On the wrong document

I think we’re going about this wrong. People are trying to defend what goes on in our bedrooms under the Constitution, under right to privacy, you all should just stay the fuck out, consenting adults here, none of your business, why do you think you even want to look, you pervert.

And I think this is the wrong approach. The astonishing pervasion of perversion on the internet is proof positive that we aren’t really interested in staying out of other people’s bedrooms. The entirety of the pornography industry is built on voyeurism, you won’t believe what we’re going to show you next, and we as a society put down enough money toward that to have brought it out of it's darkened corner into the limelight. So, the whole idea of “please stay out of my bedroom” is countered in basic human behavior by the “but I want to look in yours” that to some degree or another, I believe we all have sooner or later.

No, I think the right approach is to shift gears away from the rights and privileges granted in the Constitution, because frankly, what we want to be there isn’t in there. “Right to Privacy” are not words that appear in that document; it is inferred a place or two, like in the fourth amendment prohibition of illegal search and seizure, but the exact phrase we need to make our desire to keep other people our of our bedrooms a Constitutional issue hasn’t show up there yet. Not likely to, either. And so, it’s a poor choice for the source document to base our hopes of getting gay rights through.

The right document is The Declaration of Independence.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

If the government can’t bring itself to adhere to this plan, then a revolution is in order, and the last time we did that, it was unpleasant. That’s the whole gist of that piece of paper.

Now, we don’t quite have the magic words here, but these are more forceful. Because it requires us to do what the people who are combating gay marriage rights are fighting against, to acknowledge that homosexuals are created equal in the sight of God---they fall under all men, and for god’s sakes don’t get hung up on the whole men vs women thing here---and we need to leave them alone toward their own Pursuit of Happiness. Just like we want toward our own. Period.

The people who are so vehemently fighting against gay marriage are failing at this miserably, and are trying to impose their will on the rest of us. They cannot bring themselves to acknowledge that a homosexual is in fact a human being.

Ask them, go ahead; the antigay violence is an indication that the belief being held by the perpetrators is that is alright to do horrifying things to people we don’t think are people. The Nazis excelled at this.

Ask them: if the gays are not quite human, can we not do what we want with them? How can the prohibition against slavery from that document we just got done putting down be applied against someone we don‘t hold to be equal with us? They want us all to deny that homosexuals are just like the rest of us in regards to what the government and maybe even the rest of us can and cannot do about what happens in their bedrooms at night. "We should have free rein to do what we want with them. Period." These people want to control what happens in other people’s bedrooms. And wouldn't it be handy to have ourselves a slave class again?

Ask them: are fags people, human beings? Yes or no.

No means war. It's unavoidable.

If they say "yes, they're human, but..." then the question of choice will come up. "God didn't make no fags, He don't make no mistakes." The argument they must fall back onto is that homosexuality is a choice, which is easy to get through.

Show us the choice. Not in one or two little stooges or plants that have been well rehearsed, but in general, across large swaths of the gay community.

There's a difference between a choice and a realization. The people who are so adamant about no-gays-no-way can all tell you about a specific choice they made: their choice to follow Jesus Christ. They can tell you time and date; their religion is in fact a choice.

Noticing that you are equipped as a man or a woman isn't a choice, it's a realization. Just like how tall you are. Noticing that you are attracted to men or women is a realization, not a choice. It doesn't go away because you decide to not pursue it; it comes back, again and again, over and over, it haunts you, it torments you, it forces you toward it. Ask any gay person on earth: is this just a whim, or did you have no choice? Just a casual choice, right? Like coffee or tea, the color shirt to wear today, what to watch on TV today? Just like that, right?

I have yet to meet a "Gay-by-Choice". Do the anti-gay people have a list we could call on? Have to be a pretty big list, don't you think? According to their argument, they are all that way. Point to any homosexual, and yeah, ask them.

