bed. -- Mimnermus LANDLOCKED Through the open window I see the shadow of my lover as he descends the fire escape. Silent footfall turns him away from me. Another nocturnal visit come and gone, and my body is once again abuzz, every nerve pulsing its pleasure. At this moment, it feels like a horrible betrayal, to be so awash in lovely physical satisfaction, when my heart is breaking. I sink, hip to the sill, swamped by your words. Though I knew that one day they would come, I am shocked at how these few words wound me. I had fooled myself into believing that they would not hurt, would not rupture the taut and tenuous fabric of my sanity. "It's too dangerous." Such a simple statement tears my heart into pieces. *Danger is what we are about.* I want to pout, stomp my foot, wave my fists at the last stars in the pre-dawn sky in stubborn denial of your statement. It's danger that has given us our freedom. We swore no holds barred. Every moment as precious as the last drop of water. Nothing left unsaid or undone. Were the whispered promises lovers' lies? I'll never believe that. Nestling in their warmth, these assertions blanketed us against the cold night. Now I am left shivering for all the unsaid things. Have I told you how I love to feel your hands threading through my hair? The pressure of your caress on my skull transmits so much. More. Harder. Lick me there again. And there. Your groan is an explosive, generous sigh. The most requested tune on my sensual hit parade. I carry your "love song" with me always, making the mundane moments dangerous and the dangerous moments safer by your presence. I am struck dumb by how very beautiful you are merely standing there hard, glistening and ready to enter me. Oh, how I love to feel the strength of your passion filling me; it resonates throughout my life, making me feel stronger and more inviolable. I love you. While the world pressed cold steel against our stolen moments, we stripped away everything but our most intimate needs. My hunger - your nourishment, dancing across the sheets of my bed. The couch. The soft Afghani rug, its birds of paradise fluttering in delight. The counter, my ass threatening to collapse into the sink at every thrust. And the hall. Oh god. The wall of that narrow hall between my two rooms, where we braced ourselves til passion exploded into laughter, still bears my toe prints. I laugh yet. You told me I was a wild rose; a full, heady flower. Then you set about stripping away the layers through touch and taste. I opened for you, basking in your ardour, yielding a complex scent of earth and spice. I once thought that fire was air made whole, but now I know that it's liquid and it flows through me at your touch. The first thrust of your tongue against mine is an incendiary device. Your rough palms smoothing against my nipples sear like a match strike. There are nights when I know I've glowed brighter than Venus, your passion turning my soul molten. "I'll look for you on the coast." A reprieve. Hope. It's not yet dawn, but I'll never sleep, so I drag on my sweats and shoes and head out to run through the still, street-lit city. Poor landlocked me. What have we left undone? The simple fact of history not to be made. The connections of a rooted tree and its unconsumed earth. Now to be dug up, potted. A still life. Life. I hold on to the word as I pound the pavement into submission. I pass the filled window boxes. I convince myself that everything within them thrives. I imagine my heart still and separate in that dark corner, on the ledge, looking out through the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the coast. END COMMENTS: hbradley@netcom.ca