Twin Odysseus

You were long and slender and fragile like a flower. Smooth skin, pale golden in colour, creamy and soft like the silken pages in a book. I remember your skin, soft to the touch. Giving. Forgiving. In the secret recesses of the night, in the silent communion of our bodies, your skin was like an answer to a question I never knew I had asked. Amidst the soft sighs and smooth moves, our bodies intertwined, sliding like pliant machines over the hidden depths of thought. Oh and I knew you then, though I never knew you. I knew your enduring presence, though I never knew you. I knew your gentle touch, like a bird's wing, upon my quivering organ. And I never knew you. I never knew you. I never knew you at all.

That first night. We were in a pub, talking. I bought you a drink. We knew each other a little, though not much. We were acquaintances, not friends. We talked a little more. And then you said, while my heart leaped, "do you fancy a shag later?"

The simplicity of it. "OK then," I said, and you laughed.

We walked home to my house, playfully touching, laughing. You were happy. We held hands and touched, kissed, laughed, touched again, bumping into each other as we walked and talked and laughed. And your glasses were shining in the light of the street lamps, and you were shining too. I could see you shining behind the reflected light from your glasses. I thought you were my angel then, come down from heaven for a taste of sweet relief.

I don't remember much more about the walk. I don't remember getting home. I don't remember the front door or the living room. I remember the bed.

We were on the bed. We were kissing. Breath to breath. Lip smacked and tongue lushed, nose to ear and neck, sniffing, wanting, your skin hissing with soft electricity, tongue to throat, rolling like boats on the endless swell, feeling your body beneath your clothes as hands and eyes and whispers slid into the far-away night, as clothes slipped and ripped and disappeared, as belts were unbuckled and shoes shed and socks lopped, and we were together on the bed.

You had on one of those one-piece undergarments, bodice and knickers combined, lacy and black. I could see your pink nipples through it and the downy hair of your pubes. You looked like a model to me, like a vision, like one of those girls from the magazines, long-legged and gorgeous without your glasses, all soft, downy sin, your pale hair and golden skin like a warm morning in May. Which it might have been, who knows? Not morning, but night, warm with the dusky breath of an approaching summer.

We lay on the bed there, like that, all intertwined, your legs stretched out against mine in the soft light of the table lamp as shadows played across our bodies, your perfumed limbs smooth against mine, pressing yourself against me, the slight rasp of the nylon garment against my naked skin, feeling the heat as it rose from your loins, as you pressed yourself against me, your secret opening like a warm, soft mouth nuzzling the underside of my hip.

And you were nuzzling me with a rhythmic insistence, pressing yourself against me, directing my thoughts with your actions, letting me know what you wanted.

And then my hand straining, smoothing the hair by your ear, along your slender neck, to the hem of your garment, pulling the thin strap so it fell from your shoulder, feeling the skin above your breast, pliant, compliant, silky and soft, nestling with my nose to your ear, breathing my silent command, breath to breath, body to body in the place of one-and-only. Only you. Only me. Only the long dark night.

Feel the hand now as it smoothes down your body, over your breast to your belly. Feel it as it reaches down, brushing softly where your pubes rise, round them and passed, to your rear, letting a finger slip beneath the hem of your garment, around the lacy backside.

And you, bucking and swelling, in this night that has lasted forever, since the beginning of time, as the hand slips under the swell of your buttocks, into the gorgeous space of longing, hot like a furnace, wet like a dream. I can feel you there, waiting for me, already waiting, already wanting, as you press yourself against the finger through the damp rasp of the nylon.

That's where the poppers are, which swiftly become undone.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

And then the finger enters this abode of warmth and moisture, velvet to the touch, which sucks on me and opens like a luxuriant flower, like a tropical flower, like a fleshy flower full of heat.

That's when the undergarment disappears – just like that: gone! - and you lie before me in your nakedness, shameless in your beauty, like a whore.

And I remember you. I remember all of you. I remember the swell of your hip, rounded and full, smooth as a caress, rising from your waist, and the V at the base of your back as it nestled into the rounds of your buttocks. And I remember your spine raised from your back, and your round shoulders and frail arms and long, gentle fingers. And your long legs stretched against mine, and your slender feet and open toes. And your small stomach, and your navel like an exclamation mark, and your firm breasts pressed against my chest. And the downy softness down there, as my hand strayed, smoothing the hair with the same soft caress I might have given a baby's head, as your legs parted, you letting out a little moan, as you raised your hips to meet my hand again. And the dewy lips that parted, as the finger slid down, meeting lick-spittle smoothness with the smoothness of my touch.

And the mind was everywhere. In the fingers that probed, in the hand that pressed, in the legs that bucked, in the lips that kissed, in the tongue that journeyed, in the bellies that rocked, in the hearts that jumped, in the arms that chased, in the eyes that met and turned away, in the ears that whispered, in the breath and the bones and the blood.

And now your legs were open for me – wide, wide, wider – as I rolled on top, and you guided me along with that gentle control, like you had been trained for this task from early youth.

Soft and compliant, smoothly unfurled, we were like a pair of banners flapping uncontrollably in the wind. Caught. Trapped. We were tossed. We were thrown. We were blown, tied to the same mast, like a twin Odysseus at the Siren's call, as some seaward storm's last blowings blew away the last vestiges of our individuality and we came, having become, together.