tagLetters & TranscriptsLover Come Home Ch. 10

Lover Come Home Ch. 10


Letter 16

Day 18

Wednesday morning, haven't been out yet

Dear V

I didn't write because I went to out to dinner last night with M. Too full of meat juices when I got home to make any sense. Also unwilling to continue our story again. But of course, I can't escape you. You were in my dream.

We were making love in the straight forward manner. Nothing fancy . I think this is as difficult to execute as a perfect, rare, char-broiled prime piece of beef. Both demand the right raw materials, complete attention to detail, great timing.

We began with the simple act of undressing each other.

We are formal people, so we do this in the traditional manner. First me, then you, standing up straight and tall in our bedroom. But in my dream we were in the center of the Pantheon in Rome. I know you've never been there, unless perhaps you are sightseeing there now. The temple is absolutely huge and perfectly circular. Its dome has a 50 ft. hole in the center which gives the generally musty interior a single intense beam of Italian sunshine. It made your pale skin seem golden.

You chose to come at me from behind. Your hands around me unbuttoned my blouse, and slipped it off, kissing each shoulder as it became free. My skirt zipped up the back, it quickly dropped to the marble floor. I slipped out of my shoes and was free. Just another statue, but not of stone. From behind you capture me with your long arms, one crossed over my breasts, the other smashing my hips into your pelvis.

Were the popes who are buried in the Pantheon looking on in frank interest, or embarrassed astonishment? Was Michelangelo, also interned there, simply disgusted? They chose not to speak.

When you let me go I turned slowly to let you gaze. You always enjoy looking at me. It takes me prisoner as no chains ever could. Once in your sight there is no escape. You own what you see, and that sharp focus misses none of my crevices, or surfaces.

Men are more difficult to undress. This time I chose to unbuckle your belt, whip it from its secure place around you, and strike the floor with it. Indiana Jones in a Roman temple. It sent us flying to Central Park. Perhaps the loud crack angered the popes, dislodging them from their meditation on bodies and free will.

Central Park is filled with the usual suspects, none of whom pay any attention to us. Why I don't know, because you are wearing a long cape with golden epaulets. I find it immensely attractive, though please don't get any ideas when you get home. This is a dream. Only Freud and the witch doctor knows why you were wearing it. I prefer you in old tweeds and baggy khakis.

We walk around, holding hands, till we get to the Zoo. The damned cape is swirling around your otherwise naked body. Still no one human notices. However, the animals are watching us. They come out of their houses and cages in pairs. Noah is not there.

The cape and popes and animals are not a distraction to us. They are only observers, voyeurs we apparently can not see or don't care about.

I lay down in the grass, and spread my legs open. You want more, necessarily so. You are so engorged with your own desire that you must spread my lips wider apart than I can manage. Your fingers are well practiced at this. The head of your penis goes in without hesitation or difficulty. Between my legs is a smooth sided tunnel. The rest of your penis plunges in, heading for some faraway much desired destination. My lips close over the base of your shaft and we are joined.

Greed or something like it, in animal form, overcomes us. Now we both want more. I wrap my legs around the small of your back. You retaliate by taking my mouth. It disappears inside you. I reach up to grasp your neck but your hands are quicker and stronger than mine. You take them and hold them out from me, from us. We are cross-shaped in the grass.

Meanwhile the animals are hooting and roaring. The lions are edgy but the hedgehogs are furious. The otters are sliding around each other in some marine version of the Rockettes. The elephant is trumpeting, poor fellow he has no mate. The eagle offers to help but this is not his story. It is ours.

The loud and vulgar animal sounds become so raucous that to escape them we roll up into a ball and roll down the hill into a movie theater.

My dreams are always Technicolor, cast of thousands, see the world sort of things. Inconvenient as hell when all I really want is a dream of reality, you and I making love in a simple place in a simple way.

Anyway, there we were in an old fashioned red velvet and plaster gilt sort of movie palace. We are on a chaise lounge on stage, with the movie playing madly behind us. I can't see anyone in the audience, in fact I don't see the seats at all. Like all dreams, the extraneous details are simply absent. Unneeded, so non-existent.

The movie is a mixture of everything I've seen, Gary Cooper gives way to Buster Keaton who disappears into Daryl Hannah. Your cape is mercifully gone. We're still joined but you are kneeling and have pulled me up so that my knees hug your sides. We are moving, but at some pace that slows and hastens according to the tides. It has nothing to do with me, or you, it seems, but is fated like the waxing and waning of the moon. Your eyes are closed, concentrating every part of your body, soul, heart, mind, on me. I close my eyes too. I can't bear to watch what your wet finger is doing, rubbing that small glowing spot in front of me. The feeling is too intense to see.

The actors on the screen continue in their starring roles, 30ft. high and full of store bought emotion. Horses whinny, people are blown up, Burt Lancaster kisses Deborah Kerr in the surf. We, you and me, small but real, continue to move.

Finally, you reach down, wrap your arms around me, and pull me up on to you. You are still kneeling but now my legs slip around you again, my arms are around your neck. I am off the chaise, the only thing my body touches is you. Our rhythm is now very steady, very clear, very loud.

My face is side by side with yours. Your left ear is pressed into my right ear. I can hear your blood pulse. We pound on. Is the rhythm your heartbeat? We pound on. This will never end. The world will die if your penis stops striking. The tides will not know when to come and go. The oceans will take over the land and never recede.

The actors continue, but at a slower pace. Dirty Harry's bullets take five minutes to dispatch the bad guy. A simple scene with a speeding car moves at glacial speed.The car will never get to its destination.

But we get to ours. The final thrust is an bomb placed deep inside me. The shrapnel goes up my back bone and lands in my brain. I would scream if I could, but at the point of no return one is speechless. I feel you collapse in my arms, you who were ruling the world just a minute ago. But then simultaneously I am falling into you. There is a moment of perfect oblivion, we are merged and murdered at the same time. Dead and gone from our one body we have nothing left to give or to feel. It is over.

We slide down together, still wrapped up as a single package, panting and dissolving into sleep. That is the way it should end. No words, no your turn my turn, no trips to the toilet. And it does, except, I open my eyes for an instant to see your face before I sleep.

Humphrey Bogart is leaning down from his screen, all 30 ft. of him, with a serious and slightly confused look on his face. Ingrid Bergman breaks the silence by saying, in a Swedish accent, how much she enjoyed our performance. I am too sleepy to respond and you have wisely kept your eyes closed so you don't have to deal with this Hollywood intrusion. Peter Lorre is laughing, and insisting we are the best ever and will we repeat this again at the matinee. Sidney Greenstreet gravely asks if we will be serving luncheon afterwards.

I am almost grateful to wake up. Goodnight dear.


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