Radio Cure
I woke up drowning in a tidal wave of heat, burning up like a match the moment it is being struck.
My mouth was open, dry as the air. I was panting, catching my breath just as I began to remember my name.
It feels like I know very little in those first few split seconds of being awake, except the yearning I feel for him.
When I miss him most, I lay under the covers while giving air kisses to the heated space in front of me, miming with my mouth in an attempt to recreate the feeling of our lips pressed together until the moment our tongues begin to dance and the nectar of limerence flows between our mouths.
Imprinted on my bottom lip is the memory of his teeth sinking down and tugging, sometimes gently, sometimes with force. The memory turns into more of a fantasy as the days and nights I spend without him pass.
Jeff went back to Berlin weeks ago, and I realize I've begun to lose sense of his presence.
I turn to my side and pull up my phone so I can listen to my favourite voice memo of us together, the one I cannot delete, whose rhythms I have memorized.
When I hit play, he is saying good morning and talking about the weather. I move the play head of the audio clip to the part where I know his cock has found its way to the depths of my pussy, and I can hear our fucking sounds clearly: our skin slapping as our dense bodies clash, our unified moans, the creaking of the bed. If I listen closely, I am transported instantly to my place beside him.
My hand slips beneath my shirt and travels over my belly to find the flesh of my waist. I trace one warm line along my side like I am following an invisible infrared map of where I want him to touch me the most. I pretend that my silky hand is his mouth as my fingertips closes in on my throbbing clit, imagining his untamed facial hair rubbing up against my inner thighs.
I sorely miss the way his beard scratches my face as we kiss, the way it feels to be engulfed in his masculinity, with an increasing need to feel his hard cock inside of me.
I pinch my nipples, thinking about how arresting his touch feels when his fingertips clasp tightly around them. My hypersensitive skin tingles as he twists and pulls. A look of satisfaction appears on his face as he inflicts pain on me, observing my wince. He smiles as I fail to stifle a moan while biting my lip.
When I am being held hostage by the nipple, it feels like he has designed the blueprint for a tower that reaches the highest peak of my arousal. Together we have climbed to the top of the structure and peered out into the boundless landscape that is our mutual pleasure, like God looking out at all creation. I'd rewrite the story of Babel so that men and women who fail to speak my erotic language would fall off the scaffolds as they attempt to erect me the same monument he builds so effortlessly.
For the hundredth time, I listen to the voice memo of our overlapping moans, which ends when he brings me to a climax.
I put my phone down, close my eyes, and thrum my pulsing clit until my fingers are flicking fast. My hand cramps slightly while stretching out the fabric of my damp panties. I buck my hips and moan his name out loudly like it's a meditative chant that will somehow summon him to my room.
"Jeeefffff" I say, in an elongated exhale, as the tide of my orgasm begins to rise.
I rub a little faster, creating friction. Thoughts of our next reunion start to flash through my mind in story board format:
First, I walk the steps to his flat. My short strides to his door are like giant leaps for us. His front door is open, and he motions for my bags. With suitcases on the floor, we stand in the hallway, hugging. Then, our faces are pressed together for a lingering kiss. My coat comes off and he grabs my hand to guide me somewhere. We lay on the bed. We kiss and embrace. One of his hands is on my ass, one hand is cupping my breast through my shirt.
I slip a finger into my wetness as I think about the dialogue that happens when our mouths unlock and we gasp for air.
"Let's make it last, baby," I say, like I have any semblance of control over the pace at which we are now moving.
Jeff's hand has already found its rightful place inside my panties. I cry out loudly as I feel his palm sliding slowly against my wet pussy lips and he pushes two fingers inside of me.
We reach the state of our euphoric sexual bliss in my mental slide show, which looks like we're borrowing poses from the Kama Sutra. I believe we are experiencing a love that is both ancient and timeless. I hold my breath as my climax approaches.
I open my eyes and remember I am still alone in my bed, and he is still asleep in another time zone. I miss his cock. There is no replacement.
We learned all about the shortcomings of replicas when we went to Tennessee. We tried to make a mold of my pussy from a pocket vagina-making kit we bought at a sex shop. A photo he took of the shadows cast by the faux Grecian columns of the Parthenon in Nashville remains stuck to my fridge as a reminder.
On the phone we giggle about our memories, and we fantasize about fucking in 1000-year-old churches while touring Europe together. We talk about having threesomes, bondage, role play. We joke about becoming swingers. We place ourselves in every sad love song about being far away from the one you love. "Just A Song Before I Go" ceases to be a meaningless, overplayed radio tune.
I am completely nude with trembling thighs spread wide. My head is rolled to the side with my face in a pleasurable wince.
I am tweaking my nipple with one hand, and rubbing my clit with the other. Big, wet, fast circles. Thoughts of Jeff and I in the throes flashing through my mind.
When an orgasm rips through my body, it creates an invisible fault line that tears me apart from the center. Pleasure erupts out of my core in all directions. Juice oozes out of my pussy, leaks down my ass, and onto my bed.
I caress myself gently and breathe deeply, as if to blow out the remaining embers of my orgasm. I am thankful for my ability to remember, and for understanding loving from a distance.
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