Memories by the Fire

I sit in a chair and nurse my baby. No she's not a baby and she's really just playing, our last few weeks of nursing and I have only a few teaspoons of milk left. My tight, taut, huge mother breasts are gone. But she still loves the experience of it. She raises my shirt up to expose both breasts and says "I like it, I like it." She grins at my two breasts. She says "I want two nurse-a-bit places." She places her cold hands in the cavern between my two breasts and she says "Hot. Mama is hot." Perhaps this is a memory that will reside somewhere in her body to resurface when, much older, she becomes sexual and breasts become full of erotic meanings. Right now its just mama's body, fun to play with, nourishing, warm, close, fun to squeeze, intimate.

I close my eyes when we are done and cuddle with her in front of the wood fire. My mind shifts and I drift with images in my mind. Images from the past, from long before I was a mother, long before my breasts fed a tiny infant and later a toddler. I remember a bar with wood fire and a pool table and dancing with a man. The bar is called the Duchess, probably its still there.

We dance a Cajun waltz, a seductive three step dance. Our crotches and hips nestle against each other. Nice, smooth movements and the growing erectness between us. I'm shorter than he by 6 inches or and so I feel him jutting around my navel. A strong, thick branch resting there. I look up at him and we smile with our eyes, but say nothing. No acknowledgement of what is there, just a tiny bit more pressure and rubbing. I feel my vulva turn to sticky cake batter, ready to drip, needing a man's hand to cup it. I know that if we were somewhere else, he would undo his penis and slip it up inside my shorts. For I know that neither of us has any underwear on. We have left them in the car. The next song is a two-step and we move a little farther apart and sink in with the sensuous music. I look straight at his eyes. I am acutely aware of the erectness again there between us-only a cocks width from me.

When he is in tight jeans like now, his erection usually goes down the inner part of his right thigh because he wears no underwear to keep it nestled up. Sometimes, though he adjusts it up against his zipper to make his hardness less conspicuous. When he has done that I know that if I were to dip my fingers slightly into the top of his pants that his head and its circling ridge will be right there, held tightly against his navel, waiting, wanting to spring out, wanting freedom.

Some penises, when erect, are like weighted dolls, always bouncing back upright, always trying to snuggle up against their mans' belly, exposing their underside and their ridge. But I know his isn't like that. He is big and when he's erect, his penis juts straight out, straight at its target. I wonder what an erect penis feels like to a man. Does it feel a part of him, of his body, or separate? The head of a penis seems so far out there, separate, out on its own.

The music ends and we part. He asks if I want to play a game of pool. When I take the first break, I bend over, knowing that he is behind me, watching. We play a few turns and then I bend over, caress the end of the stick and begin to line the balls up. His finger comes up under my shorts to the crease between my vulva and thigh and he strokes, just a little stroke. My shot goes wild and he comes around and grins at me. He takes a turn and while he aims I walk over to my beer, pick it up and gently run my tongue around the rim. Then I put my whole mouth over it. He tries to hit the ball, but right before he shoot he looks up at me and the cue scratches along the edge of the felt. I remember once his housemate told me that she felt sorry for the women who are overtly sexual like I have just been. I have always wondered if she was referring to me. It doesn't' matter, I love sex games like this. I am playing a game with my lover and its our game.

My turn again and I take the cue stick, fondle it up and down and then bend over, making sure I am right in front of me. No pretense of actually playing pool anymore. He comes over and slides his hands up my tank top and encircles my breasts, pushing against my ass with his groin. He releases my right breast for a moment and I feel him unzipping his pants, then he presses again up through my shorts and I feel him enter me, just a tiny bit.

Laughter echoes in the adjacent room where they are watching a ball game. We part, both breathing heavily and adjust ourselves. Not a moment too soon, because someone comes in and watches our game. I focus again on the game, although my mind is in my body, its deep inside my pelvis. We play badly, to the end, where he wins and is challenged by the man who has entered the room. I know that later we will go outside the back door, in the dark and finish what we have begun.

