Letting Go

Tonight all I can think about is you; you, as you pull up your dress to show me your stockings, the creamy texture of your pale thighs next to the oyster coloured lace. The way you danced in my arms like a nymph, pliant and ecstatic with alcohol, your cool tongue, the taste of your kiss. The swell of your breasts and hips, pressed against mine, the scent of your breath. Your mouth desperate and endless on mine, your lips hungry at my neck. When I see you again, you might not even want to let yourself be touched, and yet I'll need to hold you, to keep you in my arms, like faith, like belief, to mould my body around, to heal you, fragile with grief, in my embrace. I will this to be the way to begin to untangle the pain, to hold your head against my chest, to help you forget him, it, that cold disgust, to start to lay it all to rest and just, be. And you'll turn your face upwards, into the cascade of my kisses that are nothing if not loving and right now, that is everything. The gentle, scented patter of my lips on your forehead and eyelids and cheeks like summer rain, and as our mouths meet, perhaps it will be like being born again, like the murmured sound of your name.

And this is how it is and how it will be, as I kiss the satiny skin beneath your ear, the sculpture of your jaw and the bow of your neck. I will undress you reverently, like a ceremony rewound; the slow, turncoat caress of each piece of clothing as it is removed until even your eyes are naked, like the entrance to mines, deep, rich in potential, in danger. This has happened countless times in my mind, but the reality of your skin is so much softer against my lips, its garden taste one I couldn't create. Your shoulder is a harp, your collar bone is prehistoric ivory. I kiss your arms and wrists, finding the missed perfection that history lost from antique statues; the rose bouquet of your breasts is a gift and in your debt my tongue forgets any language but this, the rhetoric of kiss and lick.

I reach the cradle of your hips, which will cup the whole world, I kiss your stomach and you taste of dew and hay and the trembling air before thunder. And the scent of you here is stronger and my mind and my mouth wander and your legs shift like freeform nude sketches finally resting on Da Vinci's Renaissance proportions. I part the soft petals between your thighs and I am at once everywhere and nowhere; crimson and liquid and the smell of rain on hot stone and my thirst overwhelms me. Dipping my head to this fount, this well, a parched woman; I drink my fill of you with irrepressible sighs and moans, and won't be slaked. This is the exotic and this is home, the taste of the earth and things that grow, strong and sweet, the deep pull of spices and bitter citrus fruit. I want to drown, to be buried here, with your warm thighs holding back the world, your hands tangled like mistletoe in my hair, tongue deep in your flesh, discovering your folds as you rock harder and faster against me; letting go.

©2009 by Julia Freeman

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Julia Freeman is a student who likes to write erotica when she should be writing essays. She is fascinated by the results of mixing sex and poetry, and by blurring the boundaries between fantasy and reality. 'Letting Go' is her first piece of published erotica.