Cosmic Crisis

star-crossed

You can reach me at:

or:

eonserotica@gmail.com

I believe I will let Michael speak for himself.
I’m not at all certain what I would do in his place.

Michael writes:

Hello Eon,

If I could solicit the advice of you and your readers… I’m in turmoil, and I need perspective.  I’m too close to this, and I’m not seeing clearly.  I know what I want, and I know what’s right, but I don’t know what to do.  My heart and my brain are not agreeing.  I’ve never been so torn by indecision.

A recent one night stand turned my entire life upside down.  I’m a small town boy, not much of a partier, but occasionally the wild side draws me in and I indulge in a crazy night of lust and revelry.  A family reunion had me visiting the city a while back and since I was there a few days in advance of the event I decided there was no point laying around at the hotel feeling lonely and bored.  Went to a club, hooked up with some wild and crazy girls looking for a good time, hopped all around the downtown area hitting the clubs and bars and just having a blast.  Towards the end of the night it was down to me, a guy named Jeff who we’d bumped into, I was sort of acquainted with him through work, but hadn’t really hung out with him before, and these three chicks who were seriously off the hook.

Brielle, the mouthpiece: a hot little blonde tramp, dressed to kill, and hungry for action.  If there were things her friends might be too inhibited to say or do, Brielle would say or do them.  She was wanton, a hot mess, just begging to be seduced.

Next up, Alexis.  Lexi, the dancer.  Another blonde, but natural.  Tall and slim with a solidly muscled body.  Part of a jazz dance troupe or something, spent hours every day in practice, and you could tell.  A bit horsey looking, but honestly one of the nicest girls I’ve ever met.  Her long face wouldn’t have stopped me from trying to get to know her better.  Her smile flashed like a knife, sharp as her sense of humor, but it was softened by the way her eyes apologized every time.  She’d have men eating out of her hand the moment she stopped deferring to her friends.

But I couldn’t focus on anybody but Josephine.  Heart-shaped face, sultry brown eyes.  Hair like night itself.  Caramel mocha skin.  Hotter than the desert.  So curvy they’d shoot car commercials on her, if she were a highway.  She wasn’t my usual type.  Like I said, small town boy.  I guess I normally go for the good girls.  Quiet, retiring types.  Maybe a little submissive.  She was anything but.  Sharp as a tack, wicked sense of humor.  Always seemed like there was ten times as much going on behind her eyes than what she let dance off her tongue.  Mm, and that accent!  The faintest hint of Bollywood.  You know, I’m a brown guy, but born and raised in the west.  India holds a sort of mystique for me, since I’ve never been.  When I was three my father left my mother and went back home, and I’ve always wondered what drew him back.

I was beginning to understand.  There was something about Josephine, a centeredness, an inner calm.  No matter how crazy the night got, she always seemed totally relaxed.  Like she’d just uncurled from the most refreshing nap.  She was like a self-satisfied cat, always purring.  Her mouth was always quirked up on one side, like she’d just heard something very funny, like life itself was a constant joy.  I could see the speculation in her eyes, when she looked at me.  There was something electric between us, an undeniable attraction.  Chemistry like I’d never felt before, bubbling just under the surface.  She kept it reined in.  So did I.  Still, our eyes would meet throughout the night and her mouth would quirk and I just knew she was thinking what I was thinking.

It might’ve been three, four in the morning at this point, and we’d ended up back at my hotel room, drinks and sex toys and naughty truth or dare.  These girls kept upping the ante, daring each other to go further and further.  Jeff eventually talked Brielle and Lexi into the bedroom, and the door closed on their giggles.

Josephine and I were left in the living room, opposite ends of the couch, eyeing each other up in that speculative way, letting the silence stretch out.  I guess she reached a decision, and slowly, languorously, divested herself of her blouse.  She leaned back on the couch and cocked an eyebrow at me.  Pursed her lips.  Didn’t say a word.  Just looked at me.  She seemed to be saying, Planning to reciprocate?

I unbuttoned my shirt, let it fall open.  I’m not an underwear model, but I hit the gym.  She appraised me in that sensuous, silent way of hers, then closed the distance between us on her hands and knees.  Her nails raked my skin as she pushed the shirt off my shoulders.  With a twist of the shirt she captured my wrists behind me and pulled me in for the hungriest of kisses.  Then, slowly, enjoying every moment of anticipation, she freed my cock, slid her panties aside, and lowered herself onto me.

She pinned my arms with the coiled shirt, curled her fingers through my hair to guide my mouth to her breasts.  I pulled her bra away with my teeth, laved her nipples with slow, flat strokes of my tongue.  I kissed her collar bone, her throat, nipped at her smooth brown skin with my teeth.

