The lawn of selfish desire
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After kissing and stroking my whole body, you had left me to the caresses of the sea breeze. Your momentary appearance on the lawn was meant to bring awareness of a voluptuous gratifying passion we were just learning to embrace.
You wanted to create a scenery for the pleasure of your eyes, placing me as a restful decor to glow in the middle of the lawn, reflecting the sun. You needed an innocent spark of desire to envelope you in your melancholic state of writing.
I was lying on the grass, alone and naked, with just the breeze, the sun, and the green grass, and small spots of tender flowers moving to the caresses of the wind. I felt such a desire for you. I craved for you to come back and replace those caresses by yours — more sensual, more intense — making my skin vibrate with joy.
I knew you were watching me from the window in the attic of the rented summer house, computer on your lap. I knew you were trying to silence your desire, to keep it from draining you and distracting you from your writing. You needed to isolate and grasp the quintessence of your curling buzz of thoughts, which felt more important at that moment. It was not the moment for making love.
I could not abide, bewildered without your loving touches. I teased you by enjoying myself, enjoying the sun, the wind. I started to gently stroke my skin to intensify the pleasure of being part of a felicitous lively lawn.
My desire ripened. I couldn’t think anymore of flowers or wind but you, aching for you to enter me right away, right here, with the wind to caress our pleasure, and the sun to heat up our lust and burn us, losing our minds.
I was distracting you but you were still not coming to me. You were fighting the powerlessness I created in you. You wanted me to boil in my own desire alone. If I waited more, I would burn …from the sun. So I came and caressed you until your eyes settled on me, swirling through the depths of my passion. And I left, certain that you would follow me to my salacious lawn. You grabbed that ridiculous blanket — the clear white of a polar iceberg — a total mismatch to my florid scenery. This was a shield for your tenable spirits, your armor to defy, your selfishness that you needed to carry through.
But it was my selfish game, my selfish desire — a desire I so selfishly wanted to share with you, a desire which takes over me, over you, and makes us us.
Who was selfish and whose game was it?
