Crash Into Me

I hear my name, breathed out halfway between her mouth and her nose, and she shakes, balanced above me as she is on both knees. A curse. My name. Another curse. My name, the last syllable of which dissolves into a long-vowel moan of pure ecstasy followed by a gasp. Frustrated she shoves her fingers into my underwear and tries her best to match me, but I tighten my grip on her hips, my own fingers curving around into the soft flesh of her derriere, and open my mouth wider, pushing my tongue in further, driving it inside her until I've stretched as far as I can.

She takes a long breath and holds it...every part of her clenches, one hand making a fist beneath my panties, the other making a similar fist with my hair. Her thighs lock in place so firmly she actually manages to hold herself still for a few seconds, tightening every muscle in her back, her abs, her pert little butt, squeezing desperately, bracing herself in a bid to ward off the coming tsunami.

For a second, I pause. No movement, no pressure. I see her mentally, jaw slack, nose skyward, eyes squeezed shut hard enough to make them water, back bent, pushing her breasts towards the moon's yellow haze. I burn the image into my memory. Lynn, my sister, my angel, my partner, dangles on the precipice of eternity, awaiting absolution...teetering...tottering...frozen in the agony of knowing what's coming and powerless in the knowledge it is out of her hands, until finally, finally, I step forward, place my hand on her shoulder.

And.

Softly.

Push.

At first, I don't know what's happening. I've never seen my sister climax before. I don't even know if Lynn pleasures herself, although I assume she does because when I was her age, I did it all the time. There's a gasp, followed by the quiver of her thighs, and another gasp which she arrests by biting forcefully into her lip, turning it into a low purr and a series of rapid puffs from her nose. Then I understand: she's fighting it, trying to keep it from overwhelming her, playing a game of orgasmic Whack-A-Mole as the pleasure finds a new exit each time she closes off the previous one. She fights and fights, pulling my hair even harder, nails digging into my skin, as I massage her clit with my tongue.

"Let it out," I say, taking my mouth off her sex long enough to whisper the words before I return my attention between her legs.

Still she struggles. Now she's the one banging frantically at the ice just as I was before, fighting an urge she doesn't understand.

"There's no one else to hear," I whisper again, running my fingertips gently down her sides.

"Collie..." she manages.

"Just us," I soothe, stroking her back. "Just you...just me..."

"Co-Collie...I'm..." She clenches again, raising herself up on her knees, away from my mouth.

"Let it out, angel..." My palms caress her hips, my thumbs massage the area below her belly button.

"Col-leee...!" She's upright fully on her knees now, struggling for all she's worth, and I swear I can hear every snap, every pop, as the shield crumbles all around her, leaving her vulnerable.

"I love you, Lynn." She can escape my mouth, but not my tongue.

The most beautifully expressive use of the f-bomb I'll ever hear blasts from her lips as she holds my head in place and lowers herself again. Following on its heels are a series of rapid inhales and exhales, each one holding different words, new words, sometimes my name, sometimes not, sometimes just a cry as my tongue tickles her clit and coaxes the climax out of hiding and into the starlight. She gives herself over to the moment, permitting the wrong to become right, accepting her own sister is the cause of it all.

I grab her calves, one soft and supple, the other firm and unyielding, and hold her as she holds my head, letting the waves of heat and pleasure and panic and deliverance carry her away into a world where there is no pain, no rejection, no disorder, no chaos, only us. Her and me. Lynn and Colleen, stranded on a desert island comprised of nothing but beautiful sunrises, perfect sunsets, and clear night skies that stretch into infinity.

I make love to my sister until she's utterly spent, until she's released my head and collapsed to the blanket in surrender, knees, elbows and spine reduced to jelly. Slowly, carefully, I shift around until she's laying beside me, head on my breast, my hand on her stomach just the way she wanted it when we last shared my bed which now seems ages ago.

I listen to her breathe, wondering if she'll fall asleep, wondering what time it is, wondering if Mom and Dad will be upset if we get home late, slowly letting the rest of the world back in until I realize someone's saying my name. I snap back into my head. "Hmmm?" I look over to see her eyes, half-closed like little moons, looking into mine.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like when you want to clench your toes and can't?" She shifts her artificial leg over the blanket and prods my own with it.

"Um, no, can't say as I do."

