The Meaning of Foreplay

Dearest Marita:

It's important at the beginning of a relationship to establish ground rules lest we meander down the path of compromise and confusion. One such useful ground rule would seem to be: use language in its proper context. No Humpty-Dumptyesque "words mean just what I choose them to mean," for us. ("When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less." "The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things." "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master - that's all." Through the Looking Glass. )

This diatribe is prompted by your statement that "your foreplay of words is so seductive." Foreplay is one of the most precious gifts that God has ordained for man to have. Indeed, foreplay is the bone that gives the marrow form and substance. It trivializes the word to believe that mere words can constitute foreplay. Words can describe foreplay but words alone cannot be foreplay.

Foreplay is at core the physical and psychological set of conditions that prepares one, indeed preconditions one, for the most exquisite of life's quintessential moments. To be clear, perhaps I should provide an example of foreplay.

Suppose on Friday night the 31st day of March, after we return from the Environmental program talent show, I asked you to get me one of your scarves, silk preferably. Then I ask you to be seated in a chair with only a back and no sides. And I ask you if you would enjoy it if I covered your eyes with the scarf. "Why, what are you up to?" you reply. Trust me I say, foreclosing sight will heighten all the other senses. I want you to focus like a laser, inputting scads of information into the part of your brain responsible for evaluating the things that make life special. Quizzical, intimidated, but intrigued, you say yes, even though this seems like a request one asks for and contemplates giving only after many more evenings of intimacy and trust have been laid as the foundation for such an audacious request.

But you realize, this relationship will not follow the normal rules. This relationship begins with a set of intersections that is unique and literally irreproducible again in the history of the world. A man (yes even a short man though I never saw myself as such in my minds eye) and a woman who have known each other for three quarters of a score, share an intense interest in a subject so obscure and boring that one would almost believe it artifice for something deeper and more alluring. But it is not. It sustains the relationship until the stars align and it is possible to contemplate moving the relationship to a level never believed possible.

But I am hesitant to ask that question that will ignite the new direction for the relationship: Can I have dinner with you? But you are inspired by the cosmic connecter of all things blessed to take the first step. I am thrilled. We agree to spend a weekend together as our first date, skipping all the normal mores that govern relationships. We are both battered and burned by life's shoals and ruts. But this adds to the uniqueness of the relationship. Gone is the ignorance and immaturity of youth replaced by the dignity and satisfaction of having met and overcome hundreds of life's challenges, and come out the other side a more profound person.

So you say yes, you will trust me. You say you will trust me not to hurt you or to force you to do something that offends your deeply contemplated moral framework. But you understand that this is all about boundaries. Establishing new boundaries. Reconsidering old boundaries. Thus you recognize that one must be open to new experiences.

But the ritual of romance includes feigned hesitation, coquettishness, line-drawing as a dare to cross it, genuine doubt, and fear. So we establish a word that signals that no means no. "No" outside the context of this word actually means try harder to convince me or even ignore my protestations and seemingly violate my freedom to decide, despite the normal opprobrium one would feel in denying one that precious liberty. So the word is one we both smile at, since it is the match that lit the spark that ignited this unique moment in history. The word is Senate. You hope you will never have to use it and you understand that it should only be uttered for the most serious of reasons since it results not only in an immediate cessation of the mystery and anticipation of the budding minuet but it also evidences a decision that you have met your limit and refused to experience the joy and exhilaration of going beyond your comfort zone.

So you agree to have your eyes dulled in the hopes that it will liberate your other senses. I tie the knot so softly and slowly that you are literally interested in viewing in your minds eye the tension and color of the material, the shape of the knot, the texture of the silk on the bridge of your nose.

And so it begins. My first advance is to bend so that my lips can touch yours. A touch that would be almost imperceptible in life's normal circumstances. But a touch that is magnified a thousand fold by the intimacy of the moment and concentration of the senses. We have kissed before, last night for the first time in fact. But this is different. This signals the willingness of two people willing to trust that the other can teach them something about the mystery of life and shelter them from the day to day realities that rip at our souls, if only for a nanosecond. The touch of our lips is exquisite.

Then I push your hair back to expose your ear. I take the lobe between my teeth and grate against the skin oh so delicately. You are surprised by the tenderness. You realize that this is one of life's special moments. I kiss just behind your ear and begin a trail of small pecks that traverses your long slender neck. I breathe deeply the aroma of another human being and marvel that a million dollars could not purchase such intimacy, intimacy borne of a dozen phone calls, the cackling laughter of banter, and desire from afar. At the bottom of the trail, my progress is denied by the coarse material of your blouse. I lift my head to your ear and whisper "would you enjoy it if I unbuttoned your top button?" Enjoy it! You demand it!! If only to relieve the tension imposed by the confinement of the cloth, tension that has always been there but has never before been acknowledged or even contemplated.