"Yeah, well, fags lie." Good thinking: if gay people lie about this, then don't we all somehow lie about this? And why would we believe you? And are you really going to tell us this is about who is capable of lying, of sinning? So, do straight people have a choice, a real choice and not some game-show-choice to say "see?" about who they are are attracted to sexually? That should be easy to prove: what kind of porn does your body actually react to? If we all stood naked in the room together, naked, with porn playing on the TV, who gets aroused to what? Wouldn't that show us the truth? Maybe this would convince people. We could make it mandatory. Wouldn't that ultimately answer the question, solve the problem of truth? Don't counter with how dirty idea that is; porn sells because it actually effects us: physically, reliably, repeatedly. Volunteers?

All of this ultimately has nothing to do with religion or government or even sex; it has to do with power. And the people who are holding that some things in the bedroom are to be arranged only just so will not stop with the arrangement of personnel in those rooms. They will then insist they should be able to dictate what can happen there between approved participants. And they will want proof, something the Internet has proved itself good for: a webcam in every bedroom. There's a plank for the election. I seem to remember hearing Rush Limbaugh calling for the filming of the bedroom activities of a woman he didn't think was quite human and needing to be respected, so he could get his jollies recently. This is the behavior that is being lauded by the anti-gay proponents: treat people we don't like or agree with or whatever as subhuman because that's what we should do. Ask them.

There's another document they can and do call on to justify all kinds of horrors. It's got a little more history behind it; a history of being abused. It's a thicker book that has a habit of not actually getting read; especially by those who swear by it. That much is obvious, because they keep missing the most important lesson it has in it is: put the Book down; just do the right thing.

On gay marriage

Remittance Girl has taken a swing at the gay marriage thing, and this is in partial response to her lovely post here:

Same Sex Marriage: Why Thumping Bibles at Bible Thumpers Doesn’t Work

http://remittancegirl.com/discussions/same-sex-marriage-why-thumping-bibles-at-bible-thumpers-doesnt-work/


I'm sure I'll have more to say about this; lots more.

I am not gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender, but someone close to me is; I know, my opinion here doesn't quite count---won't stop me from carrying on, though.

In America, the marriage ideas are tied up between church and state. In truth, if it were simply a state function, there wouldn't be an issue. There is a bit of fear about homosexuals, given enough "special" rights, someone might someday be able to walk into some nameless government office somewhere, sit down and say "I'm gay, give me money" and end up being supported by the state because they are an oppressed minority. It's a misinterpretation of what happens now with the poor and disadvantaged by people who are not poor, not disadvantaged, and don't think they know anyone like that, and why should they work so hard to support freeloaders. But that's a separate problem.

A civil union is not necessarily recognized by the churches, nor are they necessarily recognized by other states. In the states where we have civil unions of gay people, the rights that go along with that (insurance benefits claims, liability of debts, signing of leases and powers of attorney, who can the doctors talk to when one is unconscious in the hospital, etc) all evaporate when you cross state lines. It really gets difficult when your insurance company is in a state that doesn't recognize the civil union you have back home, so it all doesn't work quite as desired, but it's better than nothing.

Marriage, as far as the state goes, is unilateral and at the national level: everyone recognizes it, and we all have to play by the same rules in regards to it. Income taxes work differently if your officially married. So the whole national gay marriage thing that's going to be the deal breaker at the next election changes how the money works for gblt at the national level, and if it goes through, everyone has to play along with it. Money is the first core issue of marriage, real marriage in America. (sorry, not love, damn it).

Marriage, in regards to the church(es), is a different matter. Churches don't know and don't care about civil unions, they care about marriage. Getting all of the churches to come to terms with the idea that the country recognizes the relationship of these two people that some of them have issues with will be impossible, and that is the first core battleground in regards to homosexuality. Some churches' doctrines cannot work their way through that without disavowing huge tracts of other things they believe; it would require a redefinition of sin, and that is a nontrivial task, because that would require a redefinition of God and how He communicates to us. Again, not a small feat.

Not that that shouldn't be done.

