My Lover’s Bed
By Linda Meades
I’m not sure what came first, the sensation of cool air landing on my naked body, or the half opening of eyelids to reveal the ever so faint, morning light. Through dimness, I just make out a tall, rectangular window, slightly ajar, a pot-holed lace curtain shimmering from a panting breeze.
Maintaining my luxuriant lethargy, I move in slow motion to face my lover. His uncovered torso curled, light falling on the crests of his hip and shoulder. Knuckles of spine protrude like a row of baroque pearls. I place my flattened hand onto the smooth sheet between us, and pause. I listen. My lover is asleep, his breath difficult to hear, but I know it’s pace by the ebb and flow of his upper body. I attempt to align my breathing with his, but fail. Reaching out, I cup his waist, his skin familiar, a surge of knowing passes over me.
I sigh. Lips part.
I shimmy nearer till the warmth from his body penetrates mine. I shape my frame into his, and close my eyes. His scent known; I lap my tongue to taste it. Cupping his waist, my softened lips roll and press against his manly expanse. I ball my hand, fitting it inside his resting palm. We feel right together.
Without thought, my fingers start a journey along invisible body lines, gliding up his arm, over taut muscles and soft skinfolds. Bending, I run my hand over his roundness, circling each mound, tracing miniature creases at the apex of his thighs. Downy covering lightens my touch as fingers descend into snug crevices, slowing at a treasured space; the arc of his back. Kisses brush each adored oasis.
My hand skims across a forest of hair, treetops tickling my palm. I land at the velvety well behind his knee. I linger.
Unfurling, I again nestle beside my lover, as if captured in one pulsating cocoon.
My fingers extend, stroking a rim of ear, twirling coarse hairs, black and strong, skirting hairline shores framing his neck.
I picture his presence facing me, gazing with coffee eyes over my exposed bareness. I exhale audibly, my face harbouring into the spacious valley between his shoulders, into a slight stickiness of sweat. It is delicious.
As in a sleeping child’s pose, my arms fold inwards, crossing my chest, hands coil under my chin, eyelids fall.
I’m floating, weightless, savouring the fullness of this private moment.
My lover sleeps on, unaware of the gift he has given, of which he will never know.
…. I am replete.
…. We slumber.
©Linda Meades Feb 2022
Linda Meades is a writer, poet, singer, uke player and active community member in Mullumbimby, NSW, Australia. She has low vision due to a degenerative eye condition first diagnosed when she was in her twenties. At the beginning of lockdown in 2020, she started a Facebook page called My Mullum Moments where she does short video interviews with Mullumbimby locals. In episode 100, she turns the camera on herself. View her video biog here.
Linda attended our Belongil Beach Writer’s Retreat in Feb 2022. Each day we worked with a different sense. The piece above was in response to an exercise on the sense of touch.
Jan Cornall runs writers workshops and retreats www.writersjourney.com.au
Insta: _writersjourney
