The Agony of Red

     He was so young. And she was so much older.
    But her blood already obeyed him. The more she knew of him, the more he spoke to her, it only made her sink deeper into the agony.
    She tried to find flaws in him, to ease the incessant ache, the now-constant throbbing between her legs. Ha, a flaw in him... His flaws were, as they said, such perfect imperfections.
    She’d be driving home, and he’d fly into her mind again, as he seemed to do every three seconds, and oh, that hot fast moist arpeggio trickling over her skin and flowing like liquid lightning through her... She wondered if his transportation consisted of a bus or a car and she wondered when, while he was on the road, what his eyes saw every morning on the way to his destination... And suddenly the wetness was pooling between her legs, the way they wanted to spread for his mere ghost, at the stoplight squirming and pushing herself against the seat, one hand on her neck as she imagined his lips would be, the other on her left breast as she’d prayed his hand would be molding and pinching... Hard.
     She was ashamed because she sometimes watched porn to achieve release, ashamed and embarrassed since she was female, for even in the crux of her all-consuming desire for him sometimes she couldn’t climax due to certain medications she was forced to take. Searching for actors who looked like him... For she desperately needed the release. Finally, someone with his dark roguish hair and elegant cheekbones and a delicious scene of his fingers thrusting in and out of her (not the voluptuous blond in the red bikini) and she’d be hurtling into the oblivion of satiation in an instant.
     And afterwards, what stunned her, truly mystified her - it wasn’t enough.
     She’d been this way since childhood, finding her stepfather’s stash of Playboy’s and Penthouse's and how the pictures made her tremble with need that had to be only externally rewarded, she was certain of this, for she knew nothing of masturbation, not even of orgasm, just those pictures of people in Jacuzzi’s with looks of heavenly ecstasy etched on their drugged faces.
     For some reason, he’d made her feel that way again. He was special, so very special. Something prodigious in him, something so deliciously male yet vulnerable. Something as heartbreaking as he was crotch-possessing... Strangely, an almost maternal tenderness which seemed as intense as her sexual want for him...
     But it made life so difficult. It was hard doing the mundane tasks of the day when suddenly she’d be swept in another fantasy with him (any way they might touch or unify causing her to bite down hard on her lower lip and lean into the kitchen counter for support... Or was it for mere contact with something?)... She’d be lost suddenly, having forgotten what the fuck she was attempting to do...
      She’d always run from it. She didn’t know if it was pure lust or sickness or both, the way the obsession seized her effortlessly. She’d run from it in the past, which usually helped turn the switch (eventually) to off.
     For some reason, this time, she wanted to ride it all the way.
     Some minutes later, alone and naked in her bedroom, she spoke softly to him.
     
just your eyes
make my thighs
want to open

because it’s
just you

i need just you
above me
in
me

i don’t need props
intricate games
don’t need your teeth
tearing away my panties

i just want your fingers
interlaced with mine
your ragged breath
in my mouth
along with your perfect tongue

oh god how I need you in my mouth
sucking voraciously
licking at your tightening testicles
taking your hot essence into my body

but no I don’t want it to end that way
I want your beautiful face
haunted and pained with pleasure
as you look deep in my eyes
sliding inside and out
of what you’ve owned
since I first saw you

god, just fuck me
i'll do anything
just fuck the life out of me
like as if you hated me

i know you know
what i want
you've always known
known everything

while you mouth the words
i
need
you

    She exploded instantly, whimpering and arching her back and quivering as if in supplication to him, great spasms of white heat jolting her senses... Crying out his name over and over and needing more and savoring the taste of his beautiful name issuing from her mouth... Everything he was to her, his past, his fears, his brilliant words centered between her legs, pulsing through her swollen breasts...
    Finally, her eyes swathed by a veil of tears, she looked to her nightstand. Trying hard to gain focus, she knew what she’d always known.
    You were never meant to be mine... I am Calypso and you are my Oddyseus and I let you go, I let you go.
    She didn’t know why she was the way she was. She’d never known. But she knew she wouldn’t even be able to open the window and look into a sky which his face would not be suspended in.
    She was quick with her hands. The razor served its purpose; the red was him, everything he was, everything so vivid and bright and joyful, everything she’d lost, her own joy, love... Yet something also so dark which haunted her and pulled her in and made her hunger just as strongly as his softness.
    And as she died slowly and softly, she sighed his name, her core still pulsing with undulating waves of her desire, and the blood and her intimate juices became one as she cradled her still-pulsing center (still trying to draw him back in), and they were for him, they’d always been for him, and like a satisfied lover, she sighed his name one last time, and slipped away.