Write me a story

You could be my poison, my cross
my razor blade
I could love you more than life
If I wasn't so afraid

                      -----  From "My favourite faded fantasy" by Damien Rice

"Tell me a story, beautiful man," she says as she settles into my arms and on my lap as we sit on the sofa backed against the wall of windows that look out at the water in the distance. It is twilight. I smile and kiss her dark hair, whispering "you are the beautiful one," as I reach for her hands with mine to intertwine our fingers, squeezing gently.

I tell her about my first love, about how in those college days she made me the man I still am. She wants to know more. I tell her about the drugs, about making love in the stairwell, about intense explorations of body and mind that shone light on the darkness in me. She wants to know more.

I have told her a hundred stories. A story for each kiss, for each caress, for each animal want, for each liquid desire, for each trembling intimate feminine submission from her. I cover her body and mind with a steady stream of lust and words, marking her and binding us together in shared secrets. 

"Tell me a story, my love," I whisper to her as we sway together in a slow dance surrounded by people and music in the club. As we hold each other in the dance, our bodies moving languidly, our hips pressed against each other, she does not answer for several songs but I can feel in the movements of her familiar body her struggle to formulate a response.

In time I feel her relax, and squeezing me tighter in the dance she whispers back, "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot keep writing stories with you. It is too much. It just takes too much from me." 

In the light and the dark of the club, we sway silently together, touching, caressing, as the music changes over and over. 

"I want to write my own stories," she says, tilting her head up to kiss me as the night comes to a close.