The Cornfield

Sex almost never clicks the ticket for me. Don’t get me wrong. I love touch, but no act motivated by the need to “get ‘er done” has ever been able to claim my heart. That’s why I prefer that slow hand and lack of urgency that comes from a mature mate.  Maybe it’s the same for you?

Tell me I’m not alone in this.

Sex for sex’s sake I can take, but more often leave.
Sex born of love and commitment, give me that stuff every time, every day, in every way!

As an homage to loyalty and love, and maybe a little bit of the healing that comes of loving the right way, I offer today’s post.

THE CORNFIELD

A cornfield is where he laid her down. Where he moved her hair so that he could see every telltale sign of recognition that passed between them.  A cornfield is where he chased away reluctance. It’s where tears covered his cheeks and she found her voice; voice the Builder’d given; sound encased in balm. This time the healing was for him, but her too.

As the winds of northeastern Pennsylvania pushed seed over remnants hung on clothes line, newly washed jeans and t-shirts, swaying back, then forth, then back again, so did he match their rhythm.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to be fully aware in this moment; fully conscious of what was happening to him, fully synced to his movements and emotions. She had one chance and one chance only to absorb the sorrow that had left him blistered in the past. One chance to restore wholeness. One chance to allow the miracle to flow through her.

He laid full upon her chest now, spent. He’d given everything he had to her, and she’d received it as a precious gift returned in kind, the treasure of authenticity and complete trust that he’d forgotten he had; the pearl of great price he thought he’d never have again.

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Ridgebury’s Gift

Spot lit microphone and stand on an empty stage

With a calculated gait she eased toward the open mic. Her soft pink lips moved closer to the cold steel end of the amplifier as the audience hushed their noise. The waitresses stopped serving drinks. The drunken businessmen focused on her with rapt attention. The bartender’s rag stopped in mid-swipe, as gently her hair moved across her face on its way to her chin.

She glanced out at the crowd. She knew what was happening to them. She’d seen it before. She’d experienced it herself, although it seemed a million years before. She knew the talent she possessed and she knew how to use it to her benefit. Long after she’d mesmerized them with her song, they’d want her. Want to be near her. Want to touch her. Want to own her talent, her swagger; her promise.

She sang at this same gay bar every week, and every man in the place wanted to be like her. Desirable. Longed for. Unique. She never allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to crawl inside their skins, though. Her calling was of another bent. She served another Master. She worked for a different kind of “high.” She’d have it too, that promised reward, after this gig was done. For now, she gave the gift He’d sent her to give, a melody so sweet and enchanting it moved even the most hardened heart to beg for more.

It all began with that first moist note, and she sang it low and slow…

 

 

 

 

Copyright Lori Hoose, April 4, 2018