Blooming for Her at the End of the World

(I submitted this piece to a local project about the pandemic and how folks have kept positive during difficult times. They said I’m allowed to share it here with you too! It’s mostly stitched together from things I’ve shared here this past year, lovebird things.)

‪“I miss your face and I’m glad I found you before the world started ending.” ‬

She sends me a picture of the fires in California, the ocean and the full moon both glowing blue above and below the orange flames. Terrifying and beautiful and a nightmare, really.

This whole year has felt that way. Terrible and shocking with a thread of wonderful woven through it, mercifully.

“As long as I have you...” it’s a comforting thing to say these days. An anchor stops you from floating away. I don’t want to drift, it’s turbulent out there. Hold me here, with you, stable.

Imagine, somewhere I can really rest. Next to you I’m still. What a thing to provide for a rabbit-hearted girl who’s tired of racing. “I love it when you hold me close like this,” I whisper against her ear while she’s fucking me, one hand wrapped around my waist, the other inside of me. She kisses me slowly and tells me I’m hers. I rock my hips gently against her, she moans when I get tighter around her fingers, “Baby...” she says softly. I feel like I’m in my place.

She spreads her hand across my collar bones as we lay quietly together, thumb pressing against one side, pinky touching the other. She fawns over how little my clavicle is, how she can hold the whole thing in one hand. She kisses my wet lips, tells me I’m pretty, I melt for her.

When she holds me sometimes she lazily runs her finger tips along each one of my vertebrae from the base of my skull to my tailbone, softly tracing each one. She feels out the little muscles around my spine, sometimes names them out loud. She loves my anatomy. I know that feeling. I want to write poems about her hazy green eyes and her perfect teeth. I want to worship her stomach, give thanks to her tongue and make sacrifices to her hands. I want to categorize her freckles, take photographs of her dark eyebrows, map out all of her ink. I love every inch of her.

I swoon for the way she drawls “it was my pleasure” when I thank her for some small kindness. And the way she says “Now, there’s somethin’ sweet” when my chubby cheeked niece smiles. These antique phrases from another time contrast with her rough dirty-mechanic aesthetic, tattooed hands and gentle words. Old world and new.

I’m in love with her vision, with her outlook on life. She believes good things are coming. She’s not afraid of a little hard work, she shows up ready to roll up her sleeves and get her hands dirty, but she’ll put down her work gloves to wrap her arms around me any time I need it.

She carries my bags for me and holds doors open like I’m doing her a favour for allowing her to assist. She takes great pride in making my tea exactly right; Red Rose with too much milk and a little bit of sugar, hot. She shows up in front of my house with her pick-up truck full of flowers she’s dug up with her bare hands. She lets me wear her clothes and teaches me how to use her chainsaw (even though I’m nervous). She’s patient with me.

She uses the word cunt like the boys at work do (demeaning, rude, harsh). I use cunt like poetry (flowery, crude, lush). Our language exchange makes us both wet, I like her Rough and she likes my Soft. She softens for me too, and takes pride in my toughness. Balance in all things.

Sometimes, when she’s overtired from shift work she’ll fall asleep on her stomach, face-down into the sheets like a tired kitten or a baby. It makes me want to sing her lullabies and kiss the nape of her neck where the bristle of her fade meets her soft skin. That’s love. Making monuments of trivial things. This reckless adoration of the little pieces that make her whole.

**********

My stomach does a backflip when I see her big work truck turn the corner and slow down in front of my house. Yeah, I’m standing at the window like a puppy. It’s shameless really. She always takes her time, I love her in her work clothes, puffing on her vape as she saunters up my front steps. The sound of her heavy boots on the porch makes my heart thump harder. More than once I’ve watched her and thought out loud “god damn I want to fuck her.” Which is followed by a smug little smile because, I’m about to. I wonder for a second what my neighbours think. Not that I give a fuck, but her truck out front is starting to be a regular thing. Lucky me.

