making-love

If a writer has the desire to communicate by writing and be heard, then he necessarily cares about seeing it in print. I suppose it's the difference between masturbation and making love__he real writer wants to touch another person.

The one thing you should never do to a woman, whether you make love to her or fuck her, is apologise straight after.

The things that could be controlled, though, was this moment. And Elijah kissed me like it was a natural-born instinct. We had our story and they had theirs. No, ours wasn__ exactly beautiful or magical, or any of those things they made us believe in. More often than not, we cried and were reckless with every decision. Those feelings we held onto in that moment were ever-changing; we did the impossible and never doubted for a second that we__ do it again. Because in our story there were no rules to hold us back or people to judge and misuse us. We were limitless.__ur love,_ Elijah breathed against my lips, __ill be infamous. And that__ our secret.__ nodded with my eyes still closed and allowed his touch to overwhelm me. Every moment with him was like a walk in the dark, a dive into the forbidden deep. And unlike the others__ welcomed the darkness.__ake love to me,_ I whispered. They were words uttered before, but this time they held the weight of the moment and our will to never let it go. Eli needed no further permission and he encased me__onsumed my very being__ith his soft kisses and soothing caresses. Everywhere he touched flared and burned. And I flew.

The Knowing Afterwards, when we have slept, paradise- comaed and woken, we lie a long time looking at each other.I do not know what he sees, but I see eyes of surpassing tenderness and calm, a calm like the dignity of matter. I love the open ocean blue-grey-green of his iris, I love the curve of it against the white, that curve the sight of what has caused me to come, when he__ quite still, deep inside me. I have never seen a curve like that, except the earth from outer space. I don__ know where he got his kindness without self-regard, almost without self, and yet he chose one woman, instead of the others.By knowing him, I get to know the purity of the animal which mates for life. Sometimes he is slightly smiling, but mostly he just gazes at me gazing, his entire face lit. I love to see it change if I cry__here is no worry, no pity, no graver radiance. If we are on our backs, side by side, with our faces turned fully to face each other, I can hear a tear from my lower eye hit the sheet, as if it is an early day on earth, and then the upper eye__ tears braid and sluice down through the lower eyebrow like the invention of farmimg, irrigation, a non-nomadic people.I am so lucky that I can know him. This is the only way to know him. I am the only one who knows him.When I wake again, he is still looking at me, as if he is eternal. For an hour we wake and doze, and slowly I know that though we are sated, though we are hardly touching, this is the coming the other coming brought us to the edge of__e are entering, deeper and deeper, gaze by gaze, this place beyond the other places, beyond the body itself, we are making love.

Occasionally, she wondered if all couples struggled so much to understand one another, spoke so little at dinner together, spent so much time camped out in front of the TV. Did all women sometimes feel distanced from their man while they were making love?