My man wraps around me from behind, his heat warming my back like a bonfire. His kisses are as soft as flannel at the nape of my neck, his touch a warm wave flowing over my hip.

I’m somewhere between sleep, dream and sex, one of my favorite places to be.

Spooned together like this beneath the cool darkness of a Winter Solstice morning, I love the feeling of being in front of him.

Usually I don’t.

I’ve been following his lead for nine years now, down whitewater rivers and up snowy peaks.  He is the experienced outdoor guide.  I’m the perpetual non-paying client.

He tries to encourage me to go first: guide our raft through a rapid or take the first shot down an avalanche chute. I do, on occasion, but honestly I’m a wimp and my fear of drowning in a rapid or suffocating under an avalanche keep me tucked behind.

But lately life feels steep in a way we aren’t used to. There’s this threat of drowning spiritually if we don’t make a move. But moving involves risk and the stakes seem so much higher now than they did when we were twenty or even thirty and could just say, We’re outta here, throw everything in the truck and spend the winter skiing the Tetons and eating Top Ramen.

We’ve been stressed, anxious, and wrestling with the night crazies.

It’s my turn to guide.

I’m the one with the skills for this kind of terrain. Yoga.  Meditation.  Journaling. Reading books by John Welwood on conscious relationships that help me unravel the dynamic that has me snapping and him retreating.

As his hand floats across my belly and up my sternum I feel like the bust of one of those women carved in the front of a ship, taking the breaking waves on her breasts, keeping the North Star in sight.

His hand descends and I feel tremors of anticipation as his touch nears the moist juncture of my thighs. When his arm floats around my waist and slides me up tight against him, I have another image:

We are on top of a snowy mountain, both of us on one pair of telemark skis. I am in front, and he is melded behind, our knees ready to bend in unison as we look down a steep, untracked slope. His heart beats fast behind mine, ready to plunge.

His hand reaches down and cups my pubic bone.  His thumb brushes across my clit, as light as champagne powder.

I put one of my hands on top of his and hold it there, savoring the stillness, the perfection of the moment.  When our breath, our heartbeats, synchronize and slow, I reach back and guide the hardness of him up against my softness.

The inhalation is sudden, simultaneous, as I take him deep.

We lean straight down the fall line and turn, turn, turn.

Sexy Link:

Check out John Welwood and his books on conscious relationships.







 


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