She never leaves my side at parties. People come up to talk to me or her or both of us and she has impeccable control over the conversation, a complex harmony of our varied voices with a beautiful baseline that she keeps with her heartbeat. She knows when and how to release us from a topic or person. She does most of the talking. I listen. I like it that way.
She puts her lovely hand on my elbow, my arm, the back of my neck, at small moments: a reassurance and support for which I am always grateful.
She leans in to give me a peck on the cheek near my ear and whispers, “I’m watching the clock. We’re leaving in thirty minutes so you can take me home and fuck me.”
I grin and sip a drink. Finger a pocketwatch, cufflinks, the knot of my tie.
She lets me drive her car. I spin the wheels on wet pavement and work the clutch like a lover: pressure, friction, demand, take. She has her hand on my inner thigh and we both want her to touch the bulge in the crotch but she resists. Her eyes sparkle watching the road.
(This is what I want.)
She sleeps in later than I do on the weekends. I get up, make coffee how she likes it, write for a few hours as she slumbers. Sometimes I take photos of the golden morning sun on her skin.
When she stirs I crawl back into bed with her and we make love, fuck, play until we are satiated and laughing, until our bodies edges are blurred into each other and our heartbeats are synchronized. Her long legs folded, knees touching her nipples. My hand in her thick long hair. Rocking her on the curve of her spine, rocking together.
We make food, replenish, drink coffee over ice and she cooks in the kitchen in only an apron until I lift her onto the counter, arms above her head holding onto the cabinets, bend her over the back of the couch, then again against the cool linoleum.
When I go back to work in the evening she lets me, she directs her energy to her own work, whatever that might be, something physical to balance my mental swirling. We keep each other balanced. She kisses the top of my head or trails her fingers on her shoulders as she walks by, but does not interrupt. She lets me be.
And then there is the reverence, mine.
I sit at her feet for hours and watch her brush her hair. I catch moonbeams in jam jars in an open field in Montana and bring them home to her to use as ribbons to tie around her wrists. I write her poems and she folds them into origami fireflies and strings them around our bookshelves. I tell her every day how stunning she is, how strong; I am breathless with my good fortune at ever gaining her attention.
I stoke the fire inside that shines behind her eyes to keep her lit, keep her going.
I buy her jewelry, not because I know her taste but because I want her to sparkle at her delicate places: her throat, her wrists, her ankles, her fingers, her ears. Every time she shakes her head or signs her name or pulls her hand from her pocket or reaches her arm or places her foot carefully onto the ground she glitters, and she and everyone around her are reminded that someone loves her (and it’s me), that I see everything she does as beautiful, that every time she moves I want everyone to know the immeasurable amount of spark she lends to those of us privileged enough to witness what she does with her extraordinary life.
I agree; absolutely stunning. Thank you so much for sharing it with us!
dude, you totally made me cry with this. you are such a romantic, and your future wife will be one lucky girl. I'm sure you'll have all the beautiful things you deserve, one day. xo
That was beautiful. I hope you get to share it with her some day.
Damn. That made me want to BE her. It was amazing, gorgeous, stunning, breathtaking.
Wow. This post was absolutely beautiful and actually brought tears to my eyes. Thank you.
more than a girl, *the* girl. :)
Very poetic.Coffee, writing and fucking in the morning with sunlight and love is the best.
That was sweet, brother.
I want that too.
That and a consciousness/worldvew fundamentally defined by anti-oppression politics and the pursuit (in a way she has defined for herSelf so it may or may not look like traditional activism) of social justice.
Oh, and she's got to call me on my bullshit — emotional/personal and political — she's got to teach me things.
Think you'll find what you're looking for?
This was absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing. :)
Beautiful.
Not only do I want to be her, but if life was like that, then I think I'd even like marriage.
By the way, I could hypothetically be that girl, except for I prefer tea to coffee :)
-S
goddamn that was good.
Perfect!
So sweet. (With no saccharine.) You caught it in a jam jar.
Nice — have you read Andrea Gibson's poetry? I think you'd like it — she has a book published in addition to her vids on You Tube as a spoken word artist.
So very lovely and also completely attainable. I have no doubt that you will find her, sweet Sinclair.
Just when I thought butches had forgotten how femmes love to be loved! Just when I was about to dismiss the dynamic between a butch and a femme as an antiquated institution that no longer had a place in this world. (This as I write about butch visibility in the world!)
Then, I find this on my desktop. My eyes water, my heart wilts, and I am reminded of all that brought me to this beautiful world several years ago. That belief in love, gentleperson ways, and the love that can be expressed only someone who has felt such love for a femme before!
Tres magnificique!
K
Whew. You quite literally took my breath away. One of a person’s highest dreams should be to be so highly cherished.
Nod.
beautiful. makes me want to be that girl.
Before I explore the rest of your site I have to stop here at the first post I read and applaud. Not only do you write beautifully, you reveal yourself, your beautiful self. I am honored to recommend you to my readers.
Debra
http://thesexblogger.com
Beautiful.
i want to be cherished and loved like this one day.
i just found your writings, but you really seem to be an amazing person….good luck on your search for "her."
Ah, young love!
so sweet
oh but that sounds cynical, doesn't it?
(I didn't mean to let that jealous monster out)
really, your words are beautiful
I loved it
and you made me cry
again
beautiful
Beautifully spoken. Such a wonderful love letter to the energy, that I'm sure, soon will be yours.
Balance is such a wonderful thing….sometime neglected in our demands to remain afloat "all by ourselves!!!".
That was wonderful and beautiful. I am going to pretend for a minute that it could be me to have that, to be such a cherished Femme.
This is beautiful. I didn't know you had a blog! You are a tremendously talented writer! Proud to know ya.
I stoke the fire inside that shines behind her eyes to keep her lit, keep her going.
sigh. sigh. sighsighsighsigh.
Um, and did I happen to mention sigh-swoon-melt-into-a-blissful-dreamy-puddle-of-mush-at-your-feet? ‘Cause that’s just about what I was thinking.
Between this post and the one about your father, Sin, I’m bowing down to you (or I would be, if I hadn’t already melted into aforementioned puddle at your feet. From one (not very easily impressed) queer writer to another, you have a way with words my friend.
If our paths one day cross in real life (pretty please) I’m just going to sit down and make you read to me for hours. True story.
j.
Simply beautiful!
Whoa. I found you thru Stumble On and boy did you just knock my socks off. Like the lady up there said, this was so beautifully written, I want to BE the girl you're writing about. If you haven't found her yet, she's in for a real treat when you finally do meet her.
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bestill my heart. lovely writing, sinclair.
i still think about this story often. it's so wonderful. thank you for sharing.
This, and everything else you write, sure sounds like you know how to treat your girl, like it would be enviable to be your wife, like it would be an honor and a great pride too. I wish someone wrote things like that about me, or at least thought them.
I'm not a redhead though. And right now I think I'm someone's wife already, and happy about it.
But please, please Sinclair, please don't go monogamous and sexually exclusive with someone before I meet you in person and we get to fuck.