Old Flame Finally Kindled

For over sixteen years I have been in love with Jennifer, a woman I met in school. We spent years avoiding having sex because we were committed to others, but finally after the following letter, we met in Minneapolis her hometown and spent a night together...

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Dear Jennifer

"On Waiting for Better Things"

Because we are not head-over-heals, slap-me-silly, destiny-bound in love with each other, even if we were somehow to spend time together, I don't think I would want to immediately indulge in a straight for the crotch, tearing buttons off kind of physical passion. Of course I know from the experience of being near you, of how I stir when I stare into your eyes, that this would be how I would feel, and that the physical urges would be almost overpowering. If we were both teenagers, I could see going straight for the jugular: Head back, neck exposed, teeth cutting lips, get the pants and underwear off, rip the bra if you can't figure out the clasp, fingers in, rhythm established. But difficult as it might be, I'm no longer a horny 17 year old and so I think I'd be able to hold off. For what reason? Because for all the years I haven't known you, I'd want to make up for lost time. I'd spend days on getting to know your ear lobe (How does it attach to your head? Does it hang free or does it clasp the side of your jaw? Will it quiver if I flick it with my tongue? Is it cold in the evenings, warm in the morning? Is it pierced? Bejeweled? Unadorned? Do you moan if it's nibbled? Do the nerves there connect to other parts of your body?)

I'd spend days concentrating on your ears, and then calculate the curve of your jaw, and perhaps then the nape of your neck. I wouldn't move on until I knew every wrinkle and fold, each crevice and hidden place, its scent when clean, its gathering of tangy sweat at the end of a long day. I'd cover each inch of your body like a patient explorer, carefully mapping the terrain, and returning each night to check the veracity of my claim. I would conquer your eyelids, and take possession of your forehead, and with every inch kissed and fondled, prodded and poked, I'd resurrect a lifetime of embodied memories that never existed between you and I, but which I could create out of the intimacy of tongue against flesh, of nostrils nuzzling hair, of fingertips stroking skin.

I would bypass your breasts, leaving them for later--they might exhaust me if I took them on too soon. They would be the penultimate destination, mounts to be challenged only after I've suckled each of your toes, and licked in the spaces between not once and not twice but the myriad amount of times that it takes to know how hard it takes for you to giggle and how soft it takes for you to moan. I'd explore the backs of your thighs, and the spot where your spine meets its end. I'd caress the fullness of your hips, and trace delicate lines on your buttocks with the tip of my tongue. I'd revel in the tininess of your pretty hands and fingers, so I knew how to take the measure of myself in their lengths. Perhaps after months of roaming over every surface of your body, then, perhaps, I would linger in the hollows of your breasts, in the taut spaces where they join with your ribs. I would trace all the possible paths to the peak, each route that can be climbed, each approach that can be attempted, circling your nipples with my tongue like a hawk around a summit.

I would linger, as I said, because I have waited a lifetime, and to rush to the top would be the folly of youth. When you are young, you are impatient to sample every morsel that tempts you, eager to taste and consume and then move on. But if you don't have to move on, if each day you can live in anticipation of the next, with the new sights and sounds and textures and flavors it will bring, well, then you can afford to be patient. And so only after I'd spent eons on your wonderful breasts, felt their heft and their fullness, the patterns of their swinging and their undulations as you walk or lie down or sit up or roll over, only after I had come to know the texture of your skin, and the releasing hardness of your nipples as they soften and the pointed resistance of them scraped between my teeth, only then would I trace a slow journey down the valley between your breasts, down the downy skin of your stomach, past your familiar belly button (well mapped by now and so an old friend).

I don't know what I would find in the secret spaces between your thighs. I can only imagine. Whether after all this time waiting, you might be wet and open with anticipation or I might find you nervously closed. Perhaps I will follow a fragrance that welcomes me, or tunnel my tongue through swollen passages. I DO know that in this final destination I will linger, and what kisses I have bequeathed on every other place before this will be multiplied a hundredfold. And that I will not be satisfied even if I have tasted you each and every day, and felt the clutching spasms of your thighs against my ears and the squeezing of my tongue as you clench, and heard the rumbling of groans that you cannot control. And that each time I return I will again trace a slow path, even if sometimes a shortcut will bring me back here a touch faster (but only if you insist, and only if I can make up for the lost journey by spending time afterwards somewhere else, kissing your eyes or nuzzling the hollow under your chin).

