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Cindy tells me she loves me as we turn in the warm darkness, together, not moving apart more than an inch in any direction. Its quite an experience, living in love, isn’t it, a kind of slavery, a kind indeed, of ball & chain except perhaps that you share the weight between you.

We watched the space shuttle landing through half closed eyes, feeling a sadness we did not comprehend. An end of an era someone said & Cindy tells me she loves me even when I know it because I feel it, feel it with my heart as well as with my hands.

She’s in no rush to make love again, physical love that is & neither am I. Re-entry has exhausted us, given us the shivers, left us wishing for something stronger than the coffee her kitchen provides. I rise from the wreckage slowly, unsteadily, find some biscuits & we eat them together. Determinedly & with unnecessary relish. As if we were starving instead of being as complacently overfed as we are. She makes coffee anyway, instant, brown granules out of a jar grinning at me nakedly, crookedly, breasts pert, hardly a handful, hardly anything at all. An enticing waif, enticing.

Her pubes have a tuft of hair which is a different colour to all the rest, pale where it was shaved & now has regrown. Shaved & oh how I recall the sharpness of the stubble, oh how it abraded, degraded & yet delighted.

The tuft bristles with a life of its own, curved upwards like a hook, sharp enough to hang desire upon.

We don’t have much to say to each other usually. Words of love & that’s about it. We know each other by now, by smell & sound & not much else. Its enough. A pulse perhaps, riding through & around. She’s no need to ask & I’ve no cause to enquire. We know. Know. & that’s enough. She tells me she loves me, in so many ways, without speaking, without doing anything, without any indication at all.

………………

I tell Cindy I love her so many times a day we both lose count. It’s like the drip of a tap except its uneven, sunlight driven, moonlight inspired, so personal it’d be meaningless to anyone else, even if they could pick it up. The pillow smells of her & we turn, sit up, brushing biscuit crumbs & thinking in sequences like binary streams running, clicking, click, click, click! Even the biscuit smells of her, soft, not brittle, rounded where she has done something with it.

There is chocolate on the sheet, a smear like something else entirely but we don’t mind, a fine grit from biscuit bits, a warm place where a coffee cup has been.

She’s a birthmark on her thigh, the left one, high up on the inside, a smooth, brown oval, she says it’s not a mole, shows it to me again without my asking, shows it ‘cos she knows I like to look beyond to her crinkled pinkness where it darkens to purple with promise & waits in the shadows for the heat of our desires.

We agree it’s a shame, a damned shame, there’ll be no more shuttles. What will man do now, we wonder. He always has to reach up, doesn’t he, Cindy asks, he can never stagnate. Not for long anyway.

We nod together as our coffee & the white ship cool together & the moon grows ever larger in mystery and wonder. If thinking is the best way to travel tell me how I can get my suitcases there, safely on the shores of the Sea of Tranquillity, in the shadow of that rock without it bursting open in Customs & revealing my innermost secrets.

………………

When our coffee & biscuits are done we turn together, warm bellied, hot lipped. Lingering chocolate dances to and fro, tongue tipped, sleek lipped & she murmurs about something & nothing, fragmentary snatches of a song I have often heard her sing.

Together we could do it, couldn’t we? The vibrations there, the time is right & the season ripe so why oh why don’t we make a kid? She knows & we knows, we’ve been all over it many times before. It’s more than a fuck, more than even a memorable one, more even than one you’d call momentous & a kid is for life anyway, not just until Christmas & we can’t afford even one of them on what I am earning. But the murmur remains, lingers, suiting itself, hope against hope, sultry in a houndstooth pattern, jiggling brokenly across the screen. Once or twice we conspired to do it accidentally, she & me without telling each other. She forgot to take the pill for a week & I left the condoms elsewhere. That’s not to say we did it any more or any less than we would have done anyway but knowing & unknowing made it feel like that & she told me she loved me at the end of all of it anyway, Cindy did & I told her I loved her in the same way.