It has been my observation of reading a Bible or a Koran or an Upanishad or a Gita or whatever, and by that I mean the whole thing, not the little snippets that people get fed to get by with, because, well, these are long hard difficult books that seem to have so much to say about things I don't care about and do I have to really go through it all I don't think I can I'm not that smart I don't really understand can't someone just please plain it to me in terms I can understand, that the first "gist" all these books seem to have in them is "put the book down; just do the right thing". And therein lies the rub: when the specifics come up, exactly what is the right thing? Do we make that decision based on love despite our gut reaction, or do we find some nit-picky-little-niggle we can stick to to justify how badly something makes us feel, how we feel which just must be right? Isn't that what God put into us that we call our conscience: isn't how upset we are when we think of two men or two women going at it the voice of God? How could it not be? My own hate of what I think about just can't be enough, it is so large and overwhelming it just has to be coming from The Big Guy Himself, and if it's from Him, well, it's open season.

And that, my friends, is the problem. Disavowing stupid obviously hateful things with a small handful of sentences ain't gonna fix it. To bring this about, we have to change damn near everything we think and have been taught our entire lives about right and wrong, good and evil, and how we should then get along with each other. And unfortunately, secularism and atheism aren't playing by the right set of rules to pull this off. Religion is currently (actually, for a powerful long time here: seems to be hard-wired in our DNA) the only thing big enough to conquer the problems of some other religion. To fix all this, we might to have to actually hear from God.

Now, all of the religions take a swing at trying to get us to love that which we do not love, but that little lesson tends to get glossed over by the myriads of other more exciting less troublesome topics. Which is unfortunate, because this is the one lesson that actually matters.

So how can we get God to point this out to us again?

-Brewt-

 

On getting a little carried away here

Remittance Girl POV Challenge, third, I don't know, strike? Ball? Time's charm? It's more fun than it's supposed to be, and hopefully, she doesn't mind. Not exactly vanilla.

Game Face

By brewt.blacklist

May 2012

THIS HAD gone on long enough. We had the time, and there was nothing going on or pressing. I stood and crossed the room, and took my lover’s hand, inducing a puzzled look. I tugged and reluctantly was followed to the bedroom.

Our bedroom had become a quiet place over the last months. It’s not supposed to be that way. No, not tonight, I’m not in the mood, I don’t think I can, is this all you think of me, tell you what I’ll come get you when I want that to happen. Nothing to argue about, nothing to negotiate, our bed was lonely, quiet, full of despair. Made me think we were going to go our separate ways, which is what we had both said was not what we wanted to happen. But there had simply been no way to reconnect here. Sleep, yes. Fold laundry on the bed, yes. Sex...no. Intimacy had evaporated; gone were the casual kisses, the relief of a hug, the effort to touch, and it was killing me. I loathed it. We were growing old.

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like I’m doing. I’m making a pass at you.”

“This is not going to work out, you know. I really don’t think anything is going to happen.”

“Then nothing will happen. But it isn’t going to be because of a lack of trying.”

“That will embarrass me, you know. Won’t make anything any better.”

“If nothing happens, then nothing happens, and it will be alright. Indulge me.”

“You know I haven’t felt very good about this for a very long time.”

“And I’m trying to make it up to you. I swear on all that you know I think is holy, there is no judgment here. I’m trying to give you something here, not take something.”

“This is a bad idea. I don’t think I’m ready.”

“Come on. Let’s try.”

Four deep breaths later, with a dipping of at least one of our heads, our robes came off, and we lay on the bed together. Naked. For the first time since I couldn’t remember when.

“Wh-what are you wanting to do?”

“You lay there and try to relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll do all the work. If something occurs to you, though, do speak up.”

I started nuzzling, little kisses on the neck, nothing too insistent, and my hands started their practiced motions on the body I had loved forever. The old routines were where we always started. I found that nipples hadn’t moved too much since I last played with them, there was a stomach here that was slightly ticklish—still, and there was still pubic hair, right where I had left it.

And an unresponsive sex, damn it. I touched gently, I tugged a little, stroking, feeling my way around again to...nothing. No arousal.

I had expected this, and committed myself to the next approach. Time for plan B. I pulled my knees around and slowly rearranged myself to be over my lover, and began moving my kissings down, down across the chest, dallying here and there, across the stomach, down, down, down through the down to the dead zone. Our bed wasn’t long enough; I was practically off of it, kneeling, hunched over, I had to look funny like this.

