“It’s for the levy,” I explain, holding up the sealed ballot envelopes that have just arrived in the mail. “They want to increase the fire levy limits,” I continue, walking into the kitchen a moment later with my bags full of newly-purchased groceries, “which basically means they want to be able to ask for a higher percentage of our property taxes.”
I don’t get particularly passionate about politics, but I pay close attention to what’s happening locally and am well aware of what the Actual Needs are (as opposed to the Actual Wants) in my area, and being an island dweller has made me hyper-alert to those two forces of nature that can both nurture and destroy: (1) Water, and (2) Fire.
“Go on,” he says.
So we maneuver around each other – him, cooking; me, putting groceries away – in the kitchen and, in as brief a way as possible, I explain the issue: the current levy and its limitations, the reasonable and justified request to lift the levy cap, the staffing, equipment, and maintenance needs as they currently stand, and the negligible (twenty-five more cents per $1,000 of total property taxes collected – which means we’d pay approximately $1.75 more in taxes per year) cost to us, personally, as voting tax payers.
I close the door to the refrigerator after unloading the last of my foodstuffs, and turn to find him, spatula in hand, facing me with a frighteningly fascinated look on his face.
“You,” he says, the word a low growl in his throat.
“Your brain,” he continues, advancing across the hardwood expanse between us with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Unsure where this is coming from – but fairly sure where it’s going, based on his throaty growl and fuck-me expression – I inch sideways, toward the exit to the dining area, prepared to sprint toward the bedroom in the event his switch gets flipped.
He stops, momentarily contemplative.
“I think…” he begins me matter-of-factly, “I think I’m a safe-o-sexual.”
I laugh. “Sapiosexual, you mean?”
“Right, that’s what I said.” He pauses before further elocuting, “Say-po-seckshal.”
I cock my head, raising my eyebrow at this proclamation. Where is he going with this…?
Catching my …?… look, he winks, tossing his spatula on the counter behind him before stretching his arms out in front his body, adopting a zombie stance.
Rolling his eyes back in Night of the Living Dead mock spook-ery, he jerk-walks forward.
“Braaaiiiins…” he intones, creeping once again in my direction. “I want you for your brains…”
The ensuing chase will lead to a tangled-heap laughter-filled struggle that will serve as foreplay for the night’s sexy festivities.
And while our mutual physical attraction fuels the fires that burn between us in the dark, I never lose sight of the original spark: I love a man who loves me – and wants me, in ways both wild and tame – for my mind. A man who shows me that truth, often and always.
“Sapiosexual, indeed,” I tell him at the end of our evening’s sexplorations.
“I know,” I say matter-of-factly.
He shakes his head slightly, thinking he must have heard me wrong. “Wha…?”
“Of course you’re a sapiosexual,” I explain. “You’d have to be, to be with me.”
His puzzled look makes me smile.
“You see,” I clarify with a grin…
“I know very well how good I am at giving head.”