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Walking With Woman

By on November 30, 2012
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She pictures his blue eyes, swimming in his skull just inches from hers, as she allows herself to sink a little deeper into the pleasure he engenders in her. She loses herself just a little more, reflecting on the paleness of his eyes, gazing at her with such softness that she can never tell if they are on the verge of tears or laughter. And the blackness of his pupils when they dilate while looking at her, as if he could force her to love him through the sheer willpower pouring through his eyes into hers.

She wants to trust him. But not yet. She wants to yield to him. But not yet. She wants to own him and be owned by him. But not yet. She wants to challenge him, to be earned by him, to be won, not as a prize but as herself, as a being that he can only claim through digging deep enough to find that best of the men that he could have been and only perhaps can yet still become. She wants him to return to that youth who had just been Bar Mitzvah-ed and was unwittingly about to go off the derech, still innocent, full of promise and ambition and driven by a desire to do good things rather then submit to earthly categories of success; the boy on his way to becoming a man who had not yet yielded to expediency and pragmatism in that world of politics and power games she hated so fully and in which he had come to operate so deftly.

As she basks in all these thoughts and the animal closeness of walking alongside him in easy silence, her breathing rises with the exertion of the walk and the beating of her heart and she feels the moisture of the most faint of sweats breaking on her skin.  She feels other moisture rising elsewhere as she mentally stokes the fire glowing between her hips. She gasps, barely audibly, as a small shudder momentarily overwhelms her. Without breaking stride, she reaches for his elbow to steady herself; an elbow he had already offered by moving it toward her, just fractions of a second before she needed it, as if he had known, as if he had helped will her body to suddenly spasm with pleasure.

As she looks over and just barely up at his face while quieting her breathing and begging for the slowing of her still racing heart, she sees the remnants of a smile that he could not, or chose not to suppress. She sinks against him, melting into his side, supported by the solidity of his body alongside hers.  Then, still without breaking stride, her body tenses and internally she freezes.  The willingness to relinquish control she knows he will require of her is too much.  Her rigid religious training is too strong.  The taste of pleasure on a simple stroll portends waves and entire oceans of feelings she has kept under control and locked away since adolescence.  The acceptance of the years and intensity of pleasure she must have forbidden herself is too much to fathom.  The mechitza in the vicinity of her navel and the tops of her hips is too high to be overcome.  She withdraws from him.  And though the trace of a smile remains on the side of his face nearer hers, on the other side he is forcing back tears.

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