Posted at 20:18 on 22 Jun 2011 by Pandora / Blake
By the time Tom and I made it to the bedroom last Friday night, we were already high on each other's company. Talking, drinking, smoking, dreaming, talking: we began on the economics of abundance as related to the porn industry, and ended up designing businesses for our future, building castles (or perhaps brothels) in the air. We are overflowing with plans and dreams, enough for several lifetimes, more than we can ever realise. That's not the point. The point is how tuned in to one another we get when inspiration starts to flow, when we knuckle down to the business of discussing logistics and viability. It's nice to have a plan down every avenue we can visualise, but both of us are prepared for unseen doors to open. We aren't trying to map the future accurately; we aren't pinning our hopes on any of these projected routes. The castles are fun to build even if we never get to live in them.
When we reach the bed we're sparkling, alive, connected. We put down the props of conversation (wineglasses, ashtrays); our non-physical communication requires the introduction of different tools. A bolster and two pillows for me, a slim crook-handled cane for him.
Initially, he uses it like a switch. Light, regular strokes, slightly faster than my heartbeat, at least at first. My heart soon catches up. Like any good appetiser, it stimulates the senses and sharpens my desire for something more substantial.
For the main course, he swaps the lighter cane for 12mm of unsmoked dragon. I ride the sets of twelve with ease. I know these waters well. Each wave I crest brings a new surge of confidence. The rhythm of the strokes is slower than my heartbeat, now, but it's still a rapid pace. I breathe, and count, and breathe again.
As we move into the fourth dozen, the waves get higher. I find that it helps if I look back over my shoulder at him before the stroke lands. My beautiful man, skin glowing in the lamplight. Sometimes he'll meet my eyes and our gazes will lock as the wave breaks. Those are the easiest to take; the trick then is just remembering to breathe. When I ask for a sip of water I slide a hand between my legs and am unsurprised to discover how wet I am. This ocean takes skill and concentration to navigate, but whenever I return I'm reassured that it's the only one for me.
Sailing this course is a little bit like working magic; it requires a sideways sort of focus. You can't face the sensation head on, you have to ebb and flow beneath it, moving at the same rhythm, unsurprised, unshockable. Focus, clarity, balance. There's a calm place, if you can reach it, where every slice of pain is a warm touch, as welcome and familiar as his hand rubbing my back.
But if you lose your mental grip, suddenly you realise how deep the waters are. Unbalanced, you lose the rhythm and the next wave crashes over your head, depriving you of breath. The more you panic, the harder it is to stay afloat.
And then you realise how far you are from land. Five sets of twelve so far, and suddenly I'm tasting fear as it occurs to me to wonder how many more there are to come. The waves are very high now, every stroke a blaze of pain, and once my state of mind falters each one seems unendurable. I grit my teeth and persevere, but Tom quickly realises that I'm not cresting these waves any more, they're battering me. At sixty six he stops.
The best thing about this ocean is that there's always an island in the middle of it. His arms are as welcome as any sunlit shore.