I liberate the button, Your blouse now exposes only additional millimeters of skin. But it is enough to give a glimpse of the edge of black cloth that makes up the outer perimeter of the contraption that supports your breasts. I shudder in anticipation of what hides beneath that material.

I ask if you would enjoy it if I unbutton the next button, and the next, and the next. I don't ask for permission; I ask for an expression of your own wants, needs, and desire. You permit. Finally the blouse can be pushed aside to fully disclose the bra encased left breast. I again touch your lips with mine and it surprises you. I caress your top lip with the tip of my tongue and you whimper at how the pit of your stomach contracts at the eroticism of the moment. I drag my lips around to your ear again. Would you enjoy it if were to slide the strap off your shoulder? How is it possible that an action done thousands of times without even a thought can now concentrate the senses so that you can almost number the threads of the thin stretch of material. Please slide the strap off, you try to say. But no sound emerges. You are parched. I sip from the concoction we have chosen for the night's reveries. It is sweet, as I know you like it, and contains an alcoholic hint that reminds one that the senses are being altered and intensified. I moisten your lips. Your tongue languorously licks your lips for libation to quench your parchment. Then our tongues touch for not even a moment. It is electric; it concentrates the mind.

We kiss deeply and revel in the joy of intimacy, especially so unexpected just several weeks ago.

I touch the strap that laps your shoulder. I lift it and slide it so it grates against the olive complexion of your delicate shoulder. Once past the joint it falls freely. Now there is nothing preventing me from removing the cup and exposing the breast, yet it would be premature. Instead, I concentrate on the indented groove made by the pressure of the strap. Oh, how I envy that strap. Its job is so mundane and simple. Yet its job brings it into proximity with a part of you that you keep hidden from most. I can scarcely believe you have let me this far into your life.

I gently kiss the groove up the front of your shoulder and take a 180 degree turn at the joint. I plant light kisses all along your back down to the lateral strip of material that spans the expanse. A hundred times my lips touch the skin of your back. Eventually I find myself at the nape of your neck, ensconced in the softness of your hair. I smother my face into the back of your head and feel the thousands of strands flutter against my skin. Again I breathe deeply, overwhelmed with the fragrance of your hair. I now put my lips next to your other ear and ask, "Would you enjoy it if I unclasped the back of your bra?" You are now starting to feel the angst of anticipation. You are both languishing in the sensations your body is experiencing but also wondering when we will move from the hors d'oeuvres to at least the salad stage of this magnificent feast. You decide to play along. "Yes I would enjoy it." I exhale a warm breath on your neck at the realization that you are not offended by my little game.

I release the last mechanical contraption that prevents the liberation of your breasts. Yet I do not pull the bra from your chest. Rather gravity holds the cups in place even as all constraint has been eliminated. Rather I decide to use my finger tips to gently massage your back. I am intrigued by the prominence of your clavicle. Your long angular body allows me to experience morphology that is brand new. I spend time both lightly brushing in clockwise circles and in gently pinching your skin. Again I am astounded by the beauty of your olive complexion.

As I work my way around your other shoulder I slide the other strap towards your elbow.

I now face your front and ask if you would enjoy it if I removed your bra. The yes this time is exasperated. I grasp the bra by the thin fabric that conjoins the cups. I slowly, almost imperceptibly, begin to allow the cup to be separated from your breast. You are beginning to show some frustration with the anguished procession of exposure.

Eventually, the cups reach a tipping point and fall into our lap. You can now feel the warm air engulf your exposed breasts. You wish you could see my reaction but the scarf now borders on abject denial. Yet you realize that blinding you prevents the dominance of sight from bullying the other senses, so you silently decide not to rebel.

I am thankful that you do not see my reaction. I am embarrassed that my eyes well up in tears as the beauty of your breasts. At once I am gripped with the physical eroticism of your form yet I am somewhat ashamed that at least for a moment I have forgotten about what attracts me to you. I have allowed myself to be overwhelmed with the physical intimacy of the moment. I have the presence of mind to lightly then aggressively kiss you. I am beside myself with flowing emotion. I break from your lips and take a moment to calm my fevered psyche. I must maintain some degree of control if I am to accomplish my task of creating a memorable moment for you, a moment to remember an intimacy shared.

