We are ensconced in an artist's attic loft in Paris, the grey skies pressing against the skylights as the rain pours again. I cannot even recall how many days we've been here...they all blend together into one long orgiastic dance of sex, romance, poetry, art, cafes, wine, music and laughter. Everything else disappears here; limitations, cares, worries, the endless list of "how" and "what if" is obliterated, even in the dreary light and incessant chill.
The entire room seems to shrink, becoming nothing more than a beguiling setting for the bed, with sheets creeping over the corners and covers never made properly...the hunger for more is unrelenting, and we pay no attention to the cycles of the day or even basic human needs most of the time. My thirst is only for the taste of his wet skin, my hunger is never for food, and we are constantly blissfully intertwined, exploring space as one.
Looking around, at this sublet heaven we've created, there are clothes scattered with joyful lust, wine bottles and half empty glasses, candles and wax drippings on little plates all around, remains of baguettes and fruit, bouquets of flowers drying in vases...how much time has passed that they can look so old already?
I cannot differentiate anymore between his scent and mine; they are now intermingled into one intoxicating pheromone that answers all the questions we ever faced. Wherever we go together becomes our own universe, like this place...for a short time it is the focal point, the centerpiece of our long awaited consummation of passion, and now it has grown into something overpowering, inspiring. We sweat amidst the bitter cold and the drafty windows. The depth of our lovemaking surprises us both, when we had already expected the world. Every moment is a symphony, something you could imagine being frozen in time as oil on canvas. And even when we do bathe and dress and venture out into the world, I feel him inside of me.
I enjoy one of the most erotic moments of my life standing beside him in a museum, exploring the depth and richness of a painting together and somehow it's a hypnotically intimate experience...like making love unabashedly in full view of the world. We seldom need words...we, who once upon a time spent hours talking and talking, trying to use words to express something that can only be verbalized in the sighs and moans and breaths of a lover's embrace.
We stand at the window, naked, wrapped in cool, soft white sheets together, watching the city of artists, dreams and romance...belonging there, existing nowhere else in that moment. He gently brushes my hair back and off of my neck, and his touch inflames something in me, something that had been asleep for so long, it now burns out of control. I can only breathe and quiver and wait, because in that space I find great pleasure, a way to stop time and feel him in every part of me. He senses my breath quickening at his touch and I lean back against him, resting my head on his shoulder as his hand caresses me, explores my body as if I were his sculpture, his creation, and in that moment I am.
We hardly need sleep, the passion fuels us, and when we do succumb it's random, brief and deep. Like catnaps in between the hunting and feasting. Every inch of him excites me, every sound he makes fuels the fires inside me and I am insatiable.
One day this will all be a luscious memory...I will stop as I walk through the market looking for fresh fruit and remember this; sitting in bed, laughing, touching, kissing, eating, drinking and thinking there is no other reason to be alive...this is the Holy Grail, the uniting of body, mind and spirit...decadent sexuality with innocence...sensual and sweet and thick, like warm honey...what else is there but this moment? The apotheosis of all my desires.
The artist...the writer...muses for one another...lovers forever now...the ghosts of our encounters will remain here...will the people who follow us here feel them? Will we?
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