“Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow.”
“Sh. Don’t move. Don’t smile. Just stay…like that.”
Yes, People. I went “there”. I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the “big finish”. I love the glazed over look on his face. I love how soft his eyes are. I love that I can’t help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret. What you can’t feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies. What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter. How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me. How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs. What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed. Neither of us are particularly active people…except in this arena. It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a “10” to.
This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc. This photo is this weeks title: Love, Baby. After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me. Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny. His scent intoxicates me. His eyes draw me in like magnets. His breath on my face is like warm apple pie. His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.
And me? What you are seeing there is a rare moment…only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it. It is vulnerability. It is the taming of the shrew. It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress. His virgin. His whore. His Goddess. His first time. My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time…until the next time.
Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last. Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that. It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him. He is not a selfish lover, by any means…but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured. Together we are a force to be reckoned with. While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened. He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.
This picture. It captures “love, baby” because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I. Other couples aspire higher when they are around us. I joke to my husband and say “we’re contagious, babe!” They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do. We’ve both heard it before. “Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours. You guys always look like you are having so much fun together.” And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together. We laugh during sex. We laugh during nervous times. We laugh in the midst of crisis…one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.
It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren’t just merely the truth.
It wasn’t always this way. We had our share of problems in the very beginning. His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle. Mine came in a Louis Vuitton 8 piece steamer trunk set. Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven’t looked back since.
“Lemme see the picture,” he says.
I show him.
“Aw, Baby…”, he whispers to me. “You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter. Was I that bad?”
“No. You weren’t ‘bad’, goofball. You were amazing. You’re always amazing.”
“WE’RE always amazing,” he corrects me and kisses my forehead.
I put the camera to the side.
“Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that,” he asks.
“Yep. I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion.”
“We look pretty damn good,” he says.
Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.
It’s late and he’s going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work. It’s nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken. I roll onto my side, pulling him with me. My back is pressed into his chest. I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back. His arm is raised above my head…our fingers interlaced. His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen. I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier. He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of “I love you”. I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his. His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores. There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low. The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.
Until I realize, I am the woman crying.
You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours. The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me. There will be no one to have a midnight snack with. No one to giggle with me at America’s Funniest Home Videos. No one to eat dinner with. No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night. No one sharing the warmth of my bed. I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.
I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry. I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane. The alarm rings forty-five minutes later. He slips out from under the blankets. I feign sleep. He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower. I hear the water running and it hurts so much. I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow. I flip through to the picture I took. Look at that moment. I can’t help but smile. That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time. I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob.
He is packed and leaving.
“I love you baby,” he says. “It will be a short week. And, when I get home…we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach. Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean.”
“Can’t wait,” I whisper.
He kisses my lips softly.
“All the love in the world, Angel,” he says.
“Nothing but love, Baby,” I reply. And with that, he’s gone.
Monday comes. I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.
“Our prompt this week…,” she writes, “why, it is Love, Baby!!”
Love, Baby? I laugh. I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.
I grab the picture and run to my blog. Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself. Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well. I “frame” the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time. Something captured and clandestine. Something sneaky and sexy…like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere.
So there you have it. The story of the photo. The story of our loves…and nothing but Love, Baby.
Nothing but love.