Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Minnie, part deux

I think about Minnie very often, especially during the long sexless nights with D, when the fire in my groin grows stronger with every moment of joyous fantasy.  I aspire to that, not only because it was what I loved, but also because it made me feel young and full of strength: she had the experience and she wanted me.  I wasn't an awkward, slightly pudgy teenager.  I was an adult.

All that I remember of that summer was fucking.  That moment in time is something that was and unlikely will be ever repeated, that erstwhile sense of "I'm gonna give up," and becoming submerged by orgasm, over and over, breathless.  I remember ejaculating once, failing with exhaustion onto my side of the bed.  I couldn't help but to run my fingers up and down her smooth, powerful skin, and soon enough I would get aroused again, even though the tip is still a bit sore and tender.  I wanted to be inside of her again and hear her make that faint, surprising, tidal sound when I entered her.  I wanted to hear it over and over and possess her as I went in and out of her.  And I would come the second time, but longer and with a much more lingering sensation instead of that blasting explosive feeling from the first time.  Sometimes this would go on for hours.  

As I write this I feel blood boiling inside of me, yet I'm impotent, prisoner of my own making.  I took her out to dinner and drinks that summer, when the campus was covered with broad leafed birch and the grass was greener, and I played guitar to her.  I really thought I was going to marry her.  We shared the same uncanny draw to Bob Dylan and I was able to convince her to go camping with me in August.  I remember a starry midsummer night, my feet hanging out of the tent, and my head in between her silky thighs.  I curled my tongue softly and reveled in that sound she made and that smell that was distinctly hers, and that night I decided to keep at it even though she motioned my head to come up.  She gave in to me and trembled all over and yelled out as she arrived.  Bob Dylan was playing in the background.

It almost seemed as if everyday things were just much duller with the morning after.  We went back to work, each to a different floor where our respective cubicles were, and occasionally we would pass by each other, in the hallway, in the elevator.  It was a time before the cell phones and text messages, and sharing a daily moment of secret intimacy without the perpetual presence lent yet another mysterious layer to that summer.   

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