She stroked up and down with a velvet vicegrip on my shaft, undulating her inner muscles in rippling waves.  The sensation was unreal, like my prick was travelling down an endless vaginal tunnel, deeper and deeper, never pulling out, just thrusting endlessly.  When I looked, I saw how her labia were darker brown than her skin.  By contrast, the bright pink of her inner folds was shockingly arousing, an eloquently suggestive glimpse of vibrant color.

She would feel me twitching, or hear me groan, and change her rhythm, change the pressure of her pussy, move in a different direction… she played me like a maestro, composing symphonies of soaring pleasure, broken by those quiet moments before the next swell of stimulation threatened to overwhelm me.

She guided me while letting me feel like I was the one in control.  I had never been with anyone so skilled, so passionately in touch with the moment, in tune with me.  When she let my hands free, I took over directing the score, and she submitted completely to my creative impulses.

The sun was coming up, and the sounds from the next room had long since turned to soft snores, when we finally completed our masterpiece.  The most beautiful, intimate, harmonious culmination, wrapped in her rapturous embrace.  Words fail to describe.  Exhausted, we fell asleep.  I was still inside her.

When I came to, it was afternoon.  The hotel room was empty but for me.  There was a note on the table.

M.

I think I finally understand what they mean when they say we’re all made of star stuff.  Cosmic doesn’t begin to describe it.  I have commitments, tonight, but I will find you again.

Look for me,
J.  xox

I tucked the note in my wallet.  Showered.  Shaved.  Dressed to impress.
Family reunion time.  Sigh.  Not what I wanted to be doing, after what I’d experienced.  I couldn’t get her out of my head. I stumbled through my afternoon like the mortal fool blinded by the beauty of a goddess.  The note made it bearable.  She would find me again.

Like past family reunions, the event was poorly planned, slow to get going, at turns awkward and awesome.  I managed to catch up with some of my favorite relations, but my heart wasn’t in it, as you can imagine.  My family is huge, and scattered all over the world.  While many managed to make it for this annual gathering, just as many were absent.  An entire evening isn’t enough to get up to speed with even a third of them, but I did my best to stay focused and attentive to the various aunts and uncles and family friends who were in attendance.

After dinner, there were slideshows, speeches, etc.  I’d drifted over to the buffet to grab some dessert.  My Auntie Genevieve approached me, beaming.  She did the usual cheek pinching thing, told me again how much I looked like my father (her brother), and told me she had someone she wanted me to meet.  I stacked pastries on my plate and trailed in her wake as she parted the sea of drifting bodies towards the far corner.  Smiles and greetings on the way, fist bumps from cousins.  Truth is, I was having a good time.  My family has always been a warm-hearted bunch.

Auntie Genny puts ashore at a table in the corner where a bunch of unfamiliar faces are sitting, and I drift in to dock next to her.  The folks arrayed before me are browner than most of us, accents more pronounced.  My aunt proceeds to introduce me around the table.  All the way from India, Dupreet Uncle, Sasha Auntie…  Her voice fades away.  The pastries turn to ash in my mouth.  Tunnel vision darkens my periphery.  My aunt’s words echo from a distance.

“… and this is Josephine.  And would you believe it?  She’s your half-sister!” enthuses my aunt.  “After your father went back to India he remarried and had Josephine there.  When he passed away she began to research his family tree and decided to get in touch with the branch that blossomed over here.  She tracked us down just the other day, so I invited her along.  Well don’t just stare, you buffoon of a boy!  Say hello!  Josephine, this is Michael.”

“Hello, Josephine.”

“Hello, Michael.”

It’s all we can do to whisper a greeting.  I’m sure my aunt is looking at us very strangely, but Josephine and I fall silent and simply stare.  She blushes so beautifully.  I can see it in her eyes: she’s thinking of last night.  Would she take it back, if she could?  Would I?  God help me, I don’t know.

The rest of the night passes in a blur.  There are too many people there.  We can’t find the time or the space to talk about it.  I don’t know what I would say.  I feel sick to my stomach.  I feel intense heat in my groin, and a longing beyond lust or love.  I met my soulmate, and she was my sister.  I will never know this depth of connection again.  I can’t have the one thing I want more than anything.  It’s like a cosmic joke.  The punchline leaves me reeling.

I left the city behind me.  Left Josephine behind me.  We’ve been in touch, sort of.  Awkward text messages, emails that dance around the subject.  She’s engaged to a man that I can’t even recall meeting at the reunion.  An arranged marriage, I gather.  Not something she chose for herself, but she grew up in a traditional household.

Would I sleep with her again?  In a heartbeat.  Even knowing she’s engaged?  Yes.  Why do you think I left her behind?  Why do you think I keep her at arm’s length?  I’m disgusted and exhilirated at the same time.  My sister!  But then that little voice whispers, “Half sister…” like it ameliorates this awful craving!

I can feel my will to resist her crumbling.  She wants to meet for coffee, “discuss” it.  I’m afraid what such a meeting might lead to.  Yet I’m intoxicated by the thought of having her again.

Am I crazy?

*Image from internet*