"Good." She takes a deep breath and lets out a long, contented sigh. "I love you too," she whispers, closing her eyes and settling back down against my bare chest. I brush the errant strands of hair from her cheek, take in the angle of her nose, and nod. Though she can't see me, I watch her lips curl into a smile of understanding. She is mine. I am hers. 'The kiss' cannot be undone. As I turn my gaze to the heavens, I promise to fight any who would try.

Five minutes. I'll give her five more minutes, then we should get dressed.

Her lips press against my skin, a soft kiss upon my neck. I revise my estimate up to seven.

Her hand scoots down my tummy, over my underwear. My panties, already damp from before, stick to my skin anew as a fresh wave of moisture gathers. Ten minutes, no more.

Thirty seconds later, my hips jut into the air and I'm shoving my underwear down my calves, using one foot to push it down the opposite leg, then switching off, as Lynn pulls my nipple into her mouth and starts to gently suck. As she pushes her finger inside me, I give a few half-hearted kicks, trying to disentangle my panties from around my left ankle where they seems determined to stay.

"Your turn," Lynn whispers as the weight of the universe presses down on my chest and I lay back to open myself up to all the possibilities.

She kisses down my stomach and oh my god, this is gonna take longer than fifteen minutes isn't it, but I feel her finger inside me now her mouth on the inside of my thighs and holy shit yes this can take all night, all night, all...night...!

* * * * *

The drive home is all flirty banter and giggles, just two girls who've broken barriers most people never will, bonded over sharing something forbidden, and lived to tell the tale. Every few seconds, I can't resist stealing one more glance at her. Every look at the brightness in her eyes, the can't-keep-a-secret grin on her face, the pursed lips that boast of knowing something no one else ever will, makes me feel the last few hours all over again, and helps me forget this is something that cannot last.

She closes her eyes and rests her head against the seat with a sigh. What we have is doomed, a firefly trapped in a jar with holes poked in the lid. Even under the best of circumstances, even if I followed her to college, even if it survived the long distance, even if Mom and Dad would be 100% on board with it (and trust me, we'll see Hell coated with a fine layer of permafrost before that happens), there are things the world just won't let be. I'm not her future, much as I want, and she cannot be mine.

That doesn't mean we can't enjoy our time before she leaves, the less-rational side of my brain argues. With this, I agree: she's got all summer before she moves north. There's no saying what can happen in these next few months. But even if we sleep together every single night, an abject impossibility given our living arrangements, that leaves ninety-some days between tonight and when we load up the van. Fewer than one hundred nights between now and goodbye.

College will change her, distance will change me, and the world will keep turning just the same. The romantic in me will continue to search poetry for the wisdom to understand when it's time to let her go, and I pray she eventually recognizes she'll need to do the same. Tonight though...tonight we have what we have, and the world can pry that from our cold, dead fingers.

Lost in thought, my concentration lapses. I hear Lynn yell my name as I roll right into the intersection, ignoring the outstretched hand of the bright red stop signal. Headlights glare through the passenger-side windows. My heart falls into my stomach and I mash a pedal to the floor, hoping against hope I've done the right thing this time.

* * * * *

It's mid-morning when I reach the small churchyard cemetery. Soft wisps of cloud drift lazily through the perfect blue sky while the sun shines serenely above. I ignore the other people present as I weave up the path until I reach my destination. The gravestone is simple, a vertical slab of stone bearing a name, two dates, and an epitaph. If you weren't looking for it, you'd pass by without a second thought.

For a while I regard the well-manicured lawn, the occasional tribute of flowers, lost in contemplation. It doesn't seem real, but here I stand. Life's funny like that. One month earlier, you don't see yourself planning to spend part of a summer day standing in a cemetery, and then suddenly, boom, here you are. And even though I swore up and down I wasn't going to cry, when I look back at the unassuming, unobtrusive stone marking the plot, I feel my eyelids swelling.

Behind me I hear footsteps on the path. "Sorry, Lynn," I whisper as a hand takes mine and gives a squeeze.

"Just couldn't wait, could you, Collie?"

I look over to see her grinning up at me like the Cheshire Cat. "Hey, this is the whole reason we're here. I'm not the one who got distracted on the way in."

"It's not my fault! I didn't know they'd have a bookstore."

"Uh-huh. Anything good?"

"Not really. I mean, they have a bunch of, like, pictures, and poetry books and stuff, but nothing I haven't already read." She looks back at the gravestone, so remarkable in its unremarkableness, and mouths the words of the epitaph cut into the front:

Cast a cold Eye

On Life, on Death

Horseman pass by.

