Waiting

Ever since meeting her she had occupied his mind. As soon as she telephones to say she will be there, it becomes much more then mere occupation -- she burns in his mind until he sees her. He's distracted -- unable to think of anything else.
He always meets her in the same cheap, but clean hotel in the next town. He likes taking the room two hours before she comes to intensify the experience.
He drives straight from work, books the room, rings to tell her the room number, and switches off his cellphone. He lays on the bed thinking about her. He reflects on this waiting -- this quiet -- time to imagine how it will be when she comes. He likes to make the most of it -- extend the sensual pleasure. He likes the luxury of her -- the confidence of her desirability. And he remembers how she always looks the next day in the morning light, when he finally releases her from his arms – he likes watching her while she busies herself getting ready before she kisses and leaves him.
He now gets up takes a hot shower, and lays naked on the clean white sheets. His skin tingles in anticipation of her arrival. He longs for her in every way -- her voice, her body, her desire for him. He now speaks to the room, 'She will be here soon.'
He lights a cigarette and goes over to the open window -- breathing in the night air -- feeling a slight breeze on his warm skin. The view from every room they have shared seems the same to him – the same busy unobtrusive street. But with a sudden stab he remembers he had once, while looking from one of these windows seen someone who he knew very well. She was walking across the street. It had frightened him, and made him jump back to the shadows of the room. It had put him in a panic -- why was she there? Had she looked up? Had she seen him? He hadn't been sure.
He'd been unable to get it out of his head. It had -- what was the expression? -- took him out of his comfort zone -- yes,and for days, until they had met, and he realised he had not been seen. But it had hung on him with hooks. And in that very moment he had seen her, it had brought his whole life into the room, which like now, he didn't want to think about – it's only worry – what good had it done? He had continued, hadn't he? For here he was -- out of bounds – yes, out of bounds, but also out of reach. He looked at his cell-phone safely turned off.
He tries again to fix his thoughts on her – how she makes him feel. He feels free with her, he feels like a sprung spring, he laughs at the thought.
Going back to the bed, he picks up the hotel telephone, rings room service, orders a bottle of good red wine and two glasses, then pulls on his trousers and shirt.
A fresh looking young man knocks and delivers them. He takes the tray from him at the door, and places it by the bed, ready to play its part in the ritual.
After making love they will drink and talk, and make love again. The talk would be limited (of course) -- though sometimes deep. But nothing too personal -- other than an occasional name dropped matter of factly – but neither were interested in the others.... situation.
He thinks about her arrival again. Soon she will knock softly, and slide into the darkened room, lit only by that warm orange light coming from the street outside -- light enough for him to make out the angular curves of her tall slim body. Coming closer to him he would smell her perfume before seeing her sharp cat like face, which never failed to scare him a little. She will purr 'hi' into his ear, and he will take her in his arms, feeling a kind of electrical energy escaping at skin level -- like sparks. Their first kisses would be tender, but ever deepening. With one hand she would let down her long blond hair. And with a masculine gesture she would force open his jaws with her hands, and offer her throat to him, like prey to predator -- temping him -- showing him both the potential of his power, and her willingness to be dominated.
She will slip slowly from the barrier of her clothes to meet him with the soft covered firmness, and heat of her trembling body. Pressing herself close to him, he'll feel the hardening of the two points of her high round breasts like twin pistols squeezed against his chest. In a voice like blown dry leaves she will whisper how she wants him. Caressing her gently he will fill all the possible shapes of his hands. Her teeth and tongue will ride across his teased skin, slowly seeking and finding the apex of his sensitivity. Her mouth will bring him ever closer to the pinnacle, before suddenly stopping to prolong his release, and hunger for her.
Finally, all control would be given over to their uninhibited lust. She reaching a point where her body takes on a rag doll-limpness -- a complete giving surrender to him, which always makes his head swim with a new and powerful surge of sensuality. Their voices will rise in harmony and pleasure. Then one! -- one in every way -- in one voice -- in one fluid flesh -- one roaring unstoppable physical and mental wave rising and washing them into the stuff of ecstasy – and that little death that no words can describe...
There was a light knock at the door....

Chris Whitley Berlin 2009