Straight No Chaser

Quietly Losing My Mind

there was this one night when he had an asthma attack while we were on the phone. at that point i hadn't seen him in two, maybe three weeks; i didn't yet know just how ridiculously arduous a separation it would be. i was talking and he was wheezing; i'd heard him get wheezy on the phone before so i thought it was just like those times, not considering the extended physical trial he was going through. i went "are you okay are you okay are you okay?" over and over, gimpishly, until finally he managed a single word, and it was "no," and i freaked out but couldn't really do anything. his grandmother died of complications from her asthma. eventually he communicated that he wanted me to hang up, and i did, but couldn't fall asleep even though it was probably going on five o'clock in the morning.

i hate when shit like that happens. i wanted so badly to help him. letting me give him the aloe was his way of compensating for seven weeks of occurrences like that; i sat there straddling his back and i knew my fingertips were killing him but i thought it'd be good for him and he let me do it, knowing how much it hurts me to see him hurting. i felt like one of those slave wives we've all had to read about, dutifully rubbing gritty lard into her man's lash-wounds.

then there was the night he told me he couldn't think in sexual terms while he was being paddled every night. the last time he was aroused, he said, was the last time he saw me, and he didn't think it'd happen again till the ordeal was was over. fuck, i said, no more phone-flirting? correct, he said. and then it seemed like EVERYTHING he said after that was by deliberate design, absolutely intended to frustrate the hell out of me.

i hated it. hands down, the worst seven weeks of my year. AND NOW I HAVE TO WAIT YET ANOTHER THREE DAYS EVEN TO SEE HIS FACE AGAIN. this having seen him on thursday, with steam rolling off his (bald) head and ripped sleeves to show off his gorgeous arms (which were great before and are now...something beyond great, exquisite maybe) and chanting things about his hypothetical sexual prowess as he humped the air, the floor, the gate i was standing behind, as his thirteen brothers did the same. or maybe they were; i was staring at him so intently i probably wouldn't have noticed if one of the others had sidled up and started humping me. and then he sang. i dreamed about sex that night; glorious, brainless fucking behind a blue-and-white confetti waterfall; in the dream i kissed his scars away and his skin sparkled.

three days from now i'll want to ravage him, and will only go easy because he's still sore and his back is scratched up. and i swear i'm not some lecherous sex fiend; i love his mind and his spirit but, let's remember, i've been in touch with both of those for the past two months. it's his body i've missed.