While he plays, I watch idly, keeping track of his penis. I know that the ridge of a man's cock is the most sensitive, yet the shaft with its pulsing veins and blood full hardness is so enticing. The smooth tautness of the head, unlike any other part of a man's body. Does a man's lust shoot up from his penis ridge to his nipples? Does he feel it deep up inside his groin or is that a female thing because our vagina, our penis sheath goes deep inside us. Does he feel it only at the tip of him? Or can he suck it up, deep into his balls, to his belly and up through to his heart?

After it is released from the pulsing penis, does the blood rush all over the body, carrying the remnants of the lust and desire? Does it etch a searing trail in the body that remains there for all time, that can be accessed again with just a small reminder - a smell or an outline of a body? I know I have millions of these etches criss-crossing my body. Many I know and am familiar with; others are beneath my consciousness until I am triggered by a small incident and it comes flooding back.

Abby snores bring me back from the deep past of the Duchess, the dancing and the pool game. She is sound asleep on my chest. I gently take her upstairs and put her into her bed. Still surrounded by memories, I dig out some pictures I took years ago of he and I in the midst of a fantasy. In the picture, he has my slick, lacey negligee wrapped around his erect penis. I took pictures from in front of him and I took pictures from underneath his penis, looking up at the shaft. The picture reminds me of something I have forgotten - he has only one testicle. I vaguely remember him telling me that the doctors tried to get his other one to descend when he was a boy, but it didn't happen. I wonder if the skin and blood that was supposed to go into building the other testicle, instead went into building his penis. The thickness and length of him. I suddenly remember that sometimes it took him a while to climax. I wonder if it had to do with so much exposed skin and nerve endings, so much blood that had to pump in and be trapped. So much to happen before he could let loose.

Back at the wood fire, I sit, a mother, a wife, a partner and not to him, no I haven't been with him for more than 10 years. And yet I think of him, his essence fills my pores, my body. I wonder what's in his eyes when he's lustful, when he's out of control, when he's wanting so much that he can't back off. It's been so long since he and I have been sexual, that I don't remember this. My body longs to see that - to feel the intensity of his look; to feel that passion aimed at me.

I want to lie between his legs while he pulls my hair and feel his hardness rise underneath and beside my head. I want to feel the smooth length of his cock beside my cheek. I want to feel that hardness along the crack of my ass in the morning. I want him to sleep with his hands entwined in my hair. And I want to walk down the street, knowing that neither of us has underwear on; knowing that at any moment......

I remember times when he was asleep and I tried to rouse him with my mouth. When he was deep asleep in the middle of the night, not much happened, maybe a slight filling, but then nothing else. But if I tried in the morning when he was almost awake, he was already full and then he'd wake up and groan and reach for me. Afterwards he'd go to try to piss in the bathroom and was usually in there a long time. I used to wonder what men meant when they said they couldn't pee when they were erect or right after they had climaxed when they were still full. I knew the mechanics, the physiology but couldn't feel it.

Strangely enough, lately, I've had the same thing happen. Coming and coming and knowing I could climax again, but being sore and tired, still full and erect, my clitoris or its swelling blocking off my urethra. When I try nothing comes. Now I know how it feels. It seems my body has changed in many ways since I've birthed two girls through that hot gripping canal. Some changes are very obvious - I don't have a twenty year old body anymore.

Some changes are inside, unseen, like the multiple climaxes and the inability to pee after coming, and the coming deep, deep inside me. And still others are subtle mixtures of womanliness and sexuality, wantonness and motherhood all mixed together into a rich, layered sexuality. A richness that for me came only with the experiences of feeling my body growing a baby, merging with them, my known and familiar body becoming unknown, the agony of birthing my daughters and then becoming the sustenance that my babies thrived on. And finally, again, become a vehicle of pleasure for me and a partner all over again.

