My arousal always begins the same way: with a thud. If it were a sound, it would illicit the same jolt of awareness that a heavy knock on a thick wooden door sends through you; startling, deep, and distant. If it were a smell, it would be musky-sweet like warm cantaloupe or roses, browning and collapsing on the vine. If it were a flavour, it would be caramel and cinnamon. If it were an image, it would be a shimmering mirage of undulating heat above a strip of black highway. But as a sensation, it’s heavy and dense, a small shockwave, the psycho-ripple of the brain and the body, and the soul and the mind. Synapses snapping shut and the slow chug of cells engorging, pressing tight on themselves until my whole being feels ready to burst.
After my skin has become sensitive all over, after my nipples have swollen, after my cunt has grown slick with readiness, the slow incline to orgasm begins. It starts softly enough, a warm breeze of want, a pleasant shudder that soon makes its way out the tips of my toes and the end of my hair, emanating from my sodden lap. It starts my thighs quivering as the primordial urge to fuck crawls out of the back-most root of my brain and slithers down my spine, encircling and ensnaring my pelvis, sinking it’s fangs into my clit as my hips buck. Every grazing touch of finger or tongue along my clit is searing pleasure; water droplets dancing and hissing in a hot pan, crackling sparks of a bonfire between my thighs and behind my eyes. When it rolls through me, there’s a suffocating tightness in my limbs that gets replaced by a rush of perfect quiet. Somewhere far away I can hear myself calling out, as if I’m not myself at all. As if I’m so far away that my body is a dream, yet so central to that dream that my whole existence is what my body feels, and it feels everything. I hear my voice plead, I hear it beg. I cry and shake and implode; a crumbling structure, razed.
La petit mort, it all ends as it began: with a thud. Have you ever listened to your heartbeat underwater? Just as death recalls birth, we are thrust between worlds, and into the silent stillness of the come down. Exhale and inhale as it all comes rushing back: I’m just another falling star burning out before I hit the horizon, a fading Catherine wheel. I wish to sleep until my mouth no longer tastes of ash and my hands feel like mine again. Fade to black.
Denied, I stagger at the edge of a vast nothingness. Shouting into the void is hopeless, my voice absorbed by time itself. There is nothing before me but his omnipresent heart beat, a taunting metronome, measured ampules in the undercurrent of urgency, a cerebral tension that can’t be explained. The fate of my pleasure is nailed to his door, both omen and offering. He’ll bleed my resolve dry before soaking it in sweet oils and rubbing it raw, burnishing my desire to a smooth mirror finish. I am the bait, I am the prey, I am the prize, and as a cat toys with its mouse, so he plays with me. Puppet, poppet, his sopping love.