...each part must be pursued within my mind individually...
This part started with the voice. Before, all was play, all was exploration. Before, I was firmly delineated as myself. My breasts lifted with each breath, my hands reached and I felt each fingertip distinctly touching flesh. I could feel each hand on me, could feel the differences between our skins. I was whole and separate behind my eyes. But it all started with the voice.
How can I describe the way it changed? How do I untangle myself from the sensual memory, and part Memory's timeline from the body's forever-now perspective? To spread it for a cool inspection is to put it from me. Yet, this memory is like a rare spiced flower, that must be appreciated in segments. Each part is so overwhelming that one must overlook the others just to contemplate a part-- the petals so bright that the color both hurts and soothes, the fragrance so heady that the breath catches in disbelief, the feeling of the plant so cool and delicate that fingertips slow in tactile contemplation. But there was no flower but the flowers of our bodies. I did not overlook other things when I fell entranced into that voice.
I remember that we played. I remember that we made small forays across our bodies, eye contact, murmurs. A rather dry wit, a rather wet mouth. I remember an odd but satisfying formality to the proceedings, the measured touches, a balance of reciprocity. My turn, your turn. His turn, her turn, her turn. They and I, we and him, us and she.
And then I was submerged.
