Friday afternoon, I sit in front of the monitor, swallow a dildo, spit into my hand and rub wet palms on my tits and hair for the 3-dollars-a-minute internet audience. Friday night I want your boozy fist in me. I want to suck the sake from your tongue. To be only yours.
On Saturday afternoon in Sebastapol – buying slippers and bouncing a rubber ball through the aisle of Rite Aid, photographing maria’s shoes in the parking lot as you lean against the jeep, drawing with the etch-a-sketch – I can feel the small ache of where you’ve been. I’m embarrassed that I can’t know the right things to say.
While we are weeding the asparagus beds at Leah’s farm, you remind me that it is AVN weekend – that it is Sunday, the last day of the convention, and all of the signing and florescent booths and photos and madness has gone on while we were walking through the soft-dirt holly grove, drinking California wine next to Leah’s fireplace, picking red chard in the dark with a pocket knife and flashlight, chopping the mint and olives, watching the hawks and setting the gopher traps and climbing muddy through the fern-bed amphitheater. It’s Sunday afternoon and grey-cold and you are wheel-barrowing dug-up fenceposts to the barn and cut-down holly branches to the compost pile. You’re wearing ripped jeans, flannel shirt and trucker hat and you keep calling me Daisy and I keep calling you Farm Boy. I’m sifting through the dirt and lettuce-roots, letting an earthworm crawl between my cloth-gloved fingers. I think that this is the first time in years that I have missed the convention; it is certainly the first time I’ve forgotten about it. For a few minutes I wonder if this means something.
This morning, while you are at work, I make coffee that is stronger than you like. I read your books and get weepy with sentiment, leaning back on your leather couch in the same position as the night you first kissed me – when we both knew we shouldn’t have, and had to wait a year for the right time to kiss again. While you are at work, I peel both of the hard-cooked eggs you left and eat them with the salsa verde from your cupboard. I think of the way your hand felt last night, the way we were so tired, all of a sudden and I want to tell you this thing that’s in my throat, I want to and want to and it’s too much and I can’t.