Words are unnecessary, so I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her closer. Memories of that night after prom return: the approaching lights, the squeal as I stomped on the brakes, the blare of the horn on the other car as they swerved around us and continued through the green light. In an instant, it could have been taken away from me. My sister. My love. Everything. But the universe had other plans. The horseman passed by.

Shock gave way to nervous laughter, which gave way to us pulling over to the shoulder after the intersection. We hopped out, carefully avoiding the halo cast by the streetlamp, and embraced yet again. I couldn't keep my hands out of her hair, she couldn't keep her mouth off mine, and I'd no desire to push her away. Pressed against the passenger side of the car, we shared a kiss that transcended ages. Every worry from before exited my mind like bits of paper blown off a counter top. In that moment she was mine, I was hers, and nothing, neither distance, nor time, nor common sense, could separate us.

The idea to visit Ireland came a few days later. I kept it to myself until I looked into the cost, but comparing what I had saved to the potential expenses revealed I had set aside more than enough over the last few years to make it work. I cleared it with Mom and Dad before telling Lynn, and she was head-over-heels at the idea. Anyone who loved Yeats as much as she does would jump at the chance to visit his grave, and if it was going to happen, it should be this summer.

We stay there, holding hands, each lost in our own thoughts until a large tour group approaches, then take our leave and wander the grounds, reading the ancient stones, listening to the bells of the aged church, shading under a massive tree. I never believed in magic until we came here. Ireland is just...so old that it's new, and so new it's old. I didn't understand until I stood in a cemetery dotted with graves pre-dating the States. I didn't understand Yeats's passion for his country which motivated so much of his writing until the first night when Lynn and I lay in bed at the inn, luxuriating in a bout of post-bliss togetherness, gazing out the window at the setting sun, running my fingers through her hair, and then...I just did. Love truly does trump all here―at home we're cautious: furtive glances over dinner, sharing a hurried kiss in the hallway, or stealing into the other's room in the middle of the night and crossing our fingers nobody hears us and knocks on the door.

Here though, there's none of that. The hills, the grass, the sky, they don't judge. The sun gives permission to be who we are every morning when it shines in our faces to wake us up. It's inexplicable, it's magical, and that's all I can say. Indiana might be where I live, but somewhere in my blood I know Ireland is home and it won't be denied. I'll be back here one day, with her at my side. What we'll do, where we'll live, or even how we'll make it happen, I know not. Mom and Dad will shit bricks when they find out we want to move overseas, so it's hardly a conversation I'm anxious to have. I think for now I'll trust in the fairies and leave the magic in their capable hands. It will happen when it's meant to, and I'm patient enough to wait...at least for a little while.

That's a story yet to be written though. Lynn has college; I have the bookstore, where I think I'll inquire about taking over the poetry section for a while. Yeats brought us together...who knows what else the world of verse holds? She's taught me more since we continue to play her game every morning, even here on vacation, even though there's no shower, just a claw-foot tub big enough for us to share, even though I won the prize and don't need to guess correctly to win her kiss any longer. I've discovered two new favorites.

'The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know.' Blaise Pascal. She quoted it at me in the original French of course, because she's Lynn, but damned if I can remember how that went. Doesn't matter, the point is it's just one more thing he could have said about the two of us. Apparently mathematician philosophers could be poets as well. Who knew?

She's curled up in one of the high-backed chairs near the little fireplace, naked under a giant pink cotton robe, head buried in 'Gaelic For Dummies'. "Good luck with all those silent consonants, nerd." She throws a finger without even looking up, then realizes where she is and shifts it to the 'two-finger salute' that means the same thing on this side of the pond. I maintain decorum for roughly two seconds before I crack up and she lowers her hand. Éirinn go Brách, Lynn. Back to the journal.

The second is, if anything, scarier in light of the simplicity of its truth. 'Some rise by sin,' wrote Shakespeare, 'and some by virtue fall.' If I were good at riddles, this would be the perfect time for something like, 'When is a sin not a sin?', but I'm not so I won't insult your intelligence. I know what I know, I know what I feel, and whether it's right or wrong isn't for anyone to judge. Ultimately whether we rise or fall (by sin, or virtue, or some other means) is yet to be determined, I suppose. Either way she and I will do so together, as only lovers, only soul-mates...only sisters...can.