I have to break the bad news before he gets here. I dial his cell and when he picks up, I blurt it out quickly, like pulling off a bandage.
“I have not one, but two cold sores on my lower lip.”
“Oh no,” he says.
“It sucks,” I say.
“Well, actually, no, it doesn’t suck.”
We share a disappointed laugh. We both know this translates to no kissing and no oral sex.
Our sexy reunion has just suffered a serious blow, or lack thereof.
But my kayaker has been flirting with the Colorado River for the past twelve days. He’s mastered the art of going with the flow.
When he is above me, inside me, our foreheads touch instead of our lips. My third eye is pressed against his. His brown eyes gaze down into mine with the intensity of a raptor.
I can feel the presence, the power, of the river in him. The two of them are flowing into me, between my thighs, between my brows. A confluence.
My eyes want to close, pause, and shy away from the intensity.
I won’t let them.
I meet my man and the river head on and press my forehead even harder to his. I bring my blue irises mere millimeters from his that shimmer green with her at this proximity.
They move slowly, rhythmically, into me.
I feel like I could drown as my breath starts coming in short gasps.
My body starts to quiver, arching my spine and driving them even deeper.
There is no stopping it this time.
My eyes roll back, like a breaking wave, under fluttering lids.
Explore the intensity of sustained eye contact while you are making love.