For Chris W., whose inspiration has
never failed :-)
They think they know him, but they donít.
I know him Ė completely.
In unswerving faith he comes to me each night, seeking my
security, my softness, my love, and I give him all that I have. Ours is a
consummate nightly gathering, a clinging, groping tangle of comfort of which
he and I never tire. When we are together, we are one, whole and perfect.
And that makes his daily parting from me all the more heartbreaking.
In every early morning gloom he leaves my embrace, rises
and steps away to prepare himself for the day. I protest even as I admire
the full length of his body, long and strong and lean. He returns briefly to
comfort me, his big strong hands drawing me smooth and taut. They are
efficient, these hands, pulling and tugging and adjusting my corners and
edges until they are proud and straight. I revel once more in his caress as
he works over me, knowing that all too soon heíll be gone. When he covers me
with the quilt I know that the time has come. I sigh as I always do, waiting
in sweet agony for his return, dreaming of the sound of his footfalls coming
down the hallway, the step of a boot onto the plank flooring between
threshold and rug, the thrill of the soft thud of the closing door and
finally, his presence falling back over me. Yes, oh, yesÖ
Some nights he arrives early and draws out my eager
anticipation with the muted glow of a lamp, the clatter of pockets being
emptied. With a hint of disappointment Iíll hear him remove his boots and
his belt, move restlessly about the room. I want to scream, <<I am here,
my love! Come to me! Please, my darling, pleaseÖ>> But, of course, he
cannot hear me, not just yet. After a fashion heíll ease himself down upon
my quilted cousin, plump my pillow neighbors and sigh contentedly. And as
the quiet sounds of his gentle breaths and the turning pages eases into the
air, I hold myself barely still and wait for him, my outer side warmed by
his body through the quilt, my inner side fresh and eager to receive him.
For he will come to me, of that I have no doubt. He cannot resist my allure.
When itís dark and quiet heíll take me. First heíll
undress himself, then heíll undress me, expose my soft folds to his skin.
How easily heíll slide the length of me, reaching and squirming for the
just-right position, holding me, adjusting me to suit him. Then heíll quiet
and Iíll do my job, smiling as I drape his wonderful body, shoulders to toes
and all that is located in between, for he never wears bedclothes, never. So
it is I that clothe him, filling all the delicious curves and hollows of
elbow, chest, rib, hip and thigh Ė and that deeper secret space. I lay
oh-so-soft against skin and muscle that is still hard, even in rest. I mold
myself to him, close, so close, his heat warming me so that I can return the
warmth to him. We lay together, he and I, in that quiet darkness, while I
whisper to him of my adoration. And he listens, slowly easing into sleep as
I fill myself with his manly scent of soap, heavy work and fresh air,
providing a balm to the rigors of his day. Throughout these long hours of
darkness I cling to him and he clutches me. We hold each other, close and
comfortable, loving and giving. I watch over him always, over his dreams and
yes, his nightmares, too, and those rare times when he is injured and ill. I
do it all for him, and he never turns me away. For he knows Iíll hold these
secrets dear, never telling a soul, a duty-bound lover trapped in nightly
They think they know him but they donít.
I know him Ė and I love him.