Later in this entry things may get a bit steamy. If you're underage, please leave now.
First things first. My dress for the show is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I told the costumer I wanted to keep it, but the other theatre costume department, she said, would probably not be happy with that. Ah, well. I was teasing, and we both knew it.The show has Renaissance Italy for its setting. My dress is a rich honey brocade, with a heavily boned bodice that comes to a point low in the front, laces tight up the back, and gives me a bit of cleavage at the low-cut, square neck. The sleeves are puffed in a puckered material, and reach almost to the wrist, with a wide lace ruffle that skims above my knuckles and has a picket fence of pointed scallops. The skirt is split in front to show the underskirt of black.
There's no way we ladies will be getting into those costumes by ourselves! I had visions of "Gone With The Wind" as the costumer tugged and pulled on the laces in back, and the dress weighs probably thirty pounds, but my goodness it's lovely! The prettiest costume I think I've ever had.
And we get to wear our hair pretty much any way we want! (Well, except short. Those with short hair will be given hairpieces or wigs.) For me that probably means curled and down on my shoulders a bit. They're going for a rich, sumptuos look rather than strict authenticity. Yay! This is the first year I haven't had to put my hair up and wear it close to my head, which just does not flatter me.
I couldn't resist stopping by Bruce's on my way home from rehearsal. I hadn't seen him all day, and the thought of going another twelve or fourteen hours before I could touch him did not appeal one teensy bit. I didn't call first. I thought if the lights weren't on that I'd just drive on by. It felt safe to come without telling him first, after the brouhaha of some months back, when I first told him I wouldn't be coming and then "surprised" him by arriving anyway.
And I was right. He'd been half-expecting me, and knew it was me when I knocked, and said he got over the "call first" thing months ago. Another moment to inspire happiness, and instill a deeper sense of safety and security. In truth, since our handfasting this past summer we've both been easing into a very married space. I feel more and more like his permanent partner, his wife, and less and less like his "girlfriend". He appears to be assuming that same mantle.
Bruce was doing dishes, as I recall. I stood at the kitchen counter and nibbled at the leftover green beans in a bowl near the sink, eating them one a time, or two, picking them up with my fingertips. Yum! RC spent too many years working in a green bean processing plant to tolerate them, so I rarely have them, and these were the frozen kind, with plenty of butter and garlic. Heaven, even cold.
I asked Bruce's opinion of the latest bunch of leaf pictures, and he opined that my first group was better. These, he said, didn't speak to him the way the first ones had, except for the one that looked like a starfish, and the yellow ones against the grey peeling paint just reminded him he needed to paint his porch again!
I went into the bedroom, lying across the bed to crank up the computer and bring up the pictures, so we could discuss them while looking at them. He followed me in and knelt on the bed next to me, and my body was suddenly sheathed in millions of skin cells that were all yearning to reach out to him, as though my very flesh were hungry for his. I felt him next to me, was alive to him, even though he wasn't actually touching me.
We talked, looking at one picture after another, but after a moment Bruce got up and left the room. "Come back in here and get on top of me!" I called, not demanding, but laughing with it. He honored my request, coming up behind me on the bed, straddling me where I lay face down, wrapping his arms around me. "I love to feel the weight of you on me," I said.
Bruce lifted the hem of my shirt, stroking my back with long fingers, kissing me along the shallow valley of my spine. When he got to my bra he stopped, saying, "That's a pretty bra." "Do you like it?" I said. His fingers were already at work, unclasping the deep rose band, his hands slipping underneath to cup my breasts. "I like these better," he said.
"So...do you want to get naked for a little while?" he asked.
I looked at the clock, making the calculations. Ten-thirty. If we were quick, if we were fast...
"Ten-thirty," Bruce said. "We can be fast. There's time."
I vaguely remember the two of us shedding our clothes. That memory is effaced by the sheer joy of sliding our bodies together, under the sheets, kissing and holding each other.
I remembered standing behind Paul at rehearsal that evening, suddenly noticing the fine hair at the back of his neck, his nape just slightly downy below the hairline, and the impulse to touch him there. I picked a bit of lint off his shoulder instead, and thought of Bruce, of the way his curls feel under my fingers, the curve of the back of his head in my palm.
Such hunger. I wanted to kiss him, smell him, taste the sweet saltiness of his skin, touch him everywhere my hands would reach. I ran my hands across his shoulders, marveled at the complex redoubled curves of his softly furred chest an inch from my more rounded breasts. He had tasted me, too, driving me to distraction with his tongue and mouth, making me pound the mattress and cry out. I mostly had the control to not actually pound him, though sometimes my fist deflected at the very last instant.
Then Bruce rose above me, smiling. Smiling. How is it that we are so very happy together? I can't question it, but I joy in it, bathe my soul in the delight of his. He entered me. God, the wonder of becoming sheath to his sword.
And still I hungered for him, wanting to be even more completely one. My hands were against the sides of his chest, and I flattened my palms and spread my fingers, exploring the fluting of ribs under smooth skin, subtle muscling, fitting my slender bones between his.
My hands went to his hair, the plane of his cheeks, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, and again to the back of his head. We kissed, and I couldn't close my eyes for a moment. I wanted to keep seeing him, to hold him as vision.
We finished as we so often do, with me on my shoulders and knees, my voice keening into the sheets with passion. His hands were on my bottom, holding the cheeks as he drove between until we were both sated and exhausted.
But laughing. We laugh so often. The weight of his hands and body against my behind had commenced, at some point, a gradual increase in the spread of my legs. I was near collapse by the time he came. Maybe I should take up yoga, because I am just not that flexible!
Afterwards, I tried to hurry and dress, but I couldn't seem to find my clothes. I ended up wearing one of his sweatshirts over my t-shirt. It was definitely too cold to go home in just my turtleneck tee. When I got to the car I found my coat in the front seat. It appears I left my new sweatshirt at rehearsal. Somewhere in my subconscious I must have been shedding clothes all evening, in hope or expectation of bliss.
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