Exciting

"What's the most exciting thing you've ever done?"

Ah, the silence is broken. It was a quiet drive home after a stage play. A relaxing dinner with us softly touching each other's elbows and knees. Very pleasant. And now, a bolt from the blue. And probably an involved discussion about minutia.

How I long for quiet. So rarely achieved. Children always asking questions. People knocking at my office door to "chat", which turns into a long tortuous discourse about hellish topics. I became an accountant for peace, for silence. If I had wanted speech, I would have been a telemarketer. But in relationships, one must have talk, or else the partner does not seem connected. And I have paid my dues. I suffered through years of speech, both giving and receiving. I believe that I have earned some silence. But I will give in, lest I be seen as "cold".

"I don't know. What do you mean?" I ask as I turn onto the freeway.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

Complication. This is the joy of silence—it is simple. The instant one opens the mouth and loosens the tongue, then there is confusion, misunderstanding and possibly rejection. In silence, the possibilities are numerous, but there is the secret knowledge that all of the possibilities are wrong. For some, this is the seed of anxiety, the birth of unwarranted panic. But for me, this is contentment. Better the devil we don't know. Best to leave Pandora's box closed. But rare is the one who is content to leave the unknown unexplored. I am Mycroft Holmes in a society of James Kirks.

"I mean, what kind of excitement? The kind that stirs the heart? Or that endangers the body?"

"Um, I guess both—either."

"Okay.... Well I saw our two year old jump off of a table. That was about as much excitement as I can take." I coast off of the freeway and turn at the signal.

"Hee, hee. That's was pretty funny, really."

"You didn't hold her, listening to the screaming, while she was slowly being bandaged."

"I was there. I was bandaging, you know."

"I know."

"Anything else?"

Guessing games. Where does she come up with these questions? "What is your favorite movie?" "If you could pick anyone, who would you choose to be president?" "How do you feel about that?" Living with her is a perpetual Ungame. Always a new question, a new probing to the delicate, unexposed underlayer. Always exposing the unseen. Perhaps I should say that I tire of them. Perhaps I should encourage her to enjoy silence more. To be together by being together and nothing else.

"I don't know. I went to China. That was exciting. I married you."

"And how has our marriage been exciting?"

Oh, oh. Dangerous topic there. I could see her grin, leer, and lean in for the kill. I think I might have stumbled on her intention. Or gotten close, anyway. Is this going to be another battering because of our "shallow" relationship? This is a conversation that could last all night. I suspect that this pleasant night is turning for the worse. How can I possibly avoid this accident waiting to happen?

I turn onto the highway and set the cruise control. An even 40 miles an hour. "Well, the wedding was exciting."

"Tiring, more than anything else."

"I suppose, but still exciting. Anything could have happened."

"But nothing did. Come on, you said 'exciting'. That our marriage was exciting. Is it emotional, or dangerous?"

"Um, both."

"Really? How?"

"Well... every time you take off your blouse my heart pounds so much that I could have a heart attack."

I guess that was the right thing to say. She smiles big and puts her fingers on the inside of my thigh. "You know, I think I need some excitement tonight."

That sounds good to me. But how long we must wait. Driving the sitter home. Kids to bed. Dishes to wash. We'll be lucky our eyes are still open by the time we're done. "It'll be pretty late, I think."

She unbuttons the top button of her blouse. "Who says we need to wait?" The second button is defeated and the slightest curve can be seen out of the corner of my eye. "There's plenty of excitement right now." The third button pops and—I would have sworn she was wearing a bra in the restaurant. Yes, I remember hugging her shoulder and feeling the strap. The bathroom. She went to the bathroom before we left. I didn't give it a second thought. I'm giving serious consideration to it now. I wonder if that's what all women do when they take so long in the bathroom— that's a nice fantasy. The fourth button is released and the prisoners escape.

Somehow, her seat belt was unbuckled already. Am I blind, not seeing what is right in front of me? So many clues, and I don't even know. She kneels next to me on the seat, placing her back to the windshield. She pulls back her blouse and I can't help it—I gasp audibly. Sure, I've seen her nude hundreds—heck, thousands—of times. Her breasts are weighted with past pregnancies and some age. But still, they are full and round and soft and.... Well, if you have a woman opening herself up to you, inviting you to partake in her nakedness, to taste of her delicacies, no matter how many times it may be, it is still a precious gift, an exciting prospect.... Heck, I don't know. She still gets me horny. I don't understand it. Never did. But there it is. And her exposure in this public place has stiffened me uncomfortably.

