I’m not much of a romance writer–this might be a one time thing–but do not fear, my contribution is plenty smutty as well (breath play, anyone?). I wrote this story for the partner I always dreamed was possible but I was unsure whether I’d ever encounter this lifetime. Published in Kristina Wright‘s Best Erotica Romance of the Year, I submitted “Sunday Mornings Like These” just months before my partner magically appeared in my life. Well, magically reappeared, actually, as he had been my one-night-stand ten years earlier when I was touring in Europe with my drag troupe…but that’s a post for another day. I wrote this story knowing deep inside myself that such a thing existed–queer love based in truth and trust, magic and mysticism, spiritual/psychic connection, watery and vulnerable emotional depths, sweet and filthy and fully-embodied kink, a passion so fiery it takes us to the cosmos and delivers the Divine onto this plane as well.
I began falling in love with my partner in fewer than two weeks (record timing, even for a Libra like me)…well, two weeks + ten years (but who’s counting?). His presence in my life and our profound connection (lightyears beyond anything I could’ve dreamed up in my boldest fantasies) have taught me to embrace my intuition and it’s been through that fierce embrace that my powers have expanded in unimaginable directions. As we were lying in bed together this morning (9am for me, 9pm for him as he’s currently in Jakarta), we were reveling in how it’s still so impossible to put words to–this woo-filled, woo-ful connection we delve a little (or a lot) deeper into every day.
I wrote this story for him, knowing he existed somewhere, not knowing he was right under my nose all along. I wrote this story as a premonition just before our love story began to unfurl in shockingly similar ways. And just now rereading it I realized in the story I gave a nod to a new offshoot of theory he was to invent before he even knew he would write his dissertation on affect theory. The powers of femmefestation never cease to astound me. Basically, this story is magic. I hope you enjoy the excerpt:
The timing was all off. These are not the kinds of words a woman wants to hear before going in for a kiss, but it was fitting with my awkward nature so I just went with it. He cradled my face in his palms like I was the most precious thing in the universe and kissed me like I was the dirtiest.
My lips were eager to keep moving even after I had torn myself away.
“I need to learn to trust myself.”
Shit. Did I just say that out loud? Staring off somewhere far, far away, a profound realization was swiftly coming into focus. I needed to place my confidence in me alone. Trust in what I felt–the steadfastness in my heart, the authenticity I sensed in his touch, the beauty unfurling within me. My intuition was pleading for attention. It already knew how this story would unfold. And once I learned how to believe in myself above all others, the rest would fall into place.
I leaned in again and our kiss deepened, my body pressing into his, his hand snaking around into my hair. He tugged ever so slightly, testing the waters, then reveling in my responsiveness. A moan originating in my mouth, reverberating in his. A kiss so satisfying it felt like making love. And just before we parted, he placed a crystal of light on my tongue. I didn’t know it at the time, but the more truth I spoke, the more it sparkled and shone its light into the world, spreading magic that glimmered to far reaches, illuming every corner. We spent the rest of the night in his bed, surprisingly clothed, sharing bits of our pasts in between passionate spells of making-out. The more I opened up to him, the more the crystal sparked and tingled in my mouth, joggling hidden depths of myself, unearthing long-forgotten secrets and bringing them to light. Secrets cemented so securely that I had mistaken them for truth all these years, blindly accepting them as fact and simply building upon them.
The crystal tasted like refracted light after a long rain. His kisses tasted like coming home.
* * *
And then he started in with his fingers. It was around that time that my legs finally gave out and I joined him on the linoleum. He worked two and then three fingers into my cunt, fucking me so slowly I thought I might cry. Forcing me to feel every millimeter from his fingertips up to his knuckles, sliding in and out of me so sweetly, causing me to emit new little sounds each time his thumb pressed firmly up against my clit. Then without the slightest bit of warning, it was as though he were hit by a bolt of lightening. His thrusts took off at a feverish pace, my voice crying out unearthly noises and my body spasming in sensory overload. Before I knew it, his fingers were curling up, stroking my G-spot, and I was shooting all over the place. I shrieked one final time, a long, hot stream raining down on both of us.
“Mmmmm…It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who would squirt. I was hoping….” His sentence drifted off as he marveled at dreams become reality soaking into his jeans. Cum not his own dripping down his pant leg. Yes, it had been much too long. For both of us. I was beside myself–not wanting to move an inch–my naked body glistening with all kinds of juices juxtaposed with his clothed self. I lay there unabashedly blissed out, having not known it was possible to lose one’s self so entirely in desire like that. Going there with him was just another way in which I embraced more of myself, shimmering in my truth.
And so it was that cracks began to form in my deep-seated fear of vulnerability, innocent beams of light peeking through the foundation at first, gradually forming hairline fractures that would soon enough break open, leveling the entire structure. I won’t lie–not anymore, at least–this looming demolition scared me shitless. If it had not been for a swiftly mounting safe-haven that enveloped me in its place, I may have been tempted to run.
That was six months ago. And now I’m beyond grateful for having stayed. Especially on Sunday mornings like these. When the sunlight has already been creeping in for hours and the sex is still exploratory. Tracing his fingers over my hips–a haptic continuation of his visual admiration–I’m spellbound under his regard. His eyes take in all of me, his hands take all they can. I feel seen, unabashedly beautiful, with every sweep of his fingertips across my skin, his gaze going deeper still. Each slow moment more crushingly intimate and blush-worthy than the next.
But that’s just the tender build-up. I’m the type of girl who doesn’t need much, if any, foreplay. Which is exactly what makes his leisurely pace all the more excruciating. He’s slow. Likes to tease out every last drop of anticipation, driving me to the edge and back again. And then, just after the point where I think I’m going to lose it, he’s flipping me over, taking me from behind with a frenzied rhythm.