When He Calls Your Name

Sneak preview from a new book of short sexy stories coming from the Zoe Dean handle, but had to give this side of my writing a bit of love too

The voice on the line
The knock at the door 
Your stomach flips over 
And you choose:
Open it, or don’t 
Slam it in his face 
Or he comes across the threshold
And you see his eyes, the corner of his mouth.
It twitches into the smile he saves for you
And you alone.

The fog clouding your brain:
Is it a hand or a claw that reaches out? 
Drawing him to you, pulling him so closely,
To press the air from his lungs or because the space is intolerable.
Anger, gone.
Hurt, gone.
Resentment, annoyance, humiliation, gone.
Because there is truth in the way his mouth forms around yours,
In his hands that can’t touch everywhere at once,
But will try their damnedest anyway.

When he calls your name
And makes you helpless to your hunger,
Do you feel the heat in your blood
Pulsing through your veins?
Does the fire make you burn brighter
Or turn you to ashes at his feet?

When he calls your name
And you scream his into the night
There is sincerity in the touch 
That tries to erase things
You will remember in a moment’s time 

When he calls your name 
And makes you wish for nothing more
Than the sweet surrender of submission,
The bitter taste of honesty, 
Whether it is love, or starvation
It does not matter.
You taste the words on his lips
And make them yours,
Owning them as completely 
As he might have once owned you.

On Dog-eared Pages

You still have my book.

I remember when I was waiting for this book to be released, years ago, when I was working at a bookstore. The stock manager, or whatever her actual title was, set one copy aside specially for me. Its lived in various bags far more than it’s designated place on my shelf, with a beat up cover and water stained pages to prove it.

I was on a vacation the last time I was reading it, while we were together. And lying in the sun, studying its contents, I thought of you. We’d discussed the author before, I’d discussed the book with you before. So when I came back, I gave it to you.

Temporarily, at least in intention.

The time before the last time I saw you, you had it in your bag. You were bringing it to work with you – you were definitely reading it. And that made me happier than I could say.

Do I bring this up now? How? It feels seems petty and unnecessary. Reopening a wound that should be closed by now, and I’m still picking and re-picking at the scab. It feels both like an excuse to talk to you and an excuse to make sure we never talk again. So long as you have that book, I have an excuse to message you. Have a reason to reach out.

And again, it also feels petty and childish as all hell to ask for it back now, after so much time has passed. And I’m afraid of what would happen if I did. If I’m ready for the closure of you.

But really, honestly, I want my book back. I want it back on my shelf and the ability to carry it with me again. I want to revisit sections and reread favorite parts.

I don’t want to want to reach out to you. I don’t want to have this idea in the back of my mind. I simultaneously want you to leave it where I can grab it without seeing you, and sit down for a drink with you, and have the discussion we should have had months ago.

The discussion about more than just the book. About the things you still admit to me you don’t know, or rather, haven’t let yourself think about long enough to figure out.

I suppose, at some point, I’ll simply buy another copy. Let you be, and accept in my heart these are the things I must let go. But I’d bet it will stay pristine for far longer than the original.