Helpless, his naked body lay before me. His hands were firmly cuffed to the bed’s railing, a bandanna served as a blindfold and his brief as a gag. For that moment, it flashed in front of me — Yes! Yes! Four years ago, I met him and I wanted him then; but it couldn’t be. Now, in a new paradigm, he is prostate in front of me and I call the shots.
I felt so lucky in that awkward moment. That best awkward moment. That moment where I both wanted him and I wanted him out. That simple no that is a hidden yes. Those games. Those dares. Those handcuffs that scar. Those blindfolds that fall off. Those gags that get spitted out. Those hundreds of substitutes for lubes.
A thousand blurred words or one sharp line cannot compare to one kiss upon a nipple, or a lick down to the belly button. The frustration that contact connotes — of unsuspecting depths and mysterious truths — is all gone. He has opened-up readying to get entered by a million emotions. Not emotions of love, of lust or of passion, no. But a multitude of endless angst and piety and chastity and woeful acknowledgments of sluttiness entering and exiting in a glorious schism.
And in one breaking moment, I lose myself in him. I felt myself inside him — his mind scarring. Breathless and unthinking, wondering in his pretty little head, his grand stature what he could possibly want — from me, that is. I know what I want of him but that moment of contact, that connection grew — how lucky I was to have him. But how damn fucking lucky he was to have me.
THIS IS THE TAROT CHALLENGE, a 78-day writing challenge where everyday I pick out a random card from my tarot deck and write something about, against, inspired by, based on the card by the day’s end. The works can range from poetry to fiction to drama. When the card is from the major arcana, the title of the work should be the card name. When the card is from the minor arcana, the title can be different but the card drawn should be revealed at the end.