by Krymzen Hall

Created on: October 29, 2008   Last Updated: December 14, 2011

My hands hover over the keyboard the same way he'd hovered over me the night before. No more than a flimsy sheet of space had separated us as we laid in my bed, basking in those few moments of him looking at me, right before his touch transported me into another dimension.  I sit here relishing the irony of my hands, suspended just above the keyboard, creating that same thin sheet of space separating my thoughts from my written prose.  Why?  I have the same desire to please him with my opinions the way my body had pleased him the night before.

I'm desperate to send the right words to his inbox, just as I was desperate to satisfy his insatiable craving for me with my touch. And in both parallels, I never knew something as thin as a sheet of space could hold so much magnetism, so much pull. I'm drawn to my letter the same way I was drawn to him. The same way the warm water had been drawn for our bath. The same way my creative mind brought to life the positions I had drawn of us.  The positions which churned from my anticipation that had grown in the days of wanting him. The days before our brief encounter.

My fingertips whisk over the letters, lightly touching the D for Dear, reminding me of my desire to raise my body to touch his. The same desire I have to lower the tips of my fingers to type an email that would surely be too long for its own good, to confirm to him that he has freed me from my own life. But what do I type? My fingers are still, feeling the letters calling to the tips of my nails, telling me to let this man know how good he had smelled, how warm his breath had been on my neck, and how insanely authoritative his tattoos had seemed.

I begin my letter as I sit on the same bed, leaning up against the same pillow that my head had rested on as he took me there, to that intimate place that orgasms normally take an erotic woman. That place where children, jobs, and taxes are not allowed to enter. That private playground on the beach where I show a side of myself that is well guarded and rarely seen. It's just my place, my moment, my slice of heaven that I share with my invited guest. Nobody else can hear my screams, my moaning in his ear. And with each keystroke, I think about how his tongue and his brawn had carried me there, putting me in my place of pounding muscle and pouring lust. The way he had pressed into me then is the same way the tips of my fingers press down on the keyboard

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