I know you would be content to end it now and quit the exercise. But I persist.

I focus on your right breast. I have twice now stood in the Louvre viewing da Vinci's La Joconde, the proper name for the Mona Lisa. Thus twice have I cast my visage on supposedly the greatest piece of artwork in the world. I guess that may be true but thankfully we need not limit ourselves to manmade art in our admiration of magnificence. Long ago I decided that the female breast was God's most artistic and remarkable creation. At once, nothing more than the physical process that gives nurture and sustenance to a newborn, the literal fount of life, but also a gland that stirs the hearts of men more powerfully than any other symbol. Men fight wars to secure the admiration of women whose breast they love. I decide that the animalism that makes me uncomfortable is in fact part of God's plan to create the most exquisite intimacy in the animal kingdom. I decide God is not wrong. I relieve myself of the shame of my reaction and decide to accept God's plan.

But God must have his good days and his bad days. The day he created your breast was his best day. Admittedly, I have not experienced the beauty of many women's breasts in the flesh. But that does not prevent me from realizing that I am in the presence of greatness. I take a minute to just cast my eyes on your breasts. You wonder what is happening but you are so generously patient with me. You allow me the luxury of basking in the beauty of your breasts, the first new breasts I have seen in the flesh in more than 30 years. Again I am overwhelmed to tears.

I take my index finger and hazard to draw a circle around the outer perimeter of your right breast. Then I do the same to your left. Oddly, it is obvious that they are not perfectly symmetrical or identical in size. I am intrigued by the mystery of differences.

I begin to draw ever smaller circles. The lightness of my touch has its intended effect and a shudder involuntarily shakes your torso. Goose bumps, not the most erotic of names, become manifest on you breasts.

I am now near the line of demarcation where the olive coloring becomes darker and morphs into the areola. I continue to draw circles but in God's plan I witness a different physical reaction. The areola reacts to my ministrations. It withdraws and the smoothness starts to develop ridges and curves. It is now almost half the size of its non-aroused form.

The nipple in sympathetic response has also now reacted. Though I have not touched it, it knows that a transition is near. It pulls itself into a nub and stands erect waiting for attention. I give it none and can feel the heat of your building anticipation. We have now spent almost an hour and you still have not had your breast caressed or nipple manipulated. My silent response is that if I am very lucky there may be many other opportunities to show you how much I admire your breasts. But this moment will only ever happen for the first time once. I must savor it. I make a mental imprint hoping I will remember this exquisite moment until I am laid to rest.

Then the moment arrives and I bring my face near your breast and stretch my tongue to just flick your right nipple. BANG. Your body betrays you and the response is instant. An electric charge immediately traverses through your chest and down to the area between your thighs. You feel a slight convulse in your vagina and the warmth that has long ago begun to flow is now burning with desire. Though the flick took only one hundredth of a second it results in a flooding torrent of physical reaction.

Your hunger is palpable. You can take it no more. You urgently request that the game be abandoned and that your wounds be addressed immediately. The physical need is crying out for attention and satisfaction. You ask me to finish the job and to caress the part of your body that makes you a woman. You resent that your body has relinquished control and put you in a position to request nay demand that its needs be attended.

I am visibly nervous. I remind you that the ground rule for Friday's foray into romantic intimacy was that neither of us could touch the other's genitals. Today, we only explore the parts of the body often forgotten in the rush to intimacy. You remember our agreement but believe that surely that was all part of the game and that we can suspend the ludicrous rule. Especially now that the goal has been so well served. Neither of us wants to adhere to the discipline required by today's ground rule. I curse my rules and want to give you immediate relief. But I regroup. We are not teenagers anymore. We have experienced physical relief hundreds if not thousands of times. Surely we can adhere to the rules if only for one day.

I make my case but your logic is overwhelmed by your physical need. Risking your wrath, I announce I am going to enforce the rule. You react. At once you are bitter and resentful for having agreed and at me for my mindless commitment to process and ground rules. "Senate, Senate, fucking Senate" is on the tip of your tongue, knowing that this means immediate cessation and the relief and satisfaction that will bring. But you remain silent, you are intrigued in the realization that we will engage in a hundred different manifestations of foreplay for three days before deciding whether to partake in both the symbolic and physically important act of consummation. You admire me for my principles, recognizing that you are paying a dear price for them.

Did I make myself clear? This is my idea of foreplay.

Lovingly,

David