Afterward, when she let herself into the apartment, it was with a great sense of satisfaction. She felt easy, taut, sated; all her senses were heightened in a way that made her feel triumphant. She sure did have a knack for the During, but the After always made everything so delicious to her. The gentle music of her keys against the inside curve of the bowl by the door gave her pause, for instance. Why, imagine! Such a marvel that things so simple as door keys and her grandmother's silky white bowl could come together and make subtle, pleasurable sounds!
Everything, every one thing in The After was pleasure; she drank in the tactile, reveled in tastes, lingered over sounds. Today she had sung 'Mannish Boy' to herself in her head the entire ride home, looking doe-eyed on the press of bodies. The jostles and jerks (and the smooth forward momentums between) were just the natural extension of their prelude back there fourteen blocks away.
He had been possessed of exquisite taste in linens. She appreciated that in a man. Also appreciated was his lack of worry at where those fine linens ended up; not every man wants his stupidly expensive sheets ground into the wall of a stairwell. She adored a sporting attitude.
Icy orange juice to slake a thirst: There was no hunger, not yet. She still felt full in that tender way, her stomach not inclined toward want for a little while longer.
She took her time in the shower, lollygagging there in the light steam, greedily enjoying the smell of her sweet almond soap. Someone had made her a present of it five or six years ago and she'd been using it since. The gift-giver had moved far away; she didn't miss him when he did. If they discontinued the soap, she would search high and low for bars of it for years and years and probably a couple minutes after that.
When she turned off the spray, she paused for a moment, getting caught up in the sensation of a drop of water on her eyelashes. It executed a perfect dive onto her right foot, splashing messily there, ending itself and beginning four more droplets. She thought about this while wrapping herself in a downy robe, while pouring herself a cup of coffee. She grabbed a book from the stack of six or so she was reading (she was always paying her attentions to several concurrently) and headed for the reading nook she'd crafted next to the window. After placing her coffee and book on the tiered table next to it, she settled into her overlarge chair, propping her heels on the seat's edge. The orange velour kissed her arches and welcomed them home.
She pointed her toes, she looked out over the city. She admired the light. She smiled as she thought about the fact that she was always the leaver and never the stayer; she wrapped her arms tightly about herself, dropped her head and grinned like a giddy fool, pleasure emanating from her every part.
Everything, every one thing in The After was pleasure; she drank in the tactile, reveled in tastes, lingered over sounds. Today she had sung 'Mannish Boy' to herself in her head the entire ride home, looking doe-eyed on the press of bodies. The jostles and jerks (and the smooth forward momentums between) were just the natural extension of their prelude back there fourteen blocks away.
He had been possessed of exquisite taste in linens. She appreciated that in a man. Also appreciated was his lack of worry at where those fine linens ended up; not every man wants his stupidly expensive sheets ground into the wall of a stairwell. She adored a sporting attitude.
Icy orange juice to slake a thirst: There was no hunger, not yet. She still felt full in that tender way, her stomach not inclined toward want for a little while longer.
She took her time in the shower, lollygagging there in the light steam, greedily enjoying the smell of her sweet almond soap. Someone had made her a present of it five or six years ago and she'd been using it since. The gift-giver had moved far away; she didn't miss him when he did. If they discontinued the soap, she would search high and low for bars of it for years and years and probably a couple minutes after that.
When she turned off the spray, she paused for a moment, getting caught up in the sensation of a drop of water on her eyelashes. It executed a perfect dive onto her right foot, splashing messily there, ending itself and beginning four more droplets. She thought about this while wrapping herself in a downy robe, while pouring herself a cup of coffee. She grabbed a book from the stack of six or so she was reading (she was always paying her attentions to several concurrently) and headed for the reading nook she'd crafted next to the window. After placing her coffee and book on the tiered table next to it, she settled into her overlarge chair, propping her heels on the seat's edge. The orange velour kissed her arches and welcomed them home.
She pointed her toes, she looked out over the city. She admired the light. She smiled as she thought about the fact that she was always the leaver and never the stayer; she wrapped her arms tightly about herself, dropped her head and grinned like a giddy fool, pleasure emanating from her every part.
Damn! You captured these moments brilliantly. . . . always the leaver and never the stayer . . . Beautiful rhythm throughout but that part resonated loud and clear.
Posted by: Cheryl | Thursday, September 02, 2010 at 01:50 PM
Loving this. Why have I not discovered this site before? Just saw it on TwoBusy's blog and came over. Will start following.
Posted by: Didactic Pirate | Thursday, September 02, 2010 at 02:10 PM
Sensual. In every sense of the word.
This is completely fantastic.
Posted by: TwoBusy | Thursday, September 02, 2010 at 03:02 PM
Tactile. Gorgeous.
Posted by: Susan (Trout Towers) | Thursday, September 02, 2010 at 04:59 PM
Oh, seriously, good lord. GOOD LORD, WOMAN. That was majestic.
Posted by: Mr Lady | Saturday, September 04, 2010 at 02:24 PM
I can't stop picturing that bowl.
Posted by: Homemaker Man | Sunday, September 05, 2010 at 04:01 PM
In my mind, I can see clearly her smile, and I like to think it is a mere muscle twitch away from being a true smirk. I love me some smirk, and I love this, too.
Posted by: foradifferentkindofgirl (fadkog) | Tuesday, September 07, 2010 at 01:36 PM
Sweet Muddy Waters, the woman shall not be denied. Can the type on a computer screen ooze sexual satisfaction? Yes. Yes it can.
Posted by: Kevin (Always Home and Uncool) | Thursday, September 16, 2010 at 01:28 PM
Whew! I like her. Hot damn, do I ever. Fantastic.
Posted by: Holmes | Friday, September 17, 2010 at 12:03 PM
cinematic.
luscious.
a gorgeous clawed, purring post.
Posted by: EarnestGirl | Thursday, September 23, 2010 at 10:50 PM
What happens after antiquated notions of virtue are turned on their collective ear.. Bang-up :)
Posted by: politefictions.typepad.com | Saturday, April 16, 2011 at 08:58 PM