perfection

Posted in cusak, real life with tags , , on Mon, 26 Jan, 2009 :: 25/05 :: 23:02:13 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

His pillow, faintly permeated with the smell of his cologne. I pressed my nose to it, clinging to the last vestiges of the weekend we might have spent together, if his work hadn’t taken him away. A manly job, an earthy job, the wielding of knives. The faint salt sea clinging to him beneath the overwhelming aura of fish.

And I, curled up in this bed we shared, a bed that felt more his than mine, as our entire life did, wondered what would have been different. If I had loved someone else, someone more refined, less rugged. Someone whose drink of choice was the martini and not a beer.

But here, right here, in this nameless place, as I writhed with a hand between my legs, inhaling the scent of his cologne, I knew it couldn’t be traded.

resolved

Posted in thoughts with tags on Fri, 02 Jan, 2009 :: 1/01 :: 01:58:33 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

I have been remiss. But it is a new year, and so my resolution is to write more regularly. I often make this promise, and then fail in it, but hopefully 2009 will be kinder.

As a gift to those of you out there who’ve managed to stick with me…

**

I lie in the dark. It’s late night, early morning. Stray light spills through the window. I see only shadows, but you have enough illumination to actually see. And so, as you turn in your sleep, you reach for my form, your hand settling at my hip, warm and soft.

Your fingertips idly trace designs against my skin as your breath comes warm against my neck. No words, only soft kisses. Eventually you reach up to free my hair, twining your fingers through it to pull me back, roll me over, in my sleepy haze. “I was dreaming, love,” you whisper. Then you kiss me, before I have time to respond.

You draw your body the length of mine, your warmth settling into my hollows and curves, as your lips move from mine to my jaw. Behind my ear. My collarbones. Your breath sending shivers through me, one hand pinning my hips to the bed as you shift. My breathless whimper makes you smile, and you tease my legs open with your knee.

“Mine,” you growl softly against my cheek as you enter me…

***

Happy New Year. May it bring you everything you want.

bruises

Posted in real life with tags on Wed, 10 Dec, 2008 :: 344/50 :: 22:59:58 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

I haven’t had much to write recently. I will attempt to end the radio silence this weekend.

For now, I shall simply keep poking my bruises.

romance

Posted in cusak, real life, thoughts with tags on Mon, 08 Dec, 2008 :: 342/50 :: 13:26:56 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

Sometimes I wonder where my Prince Charming is.

Don’t get me wrong, I love both my boys very much…but every so often I want a white horse, shiny armor, and a sunset. I, however, have to come to grips with the idea that this is an unrealistic fantasy.

The boys send gifts. They take out the trash. They let me watch the movies I want to watch, and don’t even complain when it takes me an hour to get ready…to go to the grocery store. They love me, and they’re in love with me, and they do everything they can to show me and make me happy.

Which is why I feel like I sound like an ungrateful loser for whining about this.

Cusak points out that he’s got romantic plans in the wings, that we’re waiting for financial instability to pass. But some part of me is pretty sure that given that we both like our creature comforts, and that supporting two adults in an apartment is pretty expensive, that statement is a bit like saying “I’ll get to it about when the sky turns green.” I’ve never been good with the “wait for Christmas” mentality, and it’s much like that on a cosmic scale.

It seems greedy to want this, when the sex is good and I don’t have any complaints about his living habits. I feel like I’m telling myself I should settle, only it isn’t settling if I think he’s mostly perfect…right?

Right.

I’m just a whiny princess who needs to get the hell over herself.

wanted

Posted in cusak with tags on Mon, 17 Nov, 2008 :: 321/47 :: 13:45:10 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

I take a deep breath. It’s easier to face how much I want to let go and drift into the feeling when I’m breathing. It’s not as scary.

I hate hearing it described as “sub space” or “flying” or any of those other kitschy terms for it. It’s simply the great black ocean of release. Of safety. Of not having to drive, or be in control.

