Looking for Harper

26 March 2009

I envy Harper and her easy sleep as insomnia mocks me and I vacillate between nocturne and semi-consciousness.  When I stir I try not to wake her, but she rustles the sheets anyway.  I hear a soft purr before she repositions herself and finds comfort again.  The clock reads 2:31 and I am struck with a sudden disdain for digital clocks.  Somehow the impersonality of an LED reading to reflect time seems impersonal and vulgar at this moment.

The only determent of time’s passage was the advance of the sterile digital clock telling me that it was now 3:09.  Since I do not recall the intervening thirty-eight minutes I presume it passed for sleep.  I feel Harper adjusting next to me and twist my body towards hers, as she angles her back, hips and head into the crevices of space between us.  Aware but not alert, Harper uses her left leg to draw my right between hers.   We are more entwined than two people should be.

Harper’s digits rest atop my left hand which sits languidly on her torso.  Slowly she moves my hand from just north of her belly button to the valley between her breasts.  My pinky finger on her right mound and my thumb on her left, she cranes her neck forward to kiss my middle fingers.  I pull her closer towards me in a gentle but lustful motion that closes any remaining distance between our bodies.  She can feel my alertness next to her and she is clearly more alert.

In seemingly one motion, I steer my lips to the left side of her neck and she digs her head into the pillow on the right which exposes a vast expanse of skin for my lips to explore.  Kissing her neck, caressing her breasts – we are both fully awake now.  I can fell her heat so close to mine. 

My hand traverses the length of her and confirms her warmth with a caress to the top of her spot.  Harper moves with the rhythm of my touch and reaches back for me.  Impatiently she finds me and guides me inside of her.  Slow, slow, slow, fast we move.  I pull her towards me with each thrust and she greets them with indistinct sounds. 

“Slow… just like that” are the first words spoken since we kissed good night hours ago.  Harper is slow like me, hotter than me, and wetter than I have ever known.  “You feel so good” is all I can muster in reply – I wish that I were more sexually emotive.  I am so happy inside of her but lack the words to tell her so.

I slide from her and guide her shoulders flat against the mattress. I find my way atop Harper and move inside of her while kissing her neck.  It is still slow, slow, slow, fast.  She protests as I pull back, pull out, but I kiss my way down her neck across her breasts – pausing for a beat and a bite at her right nipple – down her stomach, and stop just before I reach her.  I spend some time between her belly button and her hips before moving along.  I breathe heavily between her legs exhaling deeply to let her feel my breath on her. 

Harper pulses the moment my tongue touches her.  I crook my arm under her thigh and move her closer for a deeper pull.  I love the feeling of her leg against my shoulder, her calf angled against my back.  Harper is crumpling sheets in her right hand and cradling the back of my head with her left.  She tastes of sweet, salty and satisfying.  I her excitement feeds mine, until her legs quiver against me. 

The clock reads 4:09 when I wake to find myself alone in bed, awakened from a dream and still looking for Harper.

4 Comments | dreams, sex, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Taking My Own Bitter Pill

4 February 2009

I sent an email to an acquaintance recently that closed with a crude paraphrase from the book All I Ever Really Needed to Know I learned in Kindergarten – “When you fuck up, saying you’re sorry is the first thing you need to do.”

It kinda sucks when you fail your own code of conduct.

I tell myself that it’s not often the real me that gets me in trouble; but that twelve year old awkward boy who still inhabits at least part of my soul – yeah, he’s a real pill.  I am rarely harmed by the tweenager spirit that helps me find joy in the simple; but that boy who still hears echoes of rejection can scream with the voice of demons shouting down better angels.

It is that voice that urges me to seek, encourage and ultimately accept the affections of a woman even when I know I should not and creates the awkward where it need not exist.  It is that voice who aids one day slipping to three or four before returning a call.  It is that voice who argues the virtues of childish silence but misses the irony.

I’d love to lay all the blame at that little boy’s not yet grown into feet, to absolve my better self from blame; but I cannot.  The boy is part and parcel of the larger man who bares responsibility and must make the apology.

I fucked up, and an apology is the least I can do.

 

 

*************************

You know it is Wednesday and I took my turn as contributing editor at DC Blogs. Go on check out that which moved me more than most this past week.

And here are a few links for blog posts I also was digging but couldn’t use in the round-up for whatever reason:

The DC Universe asks the question that should be on the mind of every Nats fan or DC taxpayer – WTF, Mayor Fenty?  WTF, Ted Lerner?

Ken and Belly teach me something about small humans – the ability to play in snow is not inherent.  Do not be fooled, I still want no spawn.

