Intermittent missings

The NEMRF is a huge catalyst in my day-to-day humdrum existence.

Yes, I have a day-to-day humdrum existence, doesn’t everyone?

Every so often, someone plugs me in and I light up like a Christmas tree. I sparkle — sometimes, I even go as far as to expound a shiny little rain shower. Usually it’s the Big Bad Cat. It’s hard to spend even a minute with him without my glowing from the inside like a Jack O’Lantern.

But other than that, I’m just me.

I do not complain, please do not misunderstand me. Once, years ago, there was no enlightenment. I floated from day to day, week, to week, month to month, year to year. I was not myself, I had lost the essence of me. I was buried and smothered under a sea of mundanity.

And then I rediscovered life.

I found myself through a process of awakening that began over five years ago, that was catalyzed by my falling in love. I have been in love several times since then, and am still in love in certain of these cases. The true love of my life, prior to meeting the Evil Rotten Cat, who is a deeper and no less true love and Cat-of-my Heart, was and remains my love.

This is what they call polyamory, folks. Living and breathing. Loving more than one person.

I speak now of the love I mentioned, the one who came before the Cat. We are barely in touch for a number of reasons, mostly involving his own personal hell, which has effectively straitjacketed him to the extent that we communicate rarely and sporadically. On paper, that is, or rather on screen. We still have a degree of telepathy that is frighteningly effective. He will think of me, and I of him, and then we will find out letters crossing in mid-stream. He traveled to this region last year, not actually to this country, but over the border.

He wrote to me:

“When I stood on the eastern shore of the lake and gazed toward your country last year, I called your name.  Didn’t you hear me?”

I checked my diary. I’d written of him on the day he mentions. He’d been in my head the way he usually is in my heart.

He is older than I, by 17 years. He has experienced life to the full, in both the positive and, unfortunately, most negative sense. He owned my heart as he was the first to fully expose it, to tease it, to provoke it to love harder, deeper, fuller than ever before. He encouraged me and my creativity, he dragged me with him on eternal flights of fancy, he opened my eyes to real erotica and all that lay beyond.

He wrote to me:

“I miss you more than you can possibly comprehend.”

Really? He’d be surprised at how much I can.

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A long wait

It wasn’t about romance, that was for sure. Nor emotion, hell no. And feeling — well, only in the sense of gut feeling. That rumble in the pit of your stomach that tells you how much you want someone; how deeply you need them. Physically.

Need. The basest of all human desires. Inexplicable, barely recountable. Indescribable, if you like.

But real. Very real.

Circumstances conspire to keep you apart: you live in different towns, in different areas of the country. You work in opposite spheres. Your private lives coincide not at all. But one look and a few murmured words were enough to convince you both equally of the necessity that you meet, and fuck like bunnies.

And the sooner the better.

Sometimes, however, soon is a relative term. In the geological vernacular, for example, it’s quite soon since the “Big Freeze” of the Ice Age. And that was millions of years before the Common Era, from where the majority of us draw our cultural references. Narrow that down a little further, we mostly shout out to an instance that may have happened a maximum of fifty years ago. Rarely a hundred. Even more rare: within the last two centuries.

Which is about how long it felt between the time we first spoke, and the time we actually made cock-to-cunt contact — but in reality it was only a matter of months.

Urgency builds over time, much like steam in a pressure cooker. Leave aside the double-century that the last few months seemed to cover, and concentrate on the day itself. From car to front door, front door to hall, hall to bedroom — with requisite key fumbling on both the outer and the apartment door, just because god hates me and wants me to have an awful life — took (fumbling included) four minutes, but the metaphorical steam generated made it feel like a year and a half.

Embrace # 1, and clothe-shedding — another year, although with steam expansion, I’m fairly sure it was only two minutes this time.

Stumbling blindly as we grabbed and hung onto each other, our faces a blur, our bodies already close to melding was an indeterminate amount of time that melted into incomprehensible time-warp.

Then we hit the bed, and time ceased to function in any capacity that I could recognize. An instantaneous fuck — literally. Condom unsheathed and applied in nanoseconds. What felt like the longest most languorous fuck in all eternity, but was afterwards described as being “the most powerful two-minute, hard, fast shag [he’d] ever had”.

It’s losing yourself in the moment that makes the wait bearable. In retrospect, anyway.

A moment to recover, that reversed the time-bending trend that had manifested itself thus far, by appearing to be — TARDIS like — far smaller than it actually was. I suppose that in reality it was a good quarter of an hour or so, which at my age is still not that long between bouts of the old in-and-out.

Now time lent itself to a different set of tasks. As i bent to him, so he bent to me — a veritable Venn diagram of mouths and genitalia. As he licked, sucked and swirled, so i sucked, fondled and nipped (playfully). As he caused me to lose my bearings, his cries of exquisite anguish grew higher in pitch, indicating that we were equi-distant from climax. Time lost all meaning as we soared on that particular path, but then, it so often does when someone gives you oral with the skill of the sexually possessed.

Once we’d come and were again lying supine, side by side, panting, his hand wandered over to mine and began tracing hieroglyphics up and down my inner arm. Once again, accurately estimating time became an impossibility. I was floundering under the teasing caress, unable to move for sheer joy and pleasure. Not quite orgasmic, but as close as it gets without actually being so.

I know you know what i mean.

How long i lay there mumbling cries of restrained bliss i do not know, but i did eventually become aware of something hard and cold nudging at me urgently. I’d brought my glass dildo because in our first conversation he’d professed a sharp desire for me to fuck him with something hard and cold.

Apparently i was being hoist by my own petard. Or fucked with it, anyway. Fucked hard. Strong. Fucked to gushingly wonderful new orgasmic heights as i was once again lost to any measurement of time. I don’t know how long my g-spot was stimulated before it convulsed and rained a sweet and pretty shower down onto his hand, but he didn’t seem to mind the effort, and he happily licked his hand clean.

It was all i wanted; all I needed. I’d waited and i’d been rewarded. How long had it taken? In reality, or as perceived by the man in my head? Who cares?

Douglas Adams once said “Time is immaterial. Lunchtime, doubly so.”

You can see where he had a point.

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