The Proxy
The birth of the Idea
I remember the exact moment, when the idea first slid, warm and throbbing into my consciousness and then bobbed to the surface like a buoy. You had just returned from another brutal grind of multiple cities and countries overseas. I hoped to offer you solace from the pace and sweet sanctuary from the demands of your position. The prescription, a weekend designed for rest and relaxation. Beginning our day at the local hot spring spa, we played in the mud, took the healing waters, melted under the perfect kneading of a couples massage and ended with an excursion on horseback through the vineyards. The miles of grapevines creating a thornlike path.
We drank more wine than we tasted. Holding hands, we watched the golden ball drop over the horizon; our skin still warm from the sensual kiss of the sun. Later, that night, we returned to our hotel room. Our spirits and libidos lifted by California wine, our bodies sanded smooth by the spa mud and minerals, our thoughts turned as is our usual, to the carnal and we engaged in playful conversation. Wine heightened, your face glowed with sexual anticipation. Pulling me into your embrace, we began the ancient dance of lips and tongues, a duel, the battling of slick spears, the taste of wine still in our mouths; a kiss sealing a promise of more wetness, warmth and pleasure.
You reached for me first, massaging my neck and back with oil warmed in your hands. The scent of lavender enhanced by my body heat covered me like a quilt, relaxing me as my body became softer and my muscles surrendered to your touch. Gentle kisses rained down my back like a soft summer shower, as you slowly slipped through my folds, inserting a questing finger into me. Your reward, a deep vibrating moan, followed by the delicate petal like muscles clutching at your finger, signaling the flowing of nectar. A second finger joined the first, transporting me to another plane of existence, a place inhabited by touch, taste and smell. I heard a voice speaking. Rising from the sex induced fog, drunk with pleasure, I realized it was me. In hushed tones, I whispered your name, again and again.
"Yes , that's a good girl."
My juices flowed down your hand, curling the hair at your wrist with each small tremor and contraction. You curled your fingers and brought new pressure and lightning to the fleshy, orange peel pad inside. I was suspended in the moment when it is almost too much, almost. But I feel that I would die if you stopped.
I thought," The grapes and I are kindred, we both release our juice to the press. " As I hung, helpless, impaled on your fingers and teetering on the edge of desire; you reached under me and with the precision of a diamond cutter, gently rolled the silken tenderness of my nipple between two fingers. My body exploded, shattering into a million pieces. I cried out once twice as I was swept away. Turning me onto my back you lowered your head to sip my wine and stayed with me until my body ceased the tremors and my legs stilled from their dance.
Gathering me up in your arms, as one would a child, you began putting me back together with the warmth of your embrace. Gently you kissed me, running your tongue inside my lower lip, catching my lip in a tender trap. It was in that moment, the sliver of time between " La Petite Mort /the little death" and recovery that the idea was born. It was a concept born from gratitude; the seeds being planted in the afterglow of my orgasm.
You see, I understand you. I know that the passion you coax and wring from me, like many things in the world, comes with a price. You give up your pleasure, so that I may have mine. We are creatures of habit, responding to conditioned responses to stimuli. Your path is the way of the adventurer, cutting a broad swath through the jungle, chewing up the bounty of life, pushing the envelope and peeling back the layers to see what lies beneath.
Me... well, my path is more the garden path, lined with cool river rocks, clearly marking the way; preventing any unintentional straying. In truth, our paths should never have crossed, yet here we are. We find ourselves held fast; bound and lashed on the horns of a dilemma. Regarding me, you have great caring and attraction and I, you. But when our worlds collide; we find we are without a common language. So you who are multi-linguistic translate, but as always is the case, some things are lost in translation.
I think I understand why ,when I am not really your cup of tea, you are still interested. I'm intelligent and have held up pretty well over the years. All parts are original factory made and while not German engineered, they work with exquisite precision; as long as you know the correct buttons to push. I can discuss string theory, the latest medical research involving targeted therapies, the politics behind every conflict/war for the last 40 years and the social-psycho evaluations of serial murderers. We can watch a college basketball game, hockey, or football (Go Steelers) on TV and during the commercials, I well take you deep into my mouth, massage you with the squeezing of my throat while humming, if requested. My intellect and my libido are intact.
I'm really not the wild, pound- me- harder, spank-me- daddy type of gal; I prefer soft , sensuous ,teasing, languid lovemaking. Because a large part of my pleasure is giving you pleasure; we really haven't been able to navigate the just out of reach foot and hand holds which would allow us to climb to the top of the wall and joyously ring the bell. You bring a bag full of techniques, a wicked tongue and fingers with the dexterity of a surgeon; but rarely do I feel that your passion is given free rein. There is the taste of a one, two, three choreographed danced; not the sweaty abandonment of a salsa.
Unfortunately, my attempts at guidance, probably feel more like criticism. " Touch me here, not there, not so hard, more like this." My hope is to give you a road map and not leave you to guess which paths to take. But, all mapmakers know , the map is not the territory and there is still plenty of room for discovery and wonders to be revealed.
Neither of us wants to walk away, I think, because we enjoy each other in every other arena. We cherish the rattle of newsprint, on a bright Sunday morning, walks on the beach, and the perfect pairing of early harvest olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
