Flesh and the Material World – Gabriel Hart
December 24, 2020
One loaded word, powerful enough to activate a bodily function.
Think about that.
Not laughter, not tears, but an involuntary movement of an engorged body part. As if it were a snake rising up to a fluid melody.
She said I was allowed.
I was briefly paralyzed by the thrilling admittance. Not because I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but because it felt like the first time – the first time I really marveled at the word “consent.” Enraptured by an invigorated interpretation of its conjoined ends: How in Spanish, “Con” means “with.”
But she wasn’t so much sending me as she was delivering me; the way she took my hand and rested it on her haunch, so my palm created a sort of bridge across the left strap of her mesh lavender panties. My fingertips and wrist the only parts making contact until her hand pushed my knuckles down, letting me know we still had much, much further to go.
I sighed, letting her know this was one of my favorite places in the world: where flesh and material meet.
Where the lines of our bare skin slide over fibers of chaste.
Where breathy anticipation beats the nothing to our imagination.
Where the not quite there yet
Meets there’s no turning back.
These are the in-betweens I pray to never leave. No misunderstanding, only happy endings. I nod out from endorphin rush, as I smear my lips into hers to let her know I have been awakened. My grip on her hips, now in symmetry. My hands turn to fists, the elastic lacework now roped through them, slipping across my palms as I teasingly lift them up and down, as if she and I have become a well-greased machine. These are not just my momentary handles for her – they are her leashes for me, because I am not letting go. Not yet. I want to stay right here, for as long as she can stand. Before she reminds me that we have yet to reach our destination.
There must first be deliverance in order to be sent.
And there I was.
Shot out of a fucking cannon.