Lustful Passionate Loving Sex

He had promised He would quit smoking while they were apart. He wasn’t keeping that promise well. He had lost count of how many He had burned since waking at 3am, chain smoking in the 35 degrees of the balcony.

They had been apart for 11 days. It was the longest they had spent away from each other since October when they finally connected, communicated and established their relationship for the long haul.

The plan was for them to be apart for 17 days. She had company, then a conference, then a weekend retreat. They both loved and hated the times apart. They enjoyed the longing. They enjoyed the intensity it bred into their reunions. But they also missed the talk, the laugh, the touch.

He had paced himself. Like a marathon runner He knew if He allowed His mind to dwell on the length of the race, He would have trouble finishing. Longing would become pain. When He found His mind tending to Her, He would quickly distract Himself with work or people. He wanted this to remain the pleasure-pain, the passionate edge.

But Thursday, She had surprised Him. He assumed She would need down time after the hectic weeks She had endured. He was willing to grant Her space whenever She needed it, Her amazing came at the price of Her needing time alone.

She reached out: “Can you come down Sunday evening, after I am home from my retreat?” Days sooner. He was excited they would be together. The thought fired His imagination and His passion.

Last night He allowed Himself an indulgence in anticipation. He took time to dwell on Her. Their shared adventures. Her joy. Her smile. But soon He found His thoughts moving to Her body, their passion.  Closing His eyes and feeling Her against Him. Her soft skin beneath His fingertips. Tracing, touching, teasing…

The urge, though willfully suppressed for a week, now burned into full fire. Today He was enjoying the heat of the flame.






My Plus One

When I wake up
in mental haze
I’m glad
You’re my +1

When I hold your hand
fingers intertwined
I smile
You’re my +1

When life gets rough
and I hear your voice
I’m comforted
You’re my +1

Sitting on the deck
talk and cigarettes
I laugh
You’re my +1

Captive of your eyes
engulfed in your smile
I’m lost
You’re my +1

Lying back in bed
with you once again
It’s bliss
You’re my +1


Suess House Deck

He arrived at Suess House at 6:20pm, knowing She would be out until 8 or so.

As He walked up the stairs to the door, He felt a calm. It felt like home. He topped the stairs, assessed the living room. Yes, there were certainly remnants of the previous weekend’s company. She had been busy every night this week.

He wandered through the kitchen. “A quick smoke, then I’ll pick up” He said to himself. He popped a Marlboro from the pack on the kitchen table and wandered out onto the sunset deck.

He noticed the quiet. It was deafening. He was rarely alone at Suess unless He was writing. Distracted. Here, alone in the evening, it seemed empty. It was feeling less like home.

He put out the smoke and went back in, straightening up. Putting away the clean dishes. Moving dirty from sink to dishwasher. Wiping down the counters. Moving to the living room. Placing the pillows properly. Putting away the afghans. Moving up to make Her – Their – bed.

When He finished He plopped on the couch and surveyed. Suess is “homey” – She decorates beautifully. She has a certain style permeating the pores of the odd house. She had offered to help Him with his ramshackle, but so far He had declined.

Despite beautiful appointments, the warmth He normally felt there was absent. It didn’t feel “home” any more. It puzzled Him.

That’s when the obvious Hit him: “Home” for Him wasn’t a place. Furnishings. Art. Firepit. Those were nice. They made home “better” but they weren’t home and never would be for Him. Home was the people He loved. Her, His sons, His parents, His sister.

Suess felt like “home” because She was there. Her smile. Her joy. Her laughter. Her wit.

It felt like home again when she drove in at 8:07.



The cigarette seemed lonely.

As he smoked on the run down balcony of the run down building, he wished to be somewhere else. The sun, usually a joy for him, today seemed lonely too.

He imagined her. Stirring as the sun poured into her windows. Him, cooking sugar bacon. Them, on the deck, smoking, laughing, talking. Debriefing the week and the world. Wondering if her chemise was too indecent for Juan and Juanita.

“Maybe the next one will be better,” he lied to himself as he lit another.