Public place. Suddenly I awake from the living sexual fantasy in front of me and look out my mirrors. No one around. There almost is never anyone on this highway, this time of night. How fast am I going? Ohmy... seventy? The speed limit is forty. I release my foot from the gas, and remember that I had the cruise control on. I take both feet of the pedals, carefully. Perhaps it is time for a word of caution: "Maybe I should pull over, get behind some bushes or something..."

She smiles and leans forward to whisper in my ear. While doing this, she cannot help but caress her soft bosom against my arm. (Dang, but I'm uncomfortable. In my pants, I mean. I'm really comfortable with her. A bit tense, but an enjoyable tension.) "I wanna go fast. Now. Don't do anything that stops us." Okay, I'm heading into pain, here, so I shift my pelvis around, trying to give my growing under-self some freedom of movement. "I'm sorry," she says, dripping with pleasure at my discomfort, "let me help you with that." As always, her help is slow, almost studious. Yes, the seat belt was released, my button pops open, the zipper lowered with swiftness. The band of the underwear, though, is pulled down with excruciating length. Then she reaches in and pulls out my excruciating length, comforting it with her fingers, caressing, fondling. And the discomfort disappears.

Negotiating clothes took a moment. I had to lift myself up so my pants could go to my knees. My shirt over my head knocked off my glasses, which she reached for me. Did she plan to take so long, groping for my sight, while she "unintentionally" fondled my penis with her breasts? Like I care, really, but motivation is significant.

Her long, plaid skirt, however, remained on. I knew the answer, but to move things along, I posed a query: "Now that I know that your intentions were not pure from before we entered the car, I would assume that you have no underwear under your skirt. Is that correct?"

"But I am pure. White as unblemished snow. Want to see?" She lay back on the seat, placing one of her lower thighs on my lap, taking great care to lift my penis and rest it on the inside of her thigh. Her other leg she draped over the back of the low middle seat. Her bare buttock sits against my upper leg and my question is answered. "Touch me. All over." She gently takes my right hand from the steering wheel and presses my fingers against her nipple. On hand on the wheel, one on her breast, I stroke and rub. In the midst of her gasps, soft moans and stirring, her skirt hikes up and her pelvis is soon rested against me. I feel every stir and jump within her. As her tension mounts, so does she, pressing her still-covered opening against my hip. Her wetness sets me off again, but I have plenty of room to grow, this time.

I stroke her face, caress her lips and she licks the tip of my finger with her tongue. I open up my legs and taunt, "Come over here and do that. I dare you." She smiles and gets up, shifts over to me and her breasts are on my leg, her face above my length. I can see nothing, with her hair covering her back and all under it. But I feel her palm cupping my balls, her other hand surrounding my shaft and an inexplicable wet warmth surrounding the tip of my organ. In this joy of receiving, I could not forget giving, as I realized that my right hand still rested on her skirt. As her tongue tasted my slit, rubbing me, I raised her skirt up and exposed her buttocks to the air. I stroked them, sometimes grabbing one as I received a jolt of pleasure from her sucking.

I realized I was being selfish. Slowly, I reached between her thighs, and the gate of her legs opened to me. I softly caressed her exposed sex, digging my fingers into her public hair. My fingers slowed as the pleasure of her tonguing my penis rose, but I soon came back to rubbing her. Soon, my finger explored her, looking for her clit. The small, hard nub was soon found and I rubbed her with abandon, but still remembering her sensitivity. For long minutes we took turns pleasuring each other as the car almost drove itself, allowing us to surrender to our ecstacy.

"Dang," I muttered. She pulled her mouth off of me and glanced up, while she wiped off the saliva. "Did I do something?" "Only what I wanted, my love. No, the exit is coming up." "So? We're busy. Keep driving." And she placed me inside her mouth again, eyes closed, and I stroked her clit and her mouth closed around me.

Who knows how long we drove like that? Pleasure is not enough to describe it. I wish there was a word to describe the feeling one has when one's life-long lover is using her most secret erotic gifts to please you. It is a warmth in the heart, an unspeakable terror that she might cease. It is more than orgasm, for the orgasm, as deep as that erotic pleasure and joy is, is simply fleeting, as soon as it is gone, one seeks it again, for it is never enough. This is a longing that endures and grows. A unity that delves beyond flesh. A pleasure that is beyond the surface of the skin, that fills your whole body. It is as if all one's needs were completely fulfilled, in the simple act of sexual presence. There are no enemies, no guilt, no shame, no depression, no hunger, no anger, no pain. It is complete peace in tension. Complete contentment in desire. Complete communication in silence.

