Laying On Of Hands

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It’s the pinkening, I think, that appeals to me. The blush of his blood rushing to the surface of his cheek, momentarily warming the space between his beard stubble and my open, now-caressing palm.

Or maybe it’s the chkch noise — the more-than-a-tap but not-quite-a-smack sound of closed-fingered curved-palm contact — that appeals to me the most. Skin touching skin, hand to face, with an almost-crack, the sound warm and inviting to my ear.

Perhaps it is the gasp-moan he breathes in response to the impact, his vocalizations low and growling.

Or it could be that when the sting causes his nerve endings in his face to go on alert, certain other parts of him are woken – straining toward my hands for equal treatment, surging hard and heavy and wanting to feel that nettling smack – as well.

 

Do I slap his face?

‘Slap’ is such an overly-simplistic term, rude and gruff and laden with negative connotations.

What I do is not any of those things.

It is firmness of touch and lightness of spirit and Pay attention! and Good boy and an unbruising mark of pink heat and ownership.

It is sensual.
Sumptuous.
Sexy.

It is not a wounding.

It is a laying on of hands.

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This post is not even remotely sexy. Consider yourself forewarned.

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So this morning I woke up at the asscrack of pre-dawn, for once NOT because I was getting tromped on by an overweight oh-so-starving kitty, but because I was sick.

I just sort of lay there for a minute, trying to get my bearings (Why am I laying across the bed sideways?  What time is it?  WHY am I awake?) and then I realized:  Ohcrap, Igottapuke.

!?!?

And…

It was a weird experience.

(Which is, in itself, a weird thing to say. I know.)

BUT

There was no real reason for me to be puking.  Or at least, there was no *one* reason I could pinpoint as to the Why of the event.  (Couple {1} exposure to hundreds of people from other countries over the course of the past three days with {2} overexertion, and add in the fact that I {3} was fighting off a migraine all day yesterday and {4} got overheated/dehydrated from working…  Yeah, there were possible reasons.  In the plural.  But still.  No clue *exactly* what triggered it.)

 

A n y w a y

 

So I puked.

Which was fun.  (In a not-fun way.)

And…

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Here and Now

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abstract high contrast black & white photo of nude crossed thighs

 

My limbs – splayed at the top, crossed at the bottom – a firm but boneless contrast to his wrapped-over-mine tension of form – accept the broad muted brushtrokes of his touch painting over my body with a distorted sense of daydreamy contentment.

I have the sense, for a moment, that we are the temporal occupants of an unreal impressionistic tableau – one that begins and ends and repeats again with every shush of his hands massaging over me – and while I am here, now, I am also…  Not.

We are skin to skin.
We are occupants of separate universes, together in this room.

Cutis: in contact
Essence: [ . . . ]

 

 

The sensory distractions, familiar yet disconcerting in their comfortable constancy, have somehow become a part of our sexual landscape:

  • swooshing fan blades, both refreshingly breezy and overly-drying with the thwp-thwp of their cool on summer-warm skin, draw my eye up and away from the rough-soft strokes of his hands on my flesh;
  • buzzing machinery, a cacophony of whirring grinds and chopping dissonance outside our open window, blurs an auditory line between interruptive commotion and atonal abstraction, a discordant disruption of the sweet susurrations of his lips murmuring indecipherable over my skin;
  • wandering thoughts — Why ever did the previous owners of this house put all those hooks in the ceilings?  Will we EVER get them all out? and Oh, the icemaker just kicked on again.  We really must get new filters.  ASAP.  and Dear God, NOW the cat is jumping up for a snuggle? — intersperse with the relaxed focus of preoccupied pleasure.

I fade out, from here and now to somewhere undefined then back again, losing the immediacy of time, honing in on benign details of space:  the flare of sunlight refracting from window glass to ceiling flat, the unbelting rustle-scratch of leather and metal, the low-hum whirring white noise of everyday life.

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After

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I dream, half awake, in slo-mo pixelated lag time, era frozen and bodies fluid, the curve of his cock sunburn hot against my palm, his youthful shyness golden as the darkening wheat in the field outside our window. He is unsure, the way he always was in the end, his skin jump-twitch responsive the way it never stopped being, his heart banging its vulnerable thud between our bare chests the way it did in the beginning.

I am there but not, in the way only night-fantasy remembrances allow. The place foreign but familiar, the details blurred into sharp relief.

I know, within the dream, that I am neither exploring past nor wishing present. Time has no meaning in dreamspace; or rather, Meaning is found here only the existential profundity of out-of-time surrealistic sexual detail. His clear lava, burning volcanic in pre-cum eruptions, burns pink the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, its blue-veined cool a counterpoint to soft-rain pelts of fingertips over lightning-hot hard.

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