Her entrance is always met with the excited leaps and whines of my wild dog, who loves her unabashedly. She wrestles with her and gets her riled up, I don’t blame the pooch for being smitten. My dog is officially a problem child, her energy is more than most folks are looking for. (That’s a kind way to say it.) People are generally overwhelmed, turned off, or at least intimidated by my long-legged head-butting kissy-faced beast. My babe is undaunted, she leans in, scoops that gangly pup up in her arms and holds her tight. “She’s so cuuuuute,” she coos she while the noodle-of-a-dog bucks and wriggles joyously, covering her face in kisses. The toothy beast grins, so do I as I watch them.

Eventually I pull her away and lead her to my room, I want all of that attention for myself. The pup pouts and slinks back to bed. I unbuckle her work belt. Her hips, toned and tattooed, push towards me. I bury my face against her neck and breathe her in, forest and sweat and honey. She fumbles with my strappy lingerie and I fumble with her tight sports bra, eager hands that want to learn. I smirk wondering if the crew of dudes she supervises knows where she disappears to, if she gets razzed when she comes back smelling like me. I like our stolen time, she calls me her treat, her fancy cupcake, hers.

I am hers, even if I belong to no one. I like to fit myself into this shape, something pleasing to her, something she needs, something she adores. I want to be so good for her, I want to make her happy. I want to see that unabashed smile on her face, the one where her laugh lines crinkle and her eyes squinch up and I know she’s stopped thinking about anything else except my legs wrapped around her.

She squeezes my thighs and makes a satisfied sound, I love having her here, safe between my legs. Her job is dangerous, the news reports remind me all the time. I try not to think about it, if anything this year has taught me to stay in the moment, savour every good thing, breathe.

I’ve never had a lover so keen to give me pleasure, like it’s their job. “You’re spoiling me,” I protest. “It’s what you deserve,” she reminds me. “You’re so good to me,” I whisper. “That’s the way it should be,” she says, squeezing me tight. She’s so sure, I start to believe her.

She reaches out to the bouquet of tulips on the bedside table, she brought them for me earlier in the week, a whole rainbow of pinks, bright oranges and yellows. They’re starting to wilt, she frowns as she grazes a flower and a petal falls to the floor. “But that’s what they do,” I assure her. “They open and open and open until they fall apart.”

I ramble about the beauty of the ripe and ruin but all I can think about is blooming for her. I need her so badly, just the feeling of her fingers tracing across my stomach entices me to spread my legs open for her. I’m desperate to fall apart too.

There’s something thrilling about the contrast in these moments. I’m breathless, shaking, dripping wet and she’s calm and cool and collected while she pushes me steadily to my limits. We’ve been mastering each other's bodies lately, she’s in awe as I take more and more of her. She says I feel like a little kitten curled up in her arms. I love how long she’ll play with me for, endlessly curious about how much further I can go. I blush hard after, and purr “You should kiss me.” She leans over top of me, so close, but not quite touching. Her eyes cast down to mine, “Should I?” she asks. I swallow hard and nod.

Her kisses are electric. I get what I asked for and then some. In the wake of another orgasm, I press my lips against her neck and whisper sweetly, “I’ve lost count, but I think it’s your turn now...”

She smiles. I know this means no. We have an agreement for orgasm distribution, a ratio you might say. The rule is I get 4 before she gets 1. It was 3 to 1 before the pandemic but she decided the extenuating global circumstances had repercussions in our bedroom. More pleasure was required. For someone who hasn’t read a lot of queer theory she sure understands how the intensely personal can be political, how everything we do is an act of resistance. So the ratio moved to 4:1. This is why she’s the boss. She makes the rules. I follow them. We both like it this way. Our own kingdom, a woodland witch queen and her diesel dyke king.

“Hmm...” she looks deep in thought. “I think if you lose count you have to start again at 1...” her smirk could charm just about anyone. I’m utterly charmed, and I do as I’m told. She spoils me again and again. I’m nurtured by the way she tends to me. I bloom and soften for her over and over, her favourite flower.

