Twirl

She has called on me again, lured me from the depth of my hold, splashing me on to the cold ceramics. I twirl for her, do my best to show myself off, to enchant her, to make her want even more. I still do that, after all these years, even though I now feel confident that she will want me even without my boasting charades. From the corner of my eye I watch her brush her long hair, stroke by stroke, using her antique rosewood brush. She leans closer to the mirror, carefully examining every crease, every wrinkle and every pore on her face. The eyes are piercing blue, but clouded. It is as though she is dreaming, yet her movements are crisp, wide awake.

Her long fingers are undoing the buttons of her shirt, top to bottom. It is not her shirt, it is much too big for her. She slides the garment from her shoulders, takes care to fold it and places it on the seat of the toilet. She turns to me, beckons me to look at her, to see her for what she really is, as she is standing there naked and honest in front of me. The closeness that I once found so frightening is not there any longer, many years have past since I last felt embarrassed by the sight of her naked body. I long for her, but I do not crave her. I want her, but even long, lonely nights without her are manageable these days. I still wish to please her, but I no longer live solely off the rush of her ecstasy.

Two steps forward, and she is right there next to me. I look at her, I twirl, and I invite her in. She lifts her right foot off the floor, and for a moment my eyes rest on the most private of her parts. She steps into me, slides into me, lets off a deep sigh and I embrace her. I explore every familiar one of her nooks and crannies, I massage her, urging her to relax, and she does.