Echoes of Vulnerability – Part I
She leaned over, breathlessly, after an hour spent exploring familiar curves as if rediscovering missed imperfections for the first time.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered.
It was a question drenched in the need to please, not suspicion.
I thought of her voice, that raw and distinctive drawl that drew me in from a depth I didn’t know existed.
“What do you want from me?” she asked again.
The answer caught in my throat, but I nonetheless forced the words from the edge of my lips. “I want nothing from you.”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Then why am I here?”
I swear that voice will chase me until the end of days.
“Okay,” I responded. “You’re here because I want you.”
“In what way?” Her expression revealed nothing, but I sensed she was seeking something, something I was too afraid to give.
This was seriously becoming some “Malcom” & Marie shit. Or perhaps “Love Jones”, Perhaps. However, I’m no Darius Lovehall but she for damn sure could give Nina Mosley a run for her money. Fuck! “Why the inquisition?” I asked.
“Because,” she paused as if a distant thought brought forth feelings yet to be reconciled. “You just made love to me in a way that blessed me with what I can only describe as pure joy. Understand, me saying that places me in a vulnerable and possibly untenable position.”
I wanted to say, “You’re welcome,” but that would have been flippant and far from a truthful response. If I allowed myself to be vulnerable as well, I would tell her that our lovemaking damn near brought me to tears. Here’s the thing about having sex with someone, or what I like to refer to as (F)ornicating (U)nder (C)onsent of the (K)ing. Choose your adjective, but it be what it be. However, in this case, with her, it was far from the typical sexual escapade. This was different. It began as most moments like this do: clumsy and rushed. Though that wasn’t my intent. I was playing the role of someone I thought she wanted, but it was someone as foreign to me as an iris blooming on the dark side of the moon. Within minutes of the act, I could feel her apprehension take root. That’s when I realized she wanted me—the man who lived within his words, a man who burns slow but deliberate with a need for acceptance too often withheld. So I recalibrated. I let the me who I believe myself to be become exposed, and yes, vulnerable. I let my hunger for her rage free. If she were a riddle, she wouldn’t be hard to solve, not with that body. Fuck! It’s like she evokes this weird, ancient feeling of covetousness. And yes, I said covetousness, because she wasn’t mine. That offer would come later.
I did to her what God did when he created the world. I made love.
So I removed all thoughts of rejection and let my words, twisted in a storm of emotion, guide me, her, and the moment at hand. I did to her what God did when he created the word. I made love. I did it in such a way that I could feel the moment when the earth was formed, already spinning on its axis. I could feel the moon’s glow creep into existence. I could hear the soft, distant boom brought forth by the birth of stars, and in that moment, I did something I thought myself incapable of—I let go.
I sat up and positioned her so that we were both seated, with her back against my chest. Then I spoke, gently but persistently, in her ear—a whisper finally set free from years of self-imposed imprisonment. A whisper that set the pace and rhythm to my exploring fingers, lustful and wanting. My words brought her to both a physical and literary climax. Her first of three. Not bragging, just simple math and like I said, I try to live within my words. And after her first, I conjured up her second, but this time I spoke with my tongue in a language that only her body could decipher. Her third, and my first, was all her; she rode me as if she was trying to merge with my soul, assimilating me from the man that I projected, from the man I long to be.
Okay, here we go, I gave voice to what I was feeling. “I want you in a way that I would be haunted by the fear of losing you. I want you in such a way that makes me envious of anything that could turn you away from me, and with that envy comes the anxiety of not hearing you respond when I call your name.” My voice cracked with—God forgive me, but I think with emotion—fuck, is this love? “I want you,” I continued, “because I think you see me, all of me. And as much as that scares me, I feel a visceral need to bring you joy, and yes, that joy, always and for as long as God continues to bless my existence. That’s why I want you.”
MH~
