A Last Goodbye

tears

A little something from the personal file tonight…
You can share your own last goodbye stories with me
By writing to eonserotica@gmail.com or sending a letter to

 

For every goodbye, I hope you find hello.
With love and respect,
Eon

It is the witching hour.  You went to bed hours ago.  Our goodnight kiss was brief, perfunctory.  I can feel the love ooze away, trickle out of our hearts bit by bit, day by trying day.  It isn’t your fault.  It isn’t mine.  It simply is.  These circumstances.  The nightshifts I work.  The dance performances you train so hard for.  You have fractured your feet, and still you dance.  We’re both a little crazy.
We occupy the same spaces but so rarely at the same time.  I see you in passing as I come home.  You’re on your way out to a dance class.  You see me in passing as you return home.  I’m on my way out to work.  By the time I come home you will have been gone to your own job for a couple hours.  I will sleep, fitfully, the sunlight too bright around the edges of the blackout curtain that doesn’t quite fit the window, the heat of a summer day sapping my will to move until I hear you come home some time in the late afternoon.
I will pretend to be asleep.  I don’t know why.  We both know I’ve hardly slept over the past year.  We both know it’s slowly killing me.  We both know I don’t have much choice.  There is no other full time work that pays even half so well.  So you will pretend I am sleeping, and I will pretend I am sleeping, because we both know I need my sleep.
But what use is sleep that does nothing to rest me?  And what use is all this money?  I never see you.  I can’t spend outrageously on you, treat you to jewellery store shopping sprees, fancy dinners, tickets to performances we never have the time for.  I heave a sigh.  I will stop pretending to sleep, stumble groggy into the kitchen to say hello.
But you’re already gone again.
I sit and stare at the wall, and wonder where it all went wrong.
Weekends are the hardest.  I’m not needed at work, but I stay awake all night because it’s the only way I can maintain the brutal hours of my schedule.  You come home exhausted after another long day of work and dance, dive into a whirlwind of last minute chores and organization, try to prepare for more of the same tomorrow.  I help where I can but we work in silence.  You don’t have much to say about your day and I only just woke up after a much needed period of total oblivion.  You frown at the empty bottle of rum that delivered me into sleep this morning, but you don’t say anything.  We’ve been down that road.  Your quiet disapproval is more eloquent, anyway.  I can see by the way you don’t even bother to mention it that you’re giving up.
So am I.  I’m so sorry, baby, but so am I.
So I sit here, stare at a computer screen well into the night, mindlessly surf the web, try not to think about it, about us, about you.  Headphones on.  Music cranked loud enough to fill the room around me.  David Usher tells me he understands what I’m going through.  He says he’s been there.  I sigh when he laments,

“The water’s beginning to freeze here…”

You glide up behind me on bare feet, barely a whisper of sound to give you away, your dancer’s grace evident in every beautiful step.
I don’t see it.  I play a mind-numbing computer game, strategically burst bubbles, think to myself this might be a metaphor.
With an air of trepidation you interrupt my reverie.  Your nervousness is somehow more seductive than if you were playing the pouncing cat.  It has been so long since we touched this way.  Your warm breasts press against my neck and shoulders.  You trail your fingers along the length of my right arm, lay your warm palm over the back of my hand.  Together we move the mouse, watch the pointer on the screen hover over to the X in the corner.  You press gently on my finger.  The web browser closes.  When you stand, my swivel chair rotates as you pull on my hand.  I look up at you and see the tears in your eyes, and I begin to understand.
You turn my hand palm up and guide it under the hem of your negligee.  You press my fingers into your wetness and heat.  For what seems the first time, I look at you.  I drink you in.  Your curly red hair tumbles down around your face like sunset clouds.  Your blue eyes, damp with tears, hypnotic, search my face.  What are you looking for?  Recognition?  Some connection?
You bite your lower lip.  Is it because of what you see in my eyes?  Or what you don’t?  Or is it because my fingers press against your arousal, begin to search inside you?
The white lace of your lingerie clings to your pale skin.  The shadowy outlines of your curves are visible beneath.  Your long sleek legs part slightly.  You press yourself into my hand.  My fingers curl, sink between the slick folds of your secret skin.  You lean down, put your mouth next to my ear.
David Gray croons huskily,

“Slowly the truth is loaded:
I’m weighted down with love.
Snow lying deep and even,
Strung out and dreaming of
Night falling on the city
(Quite something to behold).
Don’t it just look so pretty?
This disappearing world…”