“I don’t, I don’t know that I want you to do that.”

“It’s still okay. It’s fine. You, you know I like doing this.” I lied, and we both knew I lied, and I prayed to God for forgiveness for breaking yet another commandment.

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m going to do it anyway. It’s nothing. So please, try to enjoy this.”

We breathed one more time in synch, deeply, as when we are about to set about an unpleasant chore that needs to be done, like mowing the lawn, or taking out smelly trash, or having to go to work on Monday morning. I descended and held my breath—honestly, the smell down here is the worst part—and opened my mouth, getting my tongue out just a little, committing myself to what I was about to do.

And I was rewarded. Another head in the bed arched backwards, and a pelvis rolled up to meet me, and a noisy exhale cluttered up the room, following by an increase in aspiration, tension in hands, small little quiverings being set off here and there.

“Oh, oh god.”

I smiled my little smile of conquering—I was a little smug, but I at least did not snicker—as I plunged: I stormed the gates and the gagging that always happened when I would do this set in, and I had my own shakings, my own breathing stress escalations, my own tensions in my own hands to contend with.

Lick, sounds, kiss, exhales, sucking, earthquakes. Again. Again. Again.

Nothing would happen, my ass. Which was in its own way, funny. And this nothing that wouldn’t-couldn’t-shouldn’t happen, went on forever and a day, and the end was nowhere in sight. We were both panting and exhausted and out of breath: there was frustration, too, god fucking damn it. What we were in here for had not happened, and I knew what I was going to have to do again. Again.

My hands shifted round and found the backs of knees, and lifted, and pushed, and moved toward the head of the bed.

“No, no, wait, you don’t have to, please, stop.”

“Mm hmm.” I lowered my head toward an orifice we both had, that we had been taught was awful, dirty, disgusting and not to be discussed, let alone have done to it what I was doing.

“I...oohhhh, you, uhh, uhhh, fffuucckk...”

My gagging continued; I hated licking this. It is much worse than the the subjugation of oral sex. This was much more demeaning, it tasted worse in my mind whether it actually did or not, and it absolutely did nothing for me except induce revulsion. It did not matter. My mate’s hidden secret shameful lust for this was what I was here to play into, to exploit, to use for my own purposes: to induce an orgasm. I was going to have my way here, and one of us was going to cum here—now—no matter what it took, no matter what I had to do to bring it about, hang my need, screw my fears and nausea, I don’t matter here. You do. Like you are supposed to: to me.

I was thoroughly humiliated by the time it was over, and I was at the same time happy: I was reminded that this was fun. You were smiling again. You succumbed to a baser need, and I had triumphed, but at a cost. We both won; the drought ended. That was at least something: halle-fucking-lujah.

“So, what can we do for you?”

I needed a couple minutes.

 

###

 

THIS HAD gone on long enough: no sex, no kisses, no hugs, no touches, and I had had it. No more: the drought was about to end right here, right now. No more dead zone. I stormed across the room and grabbed a hand and yanked.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“What do you think?”

“God, no, please, can’t we talk about this?” Laughter plowed through a grin.

“Exactly what is there to talk about? Get in there, and take that off. Lie the fuck down.”

This was a game we’d played lots; orgasm denial until one or the other of us couldn’t stand it anymore, and a quick burst into violence. Almost-violence. Play-acted expressions of frustrations and angers and beatings and rentings and force and screamings and and...it’s fun. Mock rape, aggressive love-making, an expression of our baser needs. It was cathartic, and something we both recognized we both needed and had to express every once in a while.

“Oh. Please. No. Don’t. Stop. Ha ha.”

“Yeah, right, shut up.” I always hated that I was the one to cave in first, and the rules of the game said that the one who couldn’t go any longer had to bring the other one off before getting their own needs taken care of. The longer I waited, the longer I got to wait, and I could never outlast my mate. Damn it, it was embarrassing.