**

I want him to tie me up. To leave me there, bound, helpless. To occasionally inspect me, touch me, brush fingertips over skin. To murmur that I’m beautiful when I’m this package, this item, this objectified thing. Of his.

Last night he looked at me, the light still on, and called me his. There are no words for how it felt. Like gravity and love, wanting to fall desperately into it. Wanting to hear it again. Feeling his arms around me and being able to just belong to him. Without responsibility, without fear of messing it up.

**

Sometimes I would give anything to live in the darkness.

affection

Posted in cusak, language with tags , on Wed, 05 Nov, 2008 :: 309/45 :: 13:45:34 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

Etymology: c.1230, “an emotion of the mind, passion, lust as opposed to reason,” from O.Fr. affection, from L. affectionem (nom affectio) “inclination, influence, permanent state of feeling,” from affec-, stem of afficere “to do something to, act on” (see affect (n.)). Sense developed from “disposition” to “good disposition toward” (1382). Affectionate in the sense of “loving” is from 1586.

“They’re out-cute-ing us,” I whined petulantly. Most men would recognize this as the girlfriend’s plea to demonstrate affection, to soothe her jangly nerves and reassure her that she was. Cusak laughed, and turned to one of the guys and offered to snuggle with him. I, unwilling to be outdone began snuggling with the girls indiscriminately, as if offended by the PDA I had seen, and trying to place it back in its social box.

But secretly, I have to tell you, I’m a sucker for it. I am an affectionate person. I snuggle randomly, capriciously, on a whim. I touch, I kiss, I hold hands with. I hug hello and goodbye, leaving all whom I have as much as a comfortable acquaintance with (much less true friendship) in a cloud of clove smoke and (most days) vanilla with my passing. It defines me, this public affection, this easily shown allegiance given through even casual gestures.

And I expect it from my lover.

Cusak admits to me that holding hands is big for him. That any public touch at all, however slight, is mountainous from where he was. That he fears losing me because this is a hurdle for him. And I smile, and nod, and promise I won’t leave him over this (I won’t, now. I never promise him the future, we’re both too cagey, too wary, too often betrayed by such promises to risk it.) I watch him sleep, I listen to his breathing, and even in the medicated silence of the late night I wonder to myself what I have to change about me. To make myself accept. To become perfect. To create a comfortable space for him to express affection, or a space in which I no longer care.

I poke at the exposed bit of this mentality, picking at the scab. Peeling it back to see if there’s fresh, pink skin underneath yet. But there isn’t. Inside, the five year old who is my id still feels unclaimed, unloved, unheld. Because no one sees her when she is. Because she is just accepted as a part, as naturally falling into place as his girlfriend as his t-shirt falls into place as a post-ironic expression of his sarcasm (“Smile, Jesus loves you,” the yellow smiley face proclaims).

It is the same part of me that recoils to know a friend of his, however far from my hearing dislikes me and refers to me even in passing as icky, the part of me that refuses to put her hands on her hips and do something about it, but instead sulks in the recesses of my mind while I tell her not to. While I rationally dissect the situation to prove to myself that she is just my id, and I owe her nothing. That the freudian complications of my emotional state are built up to give me something to be actively neurotic about, like breathing — an autonomic function.

There’s nothing resolved, we both just went to sleep.

pleasures

Posted in bruce wayne, cusak, thoughts with tags on Sun, 02 Nov, 2008 :: 306/44 :: 22:45:22 +0000 by anaïs' little sister

I am watching one of my favorite films right now as a sort of birthday icing treat, Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. One of the most striking things about it for me is the little things Amélie takes pleasure in. Sticking her hands in bags of grain, skipping stones.

I am struck by my own simple pleasures. I too love sticking my hands in bags of grain, cracking the top of crème brûlée. I love the feeling of clean sheets on my skin, and the way Cusak’s breath tastes when we kiss. I love Bruce Wayne’s superman curl (right in the center of his forehead), and the sound of rain on window panes.

The simple pleasures are certainly some of the best.

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