It turns out convention was a tie loosely bound. I take civility and grind it to dust the first time you make me come. The way your hand slides between my legs. And your words. The electric shock of your desire.

I want to kiss you here.

I forget everything I know but my body remembers. Impossible, we have not done this before. And yet. There is the inexplicable feeling of return when you cause a thousand nerves to jump and collide. You kneel before me, make of me a temple and with each stroke the tenuous chain gives a little more, it breaks apart with every oh god that rises up against it. I bare my teeth at you, a snarl that wants to catch your flesh and taste your salt on my tongue. Whatever bound us to the rest of our lives shatters in the explosion that ensues. Our landscape forever alters and you map it as I come.

I will come to covet your body with the intensity of one who borrows and must give back. This is a constant reaching, a constant touch. There is a need for tactile reassurance that overpowers my borders and my limits. You have a wall around you – what was that they said? With you I smash this wall myself, frantic, fingers pulling at any barrier between us. God, I can never get close enough. I bite and scratch and wrap my arms and legs around you. I tell you that you are mine. I invoke possession as the law.

I draw roads and rivers across your skin. I landmark our bodies, a topography laid down through the trace of thumb, the pressing of palms. Territories are charted with mouths and hands. You learn of my heights and my depth, you discover the part of me that resides below sea level, and the parts that contain the highest of mountains. Against the terrain of your body I spend nights raising indelible flags to mark places I too can claim. I was here this kiss states. I was here this sliding of my hand declares. I was here this touch of tongue to nerve blazes.

It would seem those who aim to conquer are desperate to be known. Even when the map disintegrates and we can no longer find our way back we keep on trying to make our claim. We mapped our world so quickly, Mack. Why did we never give any thought to how it might be destroyed?

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

This is a work of fiction. And yet …

Published by Eidyia

I am only three things for sure - an Atheist, a Feminist, and a Writer - one who obsesses over the grand themes of love, memory and connection.

5 thoughts on “Topography

  1. Such a deep, gorgeous metaphor, the way we “map” a lover’s body and the experiences we have there. The way we want to conquer and be known in each new place. Very nicely written.

    1. Thanks TB. I am not sure I ever get away from that metaphor when I write about sex and love. The body as landscape is my minor (perhaps major?!) obsession 🙂

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