I lose count again. I’m a dripping wet mess, shaking from her capable hands. She leans back on the pillows. Steady. She takes a long draw from her vape and eye-fucks me, looking me over, calmly. The way her jaw sets makes me weak, like the way she says (quietly, still holding my gaze) “Get that little ass up here so I can clean you up.”

I can feel my cheeks turning pink, her eyes still on me. It’s so vulgar, so hot, so out of character for my darling babe, but I want this from her. I want her animalistic need, I want her to take what she wants, I want her to lean into that sadistic side, just a little. It’s easy to convince people to take more when they’re full of desire. It’s easy to convince people to use you when they’re about to cum. My needy little cunt gets wet every time she tells me what she needs from me. I want to give her the ocean and the moon.

I crawl towards the headboard towards her face but she puts her hands on my hips and holds me there, perched above her. “Let me look at you for a minute,” she says softly, stopping my momentum, her eyes hungry for all of my curves. The air feels thick and heavy but I glow under her gaze, I try to steady my breath but my heart is racing. I don’t look away. “You turn me on so much” I whisper, drunk on her attention as she rubs her cheek against my thigh and looks up at me adoringly.

I squirm when I notice the slick wetness dripping down towards her face. “I like you messy,” she says with a smirk, her tongue traces its way up to my pussy and I sigh. There is no sweeter dirty talk for a girl like me. A perfectionists perfect poetry. I want to be whatever she likes, I want to be her pretty little plaything. Imagine that messy is okay, that it’s wanted, that she likes me this way? Her tongue does good work and my eyes roll back and she moans “You taste so good,” against my wetness. I revel in being the perfect centre of her universe. I love it when she tells me she loves me, but when she says it with her mouth full of my pussy it sounds the very best.

When it’s finally her turn I’m giddy, I undress her as gracefully as I can manage in my cum-drunk haze. When I kneel between her legs it’s like worship. I love going down on her, it goes straight to my head. I feel her relax under my tongue. Good. She needs my tender care, my devotion, my persistence. She throbs in my mouth and I moan a little, lost in the heady feeling of being in service.

I can feel her orgasm building, she grinds against me as she gets closer and closer but I slow down, steady, drawing out my favourite part just a little. When she cums it’s with a groan, she grips the back of my head and fucks my face. My own cunt throbs and I’m blissful, useful, satisfied. My head is full of stars, I rest my cheek against her stomach and she strokes my hair. It’s peaceful by her side.

The hours melt away when her hands are on me, somehow it’s after midnight. I come back in from my last trip outside with the puppy. She watches me slip my sandals off and hang up the leash. I can feel my cheeks getting warm under her hazy gaze. “Lay with me for a minute,” she asks quietly. She’s supposed to be leaving but she stretches out on the couch and opens her arms instead.

I can’t resist. I curl up next to her and nuzzle against her neck. It’s too humid to be touching each other, the air is heavy with the need to rain, she smells like sweat and summer. I close my eyes, breathe her in, her arm is tight around my waist making sure I don’t roll off the edge. I’m not very good at sitting still, but I have to admit this is nice. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

I shift and the hem of my dress slides up, exposing a little more of my legs. I know she can’t help it, her hand is on my thigh and she kisses me softly as she lifts my dress higher. It’s dark and quiet in my living room, all we can hear is my breath quickening as she pulls my panties aside. She makes a low rumbling sound when she feels how wet I am, my heart is in my throat as she kisses me softly.

I’ve tried almost every drug under the sun, so please believe me when I say that none of them compare to the blissful feeling of being so close to her, our breath passing back and forth between both of our lips, pulling her closer, pulling her in, panting when she gets me closer, wanting to be closer still. Closeness as a primal need. Closeness as a religion. Closeness as a cure. Nothing else exists. Our tongues softly touching, my clit throbbing against her palm, “Put your fingers inside of me,” I whisper but I’m begging her. She gives me everything, it’s like sparks and fireworks, my heart pounds so hard it shakes my rib cage, she holds me closer still.

It’s alright. She’s next to me. The world can fucking end.