How much do you really love me?

Tuesday, August 31, 2010


Wolf approaches me like I’m a small animal poised to take flight. His fingertips slide down the inside of my arm, like he’s afraid of leaving a smudge. Like I’m some kind of porcelain freshly glazed but not yet fired, too fragile to be held. He sits beside me with a sigh.

“Why am I doing this?”

I don’t completely understand, but up this close I can see his dazed confusion, creased around his eyes and the unconscious scratch of stubble. He smoothes the same line again and again, shaking his head.

“Doing what?”
“You’re not mine to have.”
I tip my head to one side. It’s interesting, knowing where people’s boundaries lie.
He clasps his hands under his chin, elbows on knees. Turns only his face to me. “I’ve been telling myself that I can feel what I like, it’s what I DO that matters.”
I try to hook his gaze with my own, but it’s sliding into the corners of the room faster than the evening shadows. “So, you can dine me and wine me, buy me presents, draw me…”
He closes his eyes, enunciates harshly. “That’s different.”
“I don’t understand how." I’m not trying to be cruel, just clear. This is how I see the world.

He raises his eyebrows as if to speak, but then finds a stray thread on one knee that needs attention. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger just for something to do.
“You’re not mine to have.”
“Am I anyone’s?”
“Well. You wear a wedding ring.”
“Yes. I choose to. “
His lip folds pensively under his top teeth. “All the time. All the time that we’ve drunk tea and I’ve tried to decide if your eyes are truly green or some witchy hazel, and I’ve watched you… It’s been okay, so long as I didn’t lay a hand on you. Well, not – he waves a hand expansively through the air – but it’s felt allowed. Permissible.”
“We could go on like that,” I offer. I’m testing.

He swallows again, shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I mean – I want to, but I don’t want to. I – I want this. I want this so badly.”
“You don’t have to take it. I’m offering. You didn’t come over here and undress me. You made me want to undress myself.” It’s a fine line, but I’ve always been about semantics.

He reaches a hand, slowly runs the back of his fingers down my thigh, shudders at the contact of our skin that can’t be explained by therapy or cold or friendship.
I close my eyes, and his hand is behind my ear and down my neck, across one shoulder. The same single hand, fingertips tentative, suddenly cool, brushes my breast, and my eyes open slowly into his, only a few inches away.

With the warmth of his uncertain breath on my cheek, I watch him watching my nipple tense, pulled to attention and pulling his breath sharply up in his throat. I am so aroused that I can do this – evoke this in him. One more light graze, then he moves to the tip of my nose, lip, chin, clavicle, cleft, touching so gently I have to listen for the contact with my whole body. He seizes me suddenly and urgently, wrapping his fingers between my ribs as if about to hoist me overhead, winding me like a ball of string. We go backward on the bed.

For a while there is nothing but our mouths. They seem newly joined, fused and inseparable. He kisses the way he argues, passionate and forceful, backing down when he feels I’m convinced, tapering phrases with less weight, less force, but somehow the same intensity. He kisses like a concerto, until we kiss ourselves stalemated and wake from a daze like lovesick teenagers. No-one’s winning this war.


  1. but we all see the world in different ways, e.
    and it gives us the the chance and space to do the things we need to do without rooftop ideations.

  2. and why didnt i comment about the writing...

    absolutely fantastic
    really would love to read a novel of yours

  3. Everybody needs writing like this. Men would be more successful at seduction if they could get some sense of the woman's point of view. But we're so obsessed with our own point of view that we turn the woman off. I belong to a forum where young men ask stupid questions about women. I'm referring them to you. You will be a great help.

    The Fred Effect

  4. it's interesting.
    and so passionate.

    the last line is magical.

  5. Yesterday, no one commented on your posting, Ms. Jones. You tweeted: "Interesting ... do you all hate it that much? The new blog post, I mean." Yesterday, I didn't comment. But it wasn't because I hated your writing.

    Some of us humans -- like Wolf -- are sensitive creatures. We become silent in beauty's presence: In a wood. On a mountain. In a cathedral.

    Silence is our reverence.

    Yesterday's silence was reverence for the beauty of your writing, Ms. Jones.

  6. Sighed out loud indeed!

    I love your stories Ellie - they're so vivid and strong and it is so refreshing to read.

    I'm posting you something tomorrow :D


  7. Your freckles-and-cream paragraph used to be my favorite. It's not anymore. Now your nipple sentence is. Thank you, Ms. Jones, for that magical sentence.


    Mr. Wolf loves you. He plain ol' loves you. It's love without reserve because he doesn't know he should keep possession of a part of his heart. Because he doesn't know it's dangerous to give away every little piece of it.

    Mr. Wolf decides "to have" you despite his initial misgivings over Mr. J. What does "having you" mean to him? It means he kisses passionately and forcefully. Like a Beethoven concerto.

    Kisses. Nothing more. How do I know? You're still wearing your boyleg panties.

    It's clear that Mr. Wolf is inexperienced. It's clear that he needs to be taught how to love. It's clear that he needs you to love him like he loves you, Ms. Jones.

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