His voice fades as you pull my headphones away.
“I was having a sex dream,” you whisper.  As though we need the excuse to touch each other.  How did it come to this?
Your lips brush like feathers against my earlobe.  I feel the gentle waft of your breath.  I smell the green apple scent of your skin, watch the swell of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric of your shift.
I turn my mouth towards yours.  Our lips touch.  Softly, tentatively.  Then with increasing urgency and hunger as we share a kiss every bit as passionate and searching as our very first… but there is an aftertaste, as our tongues touch and slide… a taste of despair.  A taste of hopelessness.
It tastes like goodbye.
I stand and guide you out of the room by the fingers buried deep in the heat of your sex.  Your thighs rub the sides of my hand and wrist as you follow.  Delicious friction, a hint of what’s to come.  You came to me, you offered me this, and I recognize it for what it is.  I will take the opportunity to say one last goodbye before the love drains away completely.  I understand that we must stop pretending.  We’re not a couple, anymore.  We haven’t been for months.
But tonight… tonight we will be lovers.
I carefully think of nothing, pull you by your swollen pussy down the hall and into the bedroom.  In the dim glow of a single lamp, you raise your arms over your head and I lift your nightdress away.  I let it slither to the floor with a quiet hiss.  Your milkwhite breasts fall free, bounce gently.  Your skin prickles with goosebumps.  I watch in fascination as your inverted nipples slowly emerge from their puffy pink areolas.  I’ve always loved the obviousness of your arousal.  I lean down to encourage them, run my tongue in slow circles around your breasts.  I lick their heavy curves, lap along their sides, trace the outline of your nipples.  I flick them with my tongue as they harden, grip them gently in my teeth and draw them fully forth to suck hard, to elicit a gasp of pleasure from you.
Your busy hands fumble at my clothes, strip off my belt, push down my jeans, my boxer shorts.  I step free of them as you pull my shirt over my head.  Naked now, we press against each other, hold each other tight.  There is a moment of desparate calm.  We breathe deep, cling to each other.
But we know it can’t last, so we begin to move our hands, to touch and stroke, to caress and call forth pleasure, and memories of pleasure, and we strive to layer them deep around us, build talls walls to hold out the reality of our world for just this one night.
My warm hands encircle your waist, slide down over smooth pale flanks, up over taut belly.  You are so tall!  Six foot three, statuesque, and there is so much of your strong slim dancer’s body to rediscover tonight.  I want to memorize you by touch.  If this is my last chance to touch you I will touch all of you, I will know you completely before I let you go.
I pull you close.  We kiss, eyes closed, and fall into each other.  Our mouths explore as our hands do.  Your lips draw a line of fire along my jaw, down my neck, over my collar bone.  You kiss my chest, my shoulders, lick the hollow of my throat.  I push you gently down onto the bed.  You fall back and sprawl in languorous abandon.  Your legs part and your fingers slide over the heart-shaped red fur of your mound, spread the wet pinkness there for me to see.  Your fingers delve inside, pull free with a sucking noise.  The slippery slurp and gurgle of you finger fucking yourself makes my cock ache with inner pressure.  I had planned to kiss and lick my way up your legs.  I had planned to circle teasingly around your sweet center and layer affection across your stomach, breasts, and neck.  I had planned to kiss you passionately, run my hands through your flame-red hair, wipe the tears from your ice blue eyes with a gentle thumb.  But seeing you now, wanton and aroused, soaked and shining with the slap and slip of your fingers, I can no longer wait.
You woke up this way, dripping and full of desire.  You don’t need me to take my time.  You need me to dig down to the depths of you, to drill for that fading connection before it slips beyond our reach forever.  You need me to take my pleasure, to lose myself in you, to let myself be carried away by the wave of emotion that threatens us both, to carry you along with me.
You reach for me.  Our fingers intertwine and I climb onto the bed, pin your arms to your sides.  I lower myself between your legs, let my erection push your glistening folds aside.  You buck your hips upwards even as I thrust down, hard.  We slap together, cry out in unison.  I fuck you furiously, punishing your body with mine.  I hammer out my frustration.  I pour it all out, the growing distance between us, the feeling of helplessness as I watch us drift apart, the sense of loss and impotence.  Thrust after thrust I beat my body against yours, hating you for your inaction, hating myself for giving up, letting go.
It isn’t exactly pleasure, but it overwhelms me just the same, and I growl with the release as I drain my agression into the spasming grip of your sex.
Gentler now, I continue in a slower rhythm, long, deep strokes, push hard into you, strain to touch you in what seems the only way we still understand.  The tears stream freely down your face, and I lay my body over yours protectively.  Our mouths meet and we taste each other’s sorrow.  Once again we cling to each other, touch, search, try so hard to remember every moment, every breath, every gasp, every look, every cry, every surge of pleasure, every contraction and release.  We roll in the oceanic grip of our emotions, ride the waves of our release to the safety of a shore of exhaustion.
Sleep reaches from the deeps to take us under.
When I awaken, you are gone again.
A note on your pillow reads,

It might have worked, in another life,
But not in this one.  I hope we can be friends some day.
Love always,
K.
xox

*Image from Internet*

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