This feeling cannot be experienced in masturbation. Nor can it be had in a one night stand. I have heard that it could be imitated by some illegal drugs, but I doubt it. It is found only in relationship, in knowing, in complete trust. Should one take a video of us, they would see the pornography of my cock in her mouth and my hand up her twat and perhaps one might assume that is all there was to it. But the surface uniting of bodies is only a part of this joy. We never had such pleasure in the early years of our marriage. There was always a hesitancy, a self-doubt, a doubt in the other as well. We could do this same action and it would be meaningless. Sure, it would be fun, pleasurable, but only on the surface. Inwardly, we would still be wanting more of each other.

But this act of utmost pleasure isn't just a single moment. It was built upon years of support. Years of arguments that came to a resolution. Years of working together for a common goal—changed diapers, comforted friends, clean dishes. It comes from thousands of sexual entanglements with each other, some successful, some not. It is not just knowing what the other wants, sexually, it is knowing who the other is and responding to that. Part of who we are is sexual desire, fulfilled in each other. But if that is all we were, our sexual relationship would be spare, lacking. As it is, we can experience deep joy in sex because it is built on deep relationship and unity that exists beyond agreement. Ultimately, it is surrender to mutual pleasure, complete erotic trust.

And so this emotion we share with each other is sexual. I love to have my penis drawn up by her tongue, and she loves to have me finger her gently and continuously. We have had this experience as I lay on top of her in intercourse, but not yet to orgasm. We have had this experience holding each other nude, half asleep, having done nothing explicitly sexual (but we were thinking about it). I have had this experience as she lay on me, my penis hard between her breasts, and she was asleep. She has had this experience while I laid on top of her, my tongue deep in her. Yes, it is sexual, and we probably only experience it in sex. But without our entangled lives, it is like a two-dimensional kiss on paper, without feeling, without substance.

After a time, her mouth tires out, and we have traveled much further from our destination that we intended. Should any car attempt to pass us, I slow down as they come to our window, so whatever flesh they might possibly see would only be a confusing blur. Finally, she releases my hardness and says, "This isn't fast. Let's go faster." I put my foot on the pedal and we go up the speedometer, quickly to 45. She hikes up her skirt again and she kneels on either side of my thighs. 50. She lifts her face up to mine, her chest pressed against mine and kisses me deeply, stroking my lips with her tongue. Although I can't see it, I know the speed is up to 55. Maybe more. Placing her cheek next to mine, she grabs on to me below her and places it on her opening. Yep, we're up to 60 now, and I can be sure we haven't run over any squirrels or small children. She lowers herself onto me. My foot goes off the accelerator. She squeezes me and presses upon me, all over me. "Feel my humps?" She leans into me, in complete control of our intercourse. She moves with the rhythm of the car, pressing up against me, staring out the side window, looking at the blurred scenery fly past, breathing harder, pumping harder, crying louder, "yes!"

I feel myself losing control. My free hand is on her ass, and my sensations are going wild. Her breasts are firmly stroking my chest. Her hot breath is against my cheek. Her vagina strokes me more and more frantically. Finally, as the car moves off of the highway, it bumps us both up into each other and we both have an orgasm around, within, upon, below, surrounded, consumed by each other. As the car drifts slowly into the shallow ditch, as I had already tapped the brake to slow us down, we hold each other tightly, wishing that we would never release.

After about five minutes, a truck slowed down to check on us. "You guys okay? Do you want me to call a tow truck?" the amiable driver said as he held out his cell phone. Our quick jump into clothing probably make us look disheveled, curious to the penetrating look. But it was good enough for the dark night, a good forty feet from any streetlight. "Nah, we're just taking a breather," I say back. "That's cool," he responds. "Can't be too careful. Keep your eyes on the road!" He climbs back into his truck and drives away.

"He's right, you know," I say with a mild tone of rebuke. "I should have had my eyes on the road."

She smiles. "It was exciting, right?"

"Oh, yeah," I reply with some sarcasm, "Exciting. We could have gotten killed. Or seen."

Her smile fades. "And which would have been worse?" She pauses as I fail to reply. "Sorry. I won't make that mistake again."

"That's good. When I'm driving, I should have my eyes on the road."

"Fine. Let's get going."

"I can't." At this point, I snickered. I was never one at holding a deception for long. I reached over and began unbuttoning her blouse. "I can't keep my eyes on the road right now." I pull the blouse off of her shoulders, and lay her down on the seat. "I've got something else to focus on" I said as my hand slid up her thigh and rubbed my finger against her clit, just before my mouth covered her nipple, tonguing her. Her only reply was a soft moan.