Saturday with my Sweetheart

[Part two of my recent visit with Roxy]

Saturday morning, and I’m awake before she is.  She always sleeps deeply with me, I help her relax, she says she feels safe and secure.  Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep very well that night, too much still racing through my mind, body restless and foolishly unwilling to succumb to deeper restfulness.  So I spent time listening to her sleep  and I wondered where her dreams were taking her as her body twitched a little, then sighed and fell more deeply asleep.

As the light of dawn began to pry my eyelids open, I woke up and realized I’d finally slept.   I had a moment of confusion, not entirely remembering where I was, which was quickly followed by the realization, “She’s right here!”, and this wonderful, warm joy poured over me.  Waking up next to her is such a wonderful treat, something rare and sweet and not taken for granted.  I rolled over and pulled myself against her, loving the way her body fits against mine.   She didn’t completely wake up, but knew I was there, as her body eased back into mine and she sighed contentedly.

Time together is not a luxury we have very often, so waking up slowly next to her, enjoying leisurely good morning kisses and reintroducing ourselves to each other’s bodies without haste is a great joy, something I daydream about when we’re apart.  As much as I love sex with her, and I really do, no doubt about it, as much as I love that part of our relationship, the moments that really stand out, more and more, are the simple ones.  Reaching across the table to hold her hand.  Putting my arm around her shoulders, her arm reaching around my waist.  Being able to glance over at her and with the smallest smirk, communicate volumes.  As much as we’re limited in physical, sexual, sensual contact, we’re also limited on the mundane, day-to-day moments.

My weekend in San Francisco with her was ripe with hot sex, long deep conversations and simple happy moments.   Saturday morning, we lolled around in bed, bringing each other to orgasm, teasing, tempting, endlessly touching.  And now I want to spend a few moments raving about my lover.

I can remember the first time we got together, how nervous she was, unsure of herself, painfully aware of her sexual inexperience with women.  I did all I could to reassure her, perhaps it was my naivety but I didn’t have any concerns that she’d figure out what to do and how.

And how.  You’ve come a long way, Baby.  Oh yes, she knows what to do, and how and when and how often and how hard and how deeply.  There are places she’s found inside me I didn’t know existed.  She’s opened me up, dug deep and risked injury (apparently I’ve got some seriously bulked-up keigels and then there are my vice-like thighs).  Roxy routinely pulls dozens of orgasms out of me, though I very quickly get beyond the point where I’m able to count.  Or speak full sentences.  Or have coherent thoughts.  Like snowflakes, no two orgasms are alike.  She knows my inner geography like no other lover I’ve ever had, knows with an artist’s sensitivity where each of my buttons is and how to play it to it’s fullest erotic and sonic potential.   She was, for a time, obsessed with the concept of ‘done’ and how to tell when she’d gotten me to that state.   I didn’t know what to tell her because, honestly, I’d rarely in my life been fucked to the point where I couldn’t take anymore.

She knows it all now.  Knows when there are more orgasms to find, knows what I sound like and look like when I’m well and truly ‘done’.  And she is relentless in the pursuit of that outcome, not that I’m complaining, at all.  I wish I could describe the expression on her face when she’s in the pursuit of my multiple happy endings.  There’s something carnivorous, her eyes are alive with power, her mouth slightly open, curled into a light smile.  Like any artist, she’s fully focused on her creation, her work in progress.  The intensity in her face turns me on all the more.  That is, when my eyes aren’t rolled into the back of my head in ecstasy.

And so eventually, I was done, and she was satisfied and we were hungry.  We wanted to take advantage of the free breakfast and kept talking about how we needed to get dressed and go before our time was up.  As it was, we threw on clothes, I ran my fingers through my mussed hair (didn’t really fix it, but what did I care?) and we hustled ourselves to the dining room with minutes to spare.

My breakfast was scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages, fruit, coffee and smiles from Roxy.   We ate, smiled, laughed, joked, told stories.  As much as we talk every day, as much as we have written and expressed, there’s always something new I learn about her when we’re together.  And it doesn’t matter what we’re talking about, it’s always interesting.  It fascinates me sometimes, looking back along our conversational path and watching as one observation can get us started, our insatiable curiosity about each other leading us from one topic to the next.  It can be a rather windy path, but there are so many interesting things to see along the way, neither of us minds.