Slow Food has stopped eating Chesapeake Crabs, a choice I made a couple seasons ago.  And it sucks.  We need to get serious about protecting the bay.

And if you haven’t seen LiLu’s new look, what the hell is keeping you? 

10 Comments | dating, dumb things I have done, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

What Are You Doing New Years Eve?

29 December 2008

Maybe it’s much too early in the game…

“I’ve been thinking about Frank Loesser all day.”

“Who is Frank Loesser” asked the woman with the perfectly painted lips and great watch who was to my left.

“Frank Loesser was a composer from the late 30s until he died in 1969.  He died young but he wrote prolifically during his life.  He was responsible for almost as many standards as Gershwin.  Luck be a Lady might be his most famous, but What are You Doing New Years Eve is the song that’s been moving through my mind all day.”

“How old is that man who inhabits your thirty something soul?”

The question makes me smile.  “How long have we known each other now?”

“Ten years has a nice ring to it.  You ever talk to Eva?”

Oh but I thought I’d ask you just the same.

 “Ha, I think you know the answer to that – it’s not in either of our interest for us to talk.  And speaking of loves from way back when, when is Jason going to make you an honest woman?”

“We haven’t really talked about a date but you’ll get an invitation… I know that look.  Your about to be an arse, aren’t you?”

I’ve never been very good about keeping my cards close to the vest when I was around Lynette so I stare at my beer and pretend I didn’t hear her.

What are you doing New Years, New Years Eve?

“Refugee, just spit it out, whatever thought is running through that contorted brain of yours, you need to let it escape.”

“Lynette, we’ve talked about this before and I wish I’d never asked the question because my position is the same and you already knew that.”

“So what about that song has you in such a reflective mood?” she asked in a segue that is her wont and habit.

 “It’s not a Christmas carol, but this is the only time of the year it gets played.  Frank Loesser wrote the song with the intention of it being sung in the spring by a man so taken with a woman that he wants to ask her out for New Years Eve in the March.”

“That is really sweet and the song makes even more sense to me now.”

“Maybe it is just the calendar influencing my mind but I want that level of deliberate, that kind of want, that certainty” I say before taking a healthy swallow of air.  “There is this image in my mind of dancing with the one I brought and moving through wordless conversation while this song plays just before midnight.”

I wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight

“Refugee, fuck you and your beloved romance. In the real world, love is more negotiation than fair tale.  You’ve watched one too many Meg Ryan movies and you have some street scene fantasy about professing love on New Year’s.  Life doesn’t work that way.”

“Lynette, maybe three years of engagement without a date has sapped all your ability to hear the Christmas bells, or maybe I am the fool you say but I am happy to still believe in unicorns, tilting at windmills, and the like.  I still want to feel my toes curl from a kiss when it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night.”

When it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night

“Truce or maybe back to neutral corners?”

“My apologies, love, that thing in my review mirror is a line and I’m sorry I passed it.”

“How do you do it?  How are you such a romantic?”

“I don’t have much choice in the matter, Lynette.  Life might be easier or less painful if I wasn’t, and I don’t enjoy the hurt; but I wouldn’t want to live any other way.  I’ve felt what it’s like to know love on steroids and I want that feeling again and I am willing to risk to get it.  I want an urgent and emergent kind of love, and, no, I have no idea what makes a man profess that he wants to spend the rest of his life with a woman and yet be thoroughly incapable of setting a date for that life to begin.”

“I thought we agreed on neutral corners?”

“We did, sorry about that.”

Welcoming in the new year, New Years Eve

“So where is this mythical woman you want to dance with on New Year’s? You have any prospects?”

“So far she exists only in my mind, though I did make a promise to kiss a friend at midnight.  What about you and Jason, where will you greet the baby new year?”

“My parents are having their party of course, we’ll be there.”

“And how are Betty and George? They throw one helluva a party.”

“They’re great.  Dad finally retired this fall.”

“I’ve always really liked your old man, and the two of them are adorable together.  The way they still hold hands just makes me smile.”

Maybe I’m crazy to suppose, I’d ever be the one you chose

“You’re more than welcome to come, they always loved you.  I can’t promise you anyone to kiss besides my older sister though.”

“Her husband might have some objection to that.”

“I’ll distract him.”

“Won’t you have something else to do?”

“You’re not coming anyway.  I’ll tell Betty and George you said hello though.  Good luck with your kiss.”

Out of a thousand invitations

You’ll receive

Oh but in case I stand one little chance

Here comes the jackpot question in advance

What are you doing

New Years Eve

I don’t really know.

7 Comments | skin hungry - to borrow a phrase | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Next Entries »
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 210 other followers