I didn’t even wait before we were situated before I started throwing my hands and lips and tongue around, setting about lavishly licking, tugging, pulling, sucking, nibbling, biting, going at it as hard and aggressively as I could, trying to force an orgasm as quickly as possible. I, yes, groped all the familiar places: that had more to do with my needs than anything else. Squeezing, stroking, pawing, mauling, play-slapping, which earned me a “slow dowwwn.” I couldn’t, of course. I just had to get it so we could get around to taking care of me. Hurry up.

Nothing. Fine. Plan B.

We needed a longer bed. I scootched around and hunched over, barely on it, putting my face directly into sex. Right in it. Smelly. Tasting nasty. Too bad for me.

“Oh, oh god.”

That was better.

One body was arched one way in our bed; one body was arched around the other way. Lick...mmm...suck....ohh yeah...kiss...I love this...over and over and over, and it was taking too long, forever and a day, and I was getting tired too quickly, fighting nausea, trying to keep from gagging, not making enough progress, losing ground, why doesn’t this work, what do I have to do here.

Come on. Do it. Cum for me. Give in; don’t make me do that other...thing. Please. The thing I keep praying to a God who doesn’t listen to me about to please make it so this one thing wouldn’t-couldn’t-shouldn’t happen anymore. It’s not supposed to be that way.

“You know what you’re going to have to doo-ooo, don’t you??” Too much control, too much smug, too much snickering. God fucking damn it.

“No. Really? I hate that.”

“Don’t care. Get down there, right now. I have been waiting for you to do this for waaay too long; now get at it.” Knees went north; the game became commandment. Holy judgment had been passed.

Having to put my tongue on my lover’s asshole was something I truly despised, and it was something we argued and negotiated about over and over, and I always seemed to end up in this position anyway. It’s frustrating.

I gave in—again, again, damn it—and set about doing something awful. I became toilet paper. Closing my eyes was absolutely necessary and it made it raunchier and even more deplorable, changing an abominable act into something I knew I deserved; it focused everything onto my taste buds, my nose, the sense of touch in my mouth.

I loathed myself. I despaired. I was ashamed. Like I was supposed to be.

“I...oohhhh, you, uhh, uhhh, fffuucckk...Halle-fucking-lujah.” That was at least something.

I did it as long as I could, coming up for air when I had to, spitting, drooling, wiping my tongue on a thigh before committing again. And again. And again. When I finally could open my eyes—I didn’t want to—when I could finally look up, it got worse. As expected, like always.

There was a smile. The smile of triumph. Of winning. Of conquering.

There is no power on earth that could make me like this, and there is nothing I can do to get you past it, is there. Dirty, disgusting, detestable, and you will not shut up about it. Ooh, ahh, yeah, yeah, fuck you, you love it when I do this, you love humiliating me, exploiting me, and it will happen again, won’t it. You will somehow manipulate the situation, coerce me, maneuver your way under my mouth, and live out your glee at my expense, and keep dangling my little needs out in front of me, dragging me along by the short and curlies with the carrot and temptations of your sex, your adoration, the draw of your attention, your lust, the things I can’t resist. I am such a weak fuck.

Shit.

I know. That should be funny. Have you cum yet? Thank god; growing old with this is going to make me grow old. Now, when can we get around to what I want? Or are you going to make me pay some more? What, laundry? Fine. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.

 

 

-Brewt-

 

On another kiss

Another round of Remittance Girl's Kissing Challenge, even later than the other one.

Kissing Problem

By brewt.blacklist

May 2012

Physics. Biomechanics. Trajectory calculations. Brain chemistry. Synchronicity. Psychology. Strategy. Behavioral modification. Cause and effect. Meaning. These are the problems. And we wrap them all down into one or two words: needs and wants. Our world is constructed so that once we get the basic needs under control, everything else is a want, right? Kissing must be something we just want.

I mean, sure, we can argue we don't need it, but all human societies practice it, so there must be a biological component evolutionary piece to it in there somewhere. Technically, it's not necessary for reproduction. And unless it gets minimized to 'hello' or 'goodbye' or overly-dramatized in gangster movies, it always has the same meaning behind it everywhere, the same idea of expression.

