Crossing Boundaries

My lover is perfect. His breath so gentle upon my skin at night, like the whispering waves of the summer sea. His hands knowing my secret erogenous zones, his fingers uncovering more secrets, that erupt like hot lava, building up through the night to volcanic orgasms. He explores me as he would an unknown foreign island. My lover is special, manners from a different age, gallant and brutal. He makes my own worries melt away, as the wax drips down the candle, lighting our journey towards the sunrise. This is when he disappears, yet I can still sense his presence around me, hear his voice call my name, like an echo from another metaphysical realm.

His scent is that of leather, rose petals, the sea and woodsmoke. When he is gone this scent is what I try to hold on to, like grains of sand slipping through my fingers. He is with me, yet like memories and mist over the mountains on a winter morning. I can see the ocean from my bedroom window, he resides, a current within the ocean of time. He is eternal.

My lover is a ghost.

It is certainly not unusual for me to be in communication with those who have passed from this Earthly plane. As a psychic medium this is indeed part of my job description and not something that I am or should be afraid of. I often have fragmentary conversation with ghosts, see flickerings of shadows passing by, lights blinking on and off and occasionally those phantoms that look in every way solid and real, if it were not for the antiquated clothing, or at times, garish open wounds. Other people have warned me of the dangers of necromancy, to not encourage the dead to speak- you do not know who or what entity you are really in contact with.

I am not sure of the moral implications of a medium becoming romantically involved with a ghost, such as when a student/teacher boundary is crossed or when a doctor oversteps his professional norms, becoming enamoured by his young patient. However, some say ghosts do not exist and are entirely of the imagination. If that is so, I am only deluding myself and harming no one.

With precognition I had already met him, years before we had become lovers, years before our first real conversation. In my crystal ball, I had scryed him. It was as if he was peering back at me through the murky reflective globe. Black haired, a kind of scarf twisted beneath a battered triangle hat. Behind him, sea boats and a sky and sea that seemed to merge, like a voyage into unknown territory that went on seemingly forever until land was sighted.

To make love to a spirit, a phantom, is something that enchants every cell of the body, it exudes otherworldliness into the chakras, seeing the physical with the third eye, feeling, as ectoplasmic fingers, a sea-wise hardened body and cock break through from the astral, from times past, to my present and Earthly plane.

He can take my own spirit up into his arms, to a place where I am climaxing amongst swirling waves, creaking pirate ships, and forests of hidden bandits. He seeps through, into my world again, slipping into my dreams when we fall to sleep together.

It is both ephemeral and never ending. There is no concept of time in his world. In this world he is gone too soon. Yet when he leaves I know I want to be with him, in this world or his. To hold hands. For his hand to pull me through to him.

When I sit on the rocks looking out to sea, I feel close to him. When the waves break and drench me with their saltiness, and the wind blows back my hair, I am consumed by him. When he comes to me at night, I am drenched again, my skin, my cunt, that he has made wet again after such long absence.

We did not begin as lovers. I believe that was not his intention or mine. We connected, as I lay upon my leather couch, in my old house, that has stood through many crackling winters and desperate summer storms, stood as kings and queens have fought and fallen.

"They say they've got no masts. So we have to wait. I'm sitting at the harbour with my quart of wine for company". Africa is where the the riches are to be made, deals to be made. Upon the perilous journey, the Spanish fleets are there for the taking.

I, back in the twenty first century and he, waiting, idle, on a harbour, some time in the mid-1700s. Actually, he is lying on his side, on a stone wall, where carts and pedestrians pass, his head resting on his hand.

His spirit drifted through time, across eons to reach mine. It may seem strange that communication can cross these boundaries of space and time, yet really, no. The past, the present, the future are not a straight line, through which we pass. The universe is multi- dimensional, much different than what we are taught or deceived to believe. It did not feel as if he was a spirit from the afterlife but a connection from his point in time to mine. Yet, I know he is drifting, somewhere in the astral, perhaps awaiting a lover, a soul connection, unable to move beyond, into what poets, composers and Christians alike have called The Heavens.

His name is Hanson. No not handsome. Hanson.

"I'm not handsome, you see, I caught something. I've got these pits all over my skin. Pox that's it." Yet with his aquamarine eyes and thick ebony hair, I saw deep beauty shining through. It is true, he looked nothing like the ideals of male beauty of the modern age, those well groomed men, these gym toned idols, and if they have facial hair it would be a well-tamed hipster beard or goatee. He has a small curling beard on his chin and dark hair on his chest.