I Love, ha! Love! What is it? I’d Love to watch her belly grow, I was going to say. In turn she’d feed me with her milk, when she got it, oh yes she promised, so long as I was careful. They’d be bigger then, much bigger and heavier, no longer smooth bumps hiding under my hand but large & lowering, lactating tits. Oh I’d love alright, Love & Love & so would she.

Cindy tells me she loves me, again & again & we turn together until all the bumps & hollows match. Its quite an experience, living in love, isn’t it, a kind of slavery, a closed openness in which we are each one half & one whole of everything. She doesn’t have to nudge me into speaking nor do her best to persuade me with her kiss, we ride the river together, the deep parts as well as the shallows, fending off rocks and crocodiles with equal abandon, so long as the waters are warm enough. Loves like the biscuits we shared, like the coffee we drank, spilled & dribbled onto the sheets. Both had a current to carry us & both left residues in their stains and secretive clusters of gravels & crumbs. Now we take our cue from the clue, allowing & inviting at the same time while, mismatched the hollows accentuate the bumps & the creases widen to become the succulence of place again.

We might have been rougher had we had the energy, cruder had we the inclination, I might have been harder & she wetter but none of that matters. It hardly ever does. We were crude enough by some’s reckoning anyway, rougher than most ‘cos we know what we need & are not afraid to get it.

She likes to have her pussylips bitten as well as sucked & licked, they’re full enough to make a sandwich & fuller when I gulp at them while she grunts & gasps & heatedly swears at me. She likes me to know she might one day come close to disgusting me but it’s the week before that week so she is ripe & pungent & as on heat as any woman alive could be.

Her first cum stings me, honeyed, catching in my throat, her second squeezes, squelches & she jerks away, turns & plunges onto my cock in a familiar, frantic frenzy.

But even her frenzy is unhurried. Theres no need to search for water here, for sustenance, its already in place. Keeping hard enough long enough is more of a concern however & she knows it as we turn & turn again & lazily get more comfortable. Familiarity hasn’t bred contempt, it has watered it, liquefied it, lubricated it, softened and smoothed out the worst of the lumps & bumps & she takes me as deep as she can, subterrainally, subliminally almost, telling me she loves me, loves it & how she wants it all over again.

We savour the instant, neither dragging at each other too much nor too little, not thinking, just doing while the T.V screen flickers, flicker, flicker flick, flick……

She likes to have her nipples pinched, as I do, its something we have in common, one of many things, quirks or foibles if you will & Cindy leans & shoves her clit against my pubic bone, breasts an inch, a millimetre closer to my face, tells me she loves me & we screw in the warm half darkness, hardly moving at all it seems. Its quite an experience, making love this way, the lover and the loved, not caring which is which. A kind of slavery indeed, of bondage & brutality, with the bond but without the brute & without the bruises.

I feel the intensity of her impending orgasm rising at the same time as she, I am quite certain, senses mine. We become singleminded about it without becoming selfish, knowing from so long a time together that which is worse & that which is better. We need no astronauts, no ablative materials when all is invisible, all indivisible & the heats builds as the projectile plunges. & what do we have in that moment of fiercest intensity, that instant of injection & searing re-entry? We have that moment when Cindy tells me she loves me, again & again. Its quite an experience, being in love & for a man to fall to earth so heavily, a kind indeed, of grounding in the most literal sense.

The spacecraft shimmers on the tarmac while antlike creatures fuss around it. Cindy loves me & I love her & for us the space race was over before it had even begun on the day we watched the shuttle landing. An end of an era for them maybe but not for us. Because for Cindy & me its only the beginning & we feel it with our hearts as well as our hands.

“I think you’ve done it this time” she whispers.

“You sure?” I ask.

Cindy nods, a silhouette against a fading screen.

“We can do it again, if you like” I say “In a while, just to make certain……”

“Alright!” Cindy says. “Lets!”

© Aahlu 040811.

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