Twined Together

                The moments between silence our always the hardest to swallow.  The pauses in words could transform the dialect into slurs, blending syllables and synonyms, trying to remember the sentence structure.

                The moments between thrusts are always the hardest to continue.  The pauses in breaths could transform the sex into repetition, blending moves and desires, trying to remember where it began, our first time.

                Sex is an easy thing to explain.  Desire leads to energy then the energy tries to be spread between the two people.  Then kissing, possibly foreplay and then the standard sex.  It becomes crippling after Matrimony, where you begin to over analyze the sexual situation.  My wife and I want to stay healthy and relieved from worldly stress, so we have sex.  She heard about it on Oprah and I heard about it from Mancow in the Morning. 

                The origin of experience is the closest one gets to living in their fantasy.  That initial time will always be engrammed into the soul as a stepping stone for future endeavors.  

                The first time we consummated was the best it could be because the buildup of desires and hormones could never reach that exact level after the sex.  When I laid her on my twin size bed and we removed each other's clothes delicately will always be perfection and now we are stepping further and further away from it. 

                After we both orgasm, her usually on top, grinding her smooth hips into my bony pelvic bone, she gets off and crosses her legs and exits the room.  To my knowledge, she goes to the bathroom and cleans up but I have never really checked because I tried once when we were still engaged and the door was locked.  It's always locked when she's in there.  This gives me about ten minutes to lay in the bed in peace and to tally my results in my little black book.

                So orgasm, she leaves, and I scurry to my bottom drawer of my dresser, underneath my old work attire when I worked the random bars and clubs and got presented event t-shirts, and I flip to the page I was on and tally.  Each time I have had sex has been recorded in this book.  It's a book that contains some of the most triumphant acts in my life and also the most pitiful.

                But for the last nine years, I've been stuck on one woman, my wife, and the number, today, has just reached 1000.  Each tally stares back at me as if I could recall each one but I can't.  Sex started to blur.  We have had sex every three and a quarter days.

                A number, after awhile, after acculmation, starts losing its signifigance.  Either the number never meant much like counting the rain drops in April Showers or that number has been inflated and has lost its original value.

                Sex after awhile, with one women, starts becoming a chore.  Either the sex never held any weight like having sex on the beach during the sunrise or the sex has been transfused with your life, no longer an experience but an act like going to the same job every day.

               

                She knows about my book or knew.  She found it when we were still dating in graduate school and laughed.   She thought it was cute because of how few of "conquests" I had.  I'm sure she thought I ditched it when we moved from our apartment to this house, our transistion from engagement to marriage.  But I have always kept onto it.  I was going to leave it behind by girls keep their childhood diaries and men keep the baseballs they caught at the games.  All I have from my past is photographs and this black book.

                Objects can hold more experiences in them then a human.  They are within an experience and a simple appliance could turn a man from selfish thought to pitiful to happy on a different day of the week.  The thing can blind involuntarily or it could change your life for the best.  But you can always throw it away or put it in a display case.  Each and everything we come in contact with.  And we designate the physical as an artist tells us all about the fictional, imaginative, growing world that is within us.  But what changes the object isn't the description or the definition but the beginning and conclusion.  The middle, the present, never matters.

                I hid the black book back underneath my retired work clothes and then I turned out the lights, my responsibility, and went underneath the white sheets adoring our bed.  I begin to hide, fall and hide behind my pillow.  I can hear my wife skip to our bedroom, each lunge hitting wood, I can see her with her eyes closed afraid of the dark but not hers. 

                I heard the door knob turning and see it, the bonze metal turning against our white door. She tries to be silent, to sneak in if I've fallen asleep which I have never done before.  The door creaks like an echo and she slowly slides her body in the wedge between the door and the wall.  She glances at me peaking at her and we both smile, mostly with the crow's feet beneath our eyes but her simple teeth show through her dewy lips.  And she steps towards me, unsheathing her pink, rosy, robe so we can lay naked. She holds me tonight as her breasts tickle my low shoulder blades, caressing our love between our skins.  This isn't an everyday occurrence but it's happened before and it's refreshing.

                Love is a constant struggle of mystery.  What is it?  It's the only thing, a constant experience of a spectrum of emotions that will abrupt your present thought.  You are always waiting, surprised or disappointed, but waiting for your pre-conceived notion to occur or for it to be turned against you.  Love is the only thing that can't be trained, can't be understood through mathematics and logic.  It's an angst teenager against Mother Nature and Father Time.  It is the only news you care about and the simplest thing one could live in always and experiences wholly.

                My wife lets out a whisper but I can't hear her, only certain letters between the gaps of breath.  I ask her to repeat herself.  My wife asks, after clearing her throat from the long day, "So what are we up to?" like she had some premonition of the number.

                I tell her, into her left ear that was resting on the curvature of my neck "We just hit 1000." And she breathes slowly. "That means we have had sex every 3.28 days."  She grinds closer to me, in-between the line made up of our compressed bodies.  She lets out a "Wow" and a "good night/love you" and quickly diminishes in slumber.

                A body is usually defined as one, an individual, but usually it includes more than one would think.  Inspirations contend within and protrude outwards.  Influence affects us and the touching of bodies, in and out, is a slithering of snake skin.  It's an escape into our next, more developed, consciousness.  We live on forever, a passing of influence and energy.  And soon enough we will lay together, back up, arms crossed, next to each other dazed by our lives together, pushing us deeper into death forever.  But it doesn't matter; the thought doesn't hurt as much as it can, as we lay holding each other after dealing in nature and reality for a day or two.  We hold each other the way we are supposed to, the way we came, naked and for security.  We never get in our way unless we ask for it and our home becomes the heart as quick as our love turned into tradition and back again.