Lover Come Home Ch. 05

Letter 5

Wednesday, cooler

Dearest V

It finally rained last night, so loudly it woke me up. I went out and danced in it, like a heathen. No one could see me of course, except you, if you are in heaven or dreaming of me.

You can't dance. No rhythm you say. In public we manage a horrible little box step. We are so boring. Our real dances are done in private. I especially like the one we do in the living room with all our clothes on and only my laughter for music. I throw off my shoes and step up on to your feet. You then whirl around while I hang on for dear life. With me standing on top of your shoes you are Fred Astaire. I am not Ginger, but a passenger on your body, madly enjoying the ride.

I am a passenger other times as well, when I am on top of you. Your inescapable rhythms sending me flying up and down. Up and down, up and down, not a waltz or a polka, but a dance nonetheless.

I like being on top. You are so much bigger than I am. You are a mountain, my own personal Denali. I climb to conquer but sometimes I slide and fall into deep crevices. Sometimes I only want to enjoy the view, but mountains guard their secrets well. Often it is just because you are there. The mountaineer's old saw is correct. I want you, good enough reason to begin an assault on the mountain.

You often look bemused when I start. Sometimes you just lie back with your hands behind your head. Proud mountain, waiting for the one who will mount him.

When you return I will start my next ascent. I will do it without equipment, base camp, sherpas, or oxygen. Pure, unaided climbing. The mountain wears only blond hair. I will come with only the ropes I can make of my hair and the crampons of my long nails.

But I do have resources. My arms and legs are strong and agile. They can move with a speed that a mountain cannot match. They are also capable of acrobatic moves. The mountain is strong, but rooted to his world. The mountain best be beware, or he will be taken by a determined woman.

First I will kneel in a prayerful attitude at his side. He smiles, knowing I am not submissive at all and this is a subterfuge. Mountains are wise. But he acknowledges the slight symmetrical gestures I make on his body. A light touch of a finger moves down each of his sides. Then down each arm, and inner thigh. I will do this several times, noticing the anticipation that his thigh feels when my finger floats down his arm. I sense rather than see a small quiver. Some of the lower mountain passes are beginning to melt.

From these soothing symmetries, I will move on to more challenging routes. My finger is a dowsing rod, but it isn't searching for water. It seeks the places on the mountain that want to be touched. Often these are the almost forgotten areas, places so obvious that they can be overlooked by a climber. The place on your cheek just before your hairline begins, or the line straight down between your breasts that ends in a point of hair. My hand finds these locales. The places desiring attention, and attends to them.

The mountain is being to make some noises, but low ones. The beginning of an avalanche? I must take care not to be engulfed, swept away.

Then I begin my true ascent. First I stealthily place one of my legs between yours. You barely notice. I am still kneeling, my hands are still exploring . Now I use my speed and strength for the first time, shaking the mountain from his ease. I bring my second leg in between yours, forcing your legs to part. Taken by surprise they move apart easily. The mountain's defenses are breached. An entry into your innermost valley has been found. You are a second or two behind me, still caught in the light touch floating over the hills of your wide body. Those seconds cost you.

If I wished, I could now lower myself down to the surface of the mountain, my face in its deep valley. Then I could work my way upwards, using our sweat to ease the way. The summit would be quickly reached, and I could look down into your startled face. But I have done this route before, it is too easy an ascent. The serious mountain climber tries a new and different path every time she meets the mountain.

Oh mountain, I miss you terribly.

There is an obstacle. Kneeling between your legs I can see something tall, pointing heavenward. The tree of life on the sacred mountain? Heavens, no. It is a joy stick and I am the Red Baron. Grasping it firmly, making good use of its cap to make fine adjustments in altitude and speed, I begin to fly my mountain. He is now a plane with me at the controls. A Fokker perhaps, or a Sopwith Camel. The early planes must have been great. Totally open. Flying with the wind in your hair, and constant danger. Your controls are in my hand. We begin our journey. The plane (once a mountain but now ready to fly) and me.

We fly to Shambala, over the Hump. We fly to Shangrai La with only our senses to guide us. We see distant horizons come closer. We rest in the clouds. We feel thunder. But finally, we get too close to the sun and crash, burning into ash and bone and blindness.

Darling, please. I need to see my mountain. I need to crash into the sun. I need.

C