"What do you mean first name? Oh the name I was born with. I don't have a first name. I'm Hanson that's it. How is it, it feels as if you are the same when I say it? Bitter, sad, resigned, hardened. Like somehow you're like me? I was born in Plymouth. I talk to spirits, when I've had too much of those spirits to drink, they come out of the sea. And now I talk to you. Stop calling me Handsome. You from future times."

This vision, breaking through like an illusion caused by the sun through the clouds, yet very real, was wearing a wool vest under his shirt with billowing sleeves, black britches and leather boots. His hair was long and tied back with a black ribbon. His eyes, fluxing like the sea, a nose small and scarred. "I like to bejewel myself, with gold, silver, copper, ruby, with rings on my fingers, chains holding keys to looted chests and a few shining silver teeth to brighten my smile."

The first time we made love, I lay on my bed, naked, calling gently, "Hanson, oh Handsome." Then I felt something like a finger stroke teasingly around my ankle. I could feel this tingle sliding up the inside of my thigh. He had been teasing me like this for a while. Tracing his fingers across my corporeal body, as if fascinated by the way we could touch. Sometimes I would feel a peck upon my cheek, unexpected tweak to my long curly hair, or a cheeky pinch to my ample butt cheeks.

His fingers began to stroke roughly across my cunt. Then a pressure on top of me, something like breath just to the side of my head, sexual energy, a stream of sexual consciousness into my ear:

How much he wants to take this cunt and make it his own, to plunge into my deep cunny, for me to wrap those thighs around his waist, as he takes me, taking his sword right up to the hilt.

....As he fucks me, I surrender, lying in rolling waves, yet the soft bed becoming the hard deck of a ship, where he is pinning me, then on his knees looking down at me, his hair flowing around his shoulders, the dark sky behind him....

We want to be together, not these moments where we trespass within each others' worlds. We want to marry and never have to part. I am fifty and I have never married. This is not to say I have never had lovers or never been in love. I have had many lovers, men and women. I have indulged in the delights of the flesh for many years.

As I turn over my tarot card, it is The Devil, in the upright position. This means commitment, contracts, finance, marriage, sexual attraction. In the reverse position this can show bondage, enslavement- to sex, to drink, to drugs- debt, control issues and fear of commitment. In one hand The Devil holds the chain that binds the male and the other hand holds the woman, a collar around her neck; he can use her for whatever he wants.

Five years ago I had my desire taken from me, by a younger man, who forced himself upon me. I should never have allowed him into my home, my sanctuary. For some time I lost my sexual impulse, I felt sexless, yet this freed my mind, in a way, to focus on matters of intellect and spirit. With my ghost lover, that desire has returned and is stronger than ever. Orgasms are longer and deeper, fantasies and erotic images fill my mind until I am her, that woman in the tarot card, chained.

Hanson has a ring for me, of West African gold. It materialises in a lucid dream of us together. His hair is wet and waves are sloshing over the edge of the ship. His shirt is drenched and clings to his muscles, that are toned from leading a life of privateering; he must be strong, in body and mind, to lead the treacherous life that he does. Or did. Capturing Spanish ships and plundering their colonies takes a man of stealth and stamina. A special kind of man.

"Wait for me upon the green velvet rocks, let the sea show you the way. " I awake. The longing for him is like my soul is calling for him. And he is calling to me.

I dress in a long, white, linen dress and purple sandals with jewels along the front. My hair is brown and wavy, with white beginning to show in streaks at the temples. I have it pinned up, with curls flowing around my ears. The summer day is calm yet also overcast, there is rain ahead.

I walk along the footpath, down to the shoreline, holding my sandals as I tiptoe across the sand. The sound of the sea is both soothing and overwhelming. Today the waves are high and grey. The sea draws me to it with its resonance.

It is low tide, I climb up the mound of rocks, with their bright slippy seaweed that makes it difficult to step safely.

I wait for my lover to appear, to take me away with him. The rain begins to fall and the linen dress sticks to my skin, my nipples are hard, my breasts proud and pert. As the shoreline begins to slowly edge towards the rocks, I await my lover; the dress like a translucent second skin. As the waves begin their treacherous and unexpected journey over the rocks, I await Hansen.

I open my legs, stroking my cunt as the waves crash towards me. My cries are lost within the tumult. Then, as if out of nowhere, a final crescendo, the water engulfs me. I am a mermaid, the icy hands of the sea guiding me to my true love.