Why do I want to share this with a man I haven't slept with in over 10 years? Why do I want him to know, to feel me? Why is he the focus of this energy after all these years? It's not so surprising that its him, since I've had him in my fantasy life for all these years, what is surprising is the intensity. What will my intrusions on his life do to him? And I know that I AM an intrusion.

He's off working all hours of the day, no time off, just getting through day to day. No time for relationships, or sex, except on rare occasions, just stuff to accomplish. And a good feeling of doing well. I remember that place, I used to do that too, even up to two years ago.

I get up to put a new log on the fire and my robe falls open to reveal my legs and bare middle, and another memory surfaces from deep inside me. After I wake up one morning, he's out in the kitchen in his open black dressing gown. Both of us freshly showered, our hair wet, our bodies glistening. I don't remember what he was cooking, that wasn't important. I do remember slipping my hands around him from behind. I feel his hard belly and slowly move down to find his partially erect shaft. I stroke my hands slowly up and down and savor his tautness, smoothness and soon it is jutting hopefully in front. A little later I go over to the cupboard for some dishes; from behind me I feel him lift up my thin cotton robe until my ass is exposed. He inserts his hand into my already sopping cunt. He turns me around and lifts me up to the tiled counter top. He spreads my legs up there and then pushes himself inside me and I am ready. I've always liked to really feel my men. No tentative touching for me although I love gentle slow touches in their time. I am drawn to blatant sexuality and lust.

I fantasize about him kneeling in front of me, masturbating himself. Watching him stroke himself with both hands. Watching him watch me to see my reaction. He never would do this, never did, he barely even acknowledged that he fantasized and masturbated. And I didn't know how powerful that portion of a sexual life could be. Strange, with all the creative sex we had together, masturbation wasn't a part of it or a part of our conversation. That's something we missed out on and I regret it; the woman I am now wouldn't let that go by without exploring it.

We liked to go to hot tubs. Once, after splitting up, we went to the hot tub, supposedly just two friends - naked with champagne in a tub. Both of us pretending nothing would happen when we got in that tub together. I see us there, so long ago. We talk from opposite sides of the hot tub and as we talk I see his penis rise. Rise and harden and point at me. He acts as if he has no idea what's happening and I try to, but my eyes keep going down to his shaft. I sit on the edge and he moves around the edge of the tub to talk to me. His shaft just inches from my vulva and still we pretend it doesn't exist. Lust swirls around us, thick and chewy. Tiny bit by bit, he moves closer until he touches me with his cock head. Just a tiny touch, up high on my vulva, right where my clitoris juts out. When I am excited my labia fill and part and my clitoris pokes its head out to the air. That strange and beguiling head and eye touches me gently with its bloodfilled trunk and I swallow hard. Then finally there's an acknowledgement that something is happening. He moves his hand down to the base of his shaft and gently rubs its head up and down my vulva. Sliding from my exposed clitoris down through my open labia to the entrance to my body. Back and forth, lingering oh so gently on the pulsing door to my vagina, my cunt. Oh yes, right now it's a cunt. And right now I AM a clitoris - that's all I am, a throbbing, swollen clitoris. And he rests there, pushing slightly, and then finally enters me an inch or so. Enough to make me gasp. He rests there for a moment and then backs out. And of course it doesn't end there.

Being a married woman, a mother, is far more complex than I ever thought. All sharp edges - one second a mother, the next a partner, the next a professional and a friend and then in between the cracks of life - out peeks lust. Lust in the midst of parenting, of getting through with the kids. Lust in the middle of exhaustion and worries and aging. Oh yes, lust, dusty and forgotten, I brush it off to look at it and oh my, it gleams like a Christmas ornament. It beckons and calls.

So I sit here and lust after another and I write so that my lust doesn't break out into action. That would be a whole other world, tilting what I have created sideways. Seductive and dangerous.

Or maybe I write to bring the two of us closer to that other world. Maybe being on that edge would help me come back to myself - back to a full self that is full of lust as well as mothering.

Or maybe I write because I have to.