The only problem with such a slow circumnavigation of your body would be that it would be torturous--I'd be tempted at every moment to lash you into coming, to smooth my soft lips over your clitoris, to feel your contortions and to treasure every spasm of your comings and goings. I'd want to spend the rest of my day with your smell on my hands and on my face, so each and every movement I made would stir the scents of your happiness.

If you take a long time to fall in love, and perhaps never, that's all right, because time is all you have when you're waiting, and time can be filled with wonderful things, and even if we never got to where we'd like to go, the journey there could be its own reward.

I guess this is yet another odd love letter of sorts...

X

Dear X

Your letter convinced me to end the waiting. Will you meet me in Minneapolis? I want to show you my hometown, and if our love is to be finally realized, the pleasure will forever mingle with the warmest of my memories of home and happiness.

Until that day soon, my love,

Jennifer

Dear Jennifer:

I'm assuming you'll get this message when you get home. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed Friday night, from the first moment to the last. Walking to Murray's, hearing the youth return to your voice was a uniquely intimate experience--perhaps even more than what happened later in my hotel room (although the "sex addict" in me would probably disagree, especially as I recall the sweaty details...).

I don't think it was nostalgia and longing that animated your descriptions of an earlier life, at least it wasn't what moved me as you spoke. I felt the years, of course, decades intervening and so much that has happened since. But rather than the lost innocence of youth and too many troubled years gone by, being with you in your hometown and retracing your long trod footsteps, I felt like we were the oddest of old couples.

If we had really been an old couple, celebrating our 30th anniversary, we wouldn't have walked your old streets the way we did. You would have long ago shown me your old haunts already, and they would have been known but perhaps still alien to me, maybe even a source of resentment since they spoke of intimacies and passions pre-dating our existence as a couple. Or perhaps through the years we would have made them a source of nostalgia together, as your hometown became somehow mine too, an adopted place that served to symbolize the sharing of memory that all successful couples must create.

But your memories on Friday night were wholly different--new revelations that belied the years that we have known each other, a new sense of intimacy that surprised me in the rawness of its power. I thought I had already felt what it was like to be close to you, the joy when our eyes linger, known it and missed it all the years we have been apart, but here was a feeling that was new.

It was the strangeness of feeling like a couple grown old not together, but in parallel, lovers who never quite were a couple, and so the poignancy of a missing intimacy, a love never known, overpowered the nostalgia for me. I thought of the last time we had shared a night of emotional intimacy in the same way. Who knows, maybe you will forget the physical pleasure we enjoyed together on Friday night--maybe the physical intimacy will fade from your mind even as the alcohol was cleansed by your liver--but perhaps emotional ties are harder to forget.

In any case, if you come to forget the physical pleasures that were late to the evening, I'll understand. It was a joy to me to feel your body again next to mine, and to touch and taste you again. I wonder what it would be like to awake in the morning to see your sleeping eyes next to me. I may never know, and perhaps I'll never feel what it's like to make the sheets sweaty together to start the day (what a happy beginning...). But I'm sure as the years go by and I become ever less a creature of my hormones, the poignant moments I will remember will be born of the early evening--your voice, your memories, your eyes, but most of all the sense of knowing you, and I will remember the young girl evoked as you walked through your memories, the daughter remembering the pink walls of Murray's, the teenager sneaking into adult movie shops, the beautiful woman I was lucky enough to be with on Friday night.

Much love...

X

Dearest X

You craft beautiful letters. I have always felt close to you - in the sense that we have always had an instant camraderie. Friday was no exception. I had a wonderful evening. You are right - the part I enjoyed the most is sitting at Murray's with an attentive and responsive man, and then also walking down First Ave. in the rain. You probably don't even know that it was First Ave. that we were walking down...