After breakfast, back to the room.  She wanted pictures and I love to watch her work, framing shots, working with the light, directing me to arrange myself properly.  She does some pretty amazing things considering she’s often tangled up with me and taking those shots one handed.   And then, because it’s hard to resist the draw of our bodies so near each other, we pursued more orgasms, loving each other beautifully and completely.   And there was lots of kissing.. kissing is something we can never get enough of.   We kissed and loved the rest of the morning away and eventually our rumbling tummies informed us they needed filling again.  We’d blown right by traditional lunch time and into the early afternoon.

As always when we’re together, there are about a million things we’d like to do (a high percentage of which are sexual in nature) but only time to do a fraction of them.   She took me to one of her favorite places, Cafe Crepes in Menlo Park (yes, I pronounce it ‘craype’s .. and she pronounces it correctly).  I had one with caramelized onions, tomatoes, swiss and bacon, she had a swiss with tomato.  We shared a Sidewalk crepe (lemon and sugar).  And coffee, good coffee, with refills.   It was really yummy and I hope we can to there again sometime.  While we ate, she told me about the area, how they do a Christmas train on the nearby railway and how much her kids like it.  We talk about our families a lot, share parenting experiences and talking about our childhoods as well.  We meandered that way until we got onto the topic of my 20s, the druggy times and the concerts, back stage passes and partying with rock stars.  Oh, I remember now, she asked how it was I got to hang out with Heart, and telling her those stories led to numerous others.   It’s just so easy to talk to her, to tell my stories.  Each tale leads into another and we swap back and forth, comparing notes, comparing our lives, finding the similarities and differences.

Eventually, our bellies full and my legs feeling restless, it was time to go.  The weather wasn’t stellar so we decided to put off our trip to the beach, however, I still wanted to go for a walk.  She took me to another of her favorite places, the Baylands.  It was close to dusk when we arrived, but we weren’t the only ones still walking and jogging along the trails.  The Baylands is marshy wetland at the armpit of San Francisco Bay.  The smell of salty mud reminded me of home, when the tide goes out and we laughed at the way some people complain about that smell.

We walked along, hand in hand, me tucking hers into my hoody pocket for warmth.  We were chatting about this and that, when Roxy made a comment about the dirty looks we’d gotten from some passersby.  I looked up in surprise, not having noticed anything of the sort.  I’d been caught up in our easy companionship, the natural beauty of the park and how good it felt to stretch my legs.  Her comment led us to talk about this special blind spot I have, the way I don’t notice other people noticing me.  There are benefits and downsides to this:  I don’t notice dirty looks, but I also don’t notice approving glances either.  I’ve often felt a little silly that she’ll see someone giving me an appraising look but I’ll be clueless.  Some womanizer I am *grin*.  It’s also kind of odd that I can be so observant about so many things but not notice the reactions I get.  That leads me to believe that it’s a behavior I’ve cultivated.  We talked about why that might be, the roots of this interesting mechanism in past social trauma I’ve endured.   I mused outloud about the possibility of training myself to see all these reactions again, to look up, pay attention.  She cautioned me, especially based on the reactions we were getting as two hand-holding women from others on the path that night, that what I open my eyes to might not be an improvement over not seeing.  And, certainly, she’s right.  There are pluses and minuses to being aware.  I have to take the good with the bad, the insulting negative glare with the flirtatious inviting glance.

Somewhere along the path there was a metal pole sticking out of the ground.  I have no idea what it’s for, but I had ideas about how I might make use of it.  I paused on the path, looked pointedly at the pole and then over at Roxy, my eyebrow raised.  She laughed and egged me on.  In moments I had a leg hooked on the pole and posing for her eager camera, laughing at myself the whole way.

We could have walked for miles, hours, days even.  I would never grow tired of being with her, taking, observing, sharing our lives, examining and exclaiming over the amazing fortune we’ve received in finding each other, in the absolute joy of sharing our lives.  We could have kept going and going, but we didn’t.  We had places to go, I had a collar to receive and my first night at a dungeon to experience.

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