Well, okay, getting one from mom or dad doesn't mean the same thing as it does from you. At least, it better not. If it does, then it's over. Or, maybe there's something weird about home.

But the vision we applaud at the altar when the demonstration is given there before God and everyone is but a hint for what we all know is supposed to happen later on, that we all titter about and smile knowingly over, that when you're finally alone, after the party, the reenactment of that first act as man and wife will be replayed for real, and it will lead to other things. The things that you are telling us all you are going to do, and we all accept it and approve. Things that are arguably needs. One thing leads to another.

And that is, for me, the hard part. The approval. Because I totally don't. I don't want this to happen to you; not like this. It should be me up there, god damn it. And even though they'll go through the motions of asking me if it's okay, we all know that it isn't because I really am not allowed to say anything when the question is asked. Because I do object. Honestly now: when did you did you last see someone actually object?

I really want to.

But it is for entirely selfish reasons. I blew it. I had my chance and I blew it. God damn it. What the fuck is wrong with me? I know, I know. My fault, even though you insisted it was you, not me, that I was great, and it will work out better this way. Really. Love you. Always will.

Fuck. Better, my ass. There hasn't been one better day since then. Not one. And I have missed you so much, and I'm sorry, and it hurts, and I have regret, and ache, and there is no want involved here at all for me anymore. It is all need. And I need you.

I need you to kiss me.

Because when we kissed, when we kissed, all the shit went away. The arguments faded down to a dull roar, the problems quit mattering anymore, the world became a better place. A place I actually wanted to live in. You made me feel alive.

You know, I can still taste you. It still, to this day, makes my lips tingle, and they feel wet even when they are as bone dry as they have been ever since you left me. They quiver. I quiver. I pause, my breathing does something I don't know how to describe, and you know I can't cry any more, don't you? Except when I remember this. No one has ever made me feel the way you did when we kissed. That one simple universal gesture made me feel like I was acceptable, like I was accepted, wanted, desired, like I mattered. Like I was needed. You made me feel like I was needed, that you needed me, despite all the trouble, the problems, the anguish, that it, me, I was somehow worth it all.

I need you to make me feel that way again. I'll do anything. Do you want to switch roles? I'll be the god damn sub. I'll let you hit me instead. I'll lick your feet, I'll let you take my money, I'll do everything, I'll work so you don't have to do, I'll be your entertainment, you can make a fool of me, you can laugh at me, you can hurt me, I'll suffer whatever you can think up---I'll even help and you know what I can think of, god, the stuff I put you through---you can put whatever you want wherever you want in me, I'll even let this other...person have you as much as you want. Just like you did for me, until you couldn't. Until I wrecked it all by wanting too much. Because, because I thought I could. Because I didn't really understand. I didn't know why you were there, why you were with me. I still don't.

I'll die for you.

I am dying for you.

Shit. Vanity, thy name is...me. Hhhhh.

Even though this is all supposed to be about you two, your day, your happiness, it really is about me. The two moments that really matter here are the two that I am involved in. The first one being where I am supposed to demonstrate my loyalty to you, my bravery, my submission---funny---to your desires and just sit here and shut the fuck up when the question comes around, and can I do that for you please. And the other one is when you do it, you actually show me and God and everyone that it is indeed over between us, and you kiss this other person and cleave yourself unto them and then cleave me in two in the same fell swoop. This isn't about commitment today, it's about sacrifice. Mine. Oh, sure, it will look like I lived through it when I meet you in the reception line afterwards, and the kiss we used to share will change into what we are now allowed, into something that more resembles what happens with mom. Or dad. Something polite. Chaste. Quick. Bloodless.

Worthless. Not life-giving at all. Quite the opposite.

Okay, there's really two other words that are the ones that actually matter here. The words of victor and victim. And I can't care any more about dreaming about the possibilities and fantasies and impossibilities of coming out as triumphant here. Not that that will stop me. Because you've already told me 'no', and with this 'yes', I thus am perished from this earth.

I will not survive the kiss. Please don't. I'm begging you.