Jennifer

Dear Jennifer:

I'm glad to know it was First Avenue. It names a memory that I'll always remember. I've not told anyone else what happened between us, not that I'm ashamed and want to keep it a secret, but because it is a private moment that you and I have shared that I would rather keep as ours.

I find it strange that in the 16 years I have known you, I can remember some moments with such vivid clarity--not photographic detail in terms of a high resolution image--but the purity of feeling being with you remains so precise in my memory even if the moment itself is long past. I used to think that this was a product of the intensity of emotion and longing I felt (the stuff of romance in cavalier books--loving an object which is beyond your reach...). But I'm not so sure anymore.

If there was an image that symbolized that vivid clarity, it was always your eyes, matching mine across the room or mirroring me as we spoke. I recall seeing you come in the door that night years ago that ended with me returning to home from your apartment, your son in the other room sleeping. But as much as I remember kissing you inside the doorway, and the desire knotting my stomach, the image I retain is always of your eyes across the crowd meeting mine, and the exact feeling I had when you smiled. I will recall with uncanny clarity precisely that moment of joy until the day I die, long after your wonderful scent fades from my nostrils and the fiery desire it ignites are past fanning within my withered body. That joy returns to me each time I see you anew, always a common theme in endless variation.

I guess that's my part of the "instant camraderie"--I felt it again as I caught your eye entering the room this weekend. Always the moment of meeting your eyes, and then your smile to renew our acquaintance. If I were a religious person, I would think it akin to a spiritual connection, and perhaps because I'm not religious, I can think of this as a connection of souls and not be blasphemous.

Being with you is a feeling out of time, the intervening years drop away, and each moment with you a twinkling star drawn together in the same constellation, in spite of the vast and empty spaces between. Not to say that the rest of my life, or yours, is empty of meaning otherwise, but just that in those short hours with you the rest of the universe seems to fade away.

Years ago, I thought that it was in the thwarting of being together that my longing for you grew. But as the testosterone evaporates, and I understand that which is the product of physical passion and that which crystallizes out as age dulls desire, perhaps that purer product which remains is better understood for me.

If there might be other days together like Friday for the two of us, then there will be more good days for each of us to take to our graves. But if there won't be any more, we will still have Friday night, drinks and dinner at Murray's, and walking in the rain on First Avenue...

X

That Rainy Friday Night Described...

It started with a foot rub. She had the tiniest feet, barely larger than my hands. The scent of her feet, ripe from walking all day, hardened my loins. I wanted to suckle on the smell, and far from being repulsed, I wanted to consume it, fill my nostrils, cover my face. I licked her toes, savoring the musky odor and salty tang.

I grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, biting her neck. I shoved her onto the bed and pushed her skirt up and pulled her panties down, fingering her wet pussy as I kissed her. Getting off the bed, I walked to my computer and turned on the webcam so it was filming us.

Returning to the bed, I took her top off and unclipped her bra, licking and biting her nipples until she yelped.

I kept kissing her breasts and flicking her nipples with my tongue, making her moan and scream. When she was panting with desire, I slowly moved down her belly with kisses, opening her legs to eat her pussy.

Her cunt tasted musky and strong, just like her feet, and I sucked at her juices until my face was coated. I used my fingers and finger fucked her until she came, sucking on her clit as her thighs contracted around my ears. She came again, and this time I scooped her flowing juices with my finger and fed them into her mouth, making her lick herself off my fingers with her tongue.

After she had come a third time, I flipped her onto her stomach and began licking her rubbery anus. There was a sweetness mingled with the sweaty musk that had oozed into the crack of her ass from her orgasms.

She screamed as I probed into her asshole with my tongue. Grabbing each of her wrists in my hands, I pinned her arms behind her back and dined on her asshole. I was so horny I was beginning to feel violent towards her. I wanted to hurt her and mingle her pleasure with the sharp pain that would clarify and amplify the desire she was feeling.

Time to feed my own needs. I pulled her ankles up over my shoulders so that her legs were obscenely on my shoulders. Raising my hips so they were driving downwards, I slipped my eager cock through the fly of my boxers and into her waiting cunt.

So warm, so tight...

Heaven.