I suppose it wouldn't be appropriate to expect you to stay for the funeral, huh. I'm sure you have things to do. Things I don't think I want to know about, even though I do. I hear the grave is a lonely place, so just you never mind. Go on, you crazy kids, don't worry about me, I got me some worms to tend to.

So go ahead. Kiss each other. Do it. Commit torture onto me the way I used to do to you. I deserve it.

And be happy. For...for me. For my sake. For my memory. So that one of us is.

 

On a kiss

Faring Well

By brewt.blacklist

May 2012

Written for the Remittance Girl "A Slip of the Lip" Challenge from 2009, three years after deadline. I'm late, I know. Sorry, RG.

 

 

She approached with her heart in her throat, her trembling palms sweating, stumbling twice along the way, chiding herself for being afraid, c'mon, you can do this, it's important, don't want to miss the chance. There would be fussing if she wanted to do this again later. She'd approached him for this so many times before, that part didn't bother her; walking right up to him for a kiss was always easy. It was always alright: her needs mattered to him, and right now she needed more than was appropriate.

God damn, he was still beautiful. Sure, shouldn't say that about a man, but it was true to her nonetheless, and she could imagine him rolling his eyes again at her whispering of the word. It was part of the ritual, part of how she gave up her hold on the world and lost herself in him again. Her heart wouldn't stop racing but something else got her attention in her anatomy as well, something lower than the butterflies, something no one else would understand, and she hoped the perfume she bathed in this morning would be enough to mask the lovely feminine aroma---she remembered him saying how much he loved it---for when she returned to her seat; this was between her and him, none of them would get it, they sure as hell didn't matter, leave us alone, she knew they were all looking, and she totally didn't care.

His eyes were closed, and this part of the ritual was familiar, leaning over him in bed, hovering there in a slight pause for a moment before she would descend to gently kiss him, to align herself toward their intent to each other, to wake him with love, to get the kiss to last a little longer, to mean something.

Contact.

And it all came back to her, just like it did every morning. Oh, God.

Their first lunch date when he shook her hand in her office instead of risking embarrassing her with a kiss when they hardly knew each other in front of her co-workers, the first time he really kissed her in the car and it knocked her socks off and she knew she knew right then and there that any man who could make her cum on their first kiss was definitely the man she would spend the rest of her life with, the endless weekends they spent in bed finding their ways into each other's hearts-souls-bodies, the trips where she rode in the car naked availing herself to him to whatever fancy he had, the dares, the crawling that did god-knows-what for him, the times she let him tie her up and she came more than once hallelujah, the times they spent doing dirty things with each other in the bathroom, the fisting, the whipping, the wax, the needles god the needles, how many gallons of his sperm had she drunk, the drug-free screaming births of the children where even he cried, the near constant running into each other in the kitchen that annoyed her but but but always made him laugh, she loved making him laugh, the unbelievable stress of losing jobs and homes and picking the pieces back up and putting themselves back together yet again and again and and those horrible years when they were celibate because she couldn't she just couldn't it was the menopause I swear I love you I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I know it mattered to you and I hurt you more than I meant to please forgive me I was such a bitch I can't believe you stayed through that and I'm so grateful thank you God for this man I would follow you anywhere please don't go I'll be your whore again I am your slave your slut my cunt is yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.

God damn it, wake up.

Shit. Shit.

...Shit.

Don't go.

The tears were flowing quite steadily when she uprighted herself; she tried to remember if she brought tissues, someone would have some, and she made sounds all the way back to her seat that everyone heard. It grieved her that the only person she wanted to hear them couldn't any more. He'd heard her make these kinds of sounds so many times and it made him happy and it made her happy and now...fuck.

She didn't hear anything else of the service, all she could think about was the peculiar taste he'd left her with, and she knew she would insist on tasting it again before they finally closed the lid. When there wouldn't be a crowd, and she could take her time with him. When she could touch him, and maybe put her breasts into his hands one last time. She had the right, and by God, she would exercise it and she promised herself that this next time she would not hesitate, not one little bit. Screw the fussing.

Because tomorrow, the hard part would start.

Hmmm. Maybe that's formaldehyde she was tasting. Not as bad as his piss.