make wild, passionate, crazy love

This goal has definitely been one of my favorites to pursue. And once I got over the self-consciousness of posting about it, I discovered just how wildly, passionately, and crazy in love I am with my wife.

Sex certainly doesn’t define our relationship, but it is a big and important part of it. By keeping up with this goal we not only appreciated what we have together, we pushed new boundries, took chances, followed fanasies, chases thrills… all within the safe, loving, happy realm of our marriage.

We bade 2009 a carnal farewell, making love in our underused, overstuffed arm chair. We were grateful for what the year has delivered but a bit relieved to be done with it, too. It had been a long year. We celebrated the arrival of 2010 just the two of us, even though we were in a throng of people. We can do that now. Be together and in our own space even when we are in the midst of a crowd. We blew our party horns and threw confetti, hoisting our champagne glasses and cheering with everyone else. We came home and stood in the backyard or our house, holding hands and watching fireworks lifting off from the church across the street. When the cold night air bit to deeply we went inside and huddled under our bed covers. We kissed and touched and joined and absorbed each other. We moved and changed positions with little prompts, so in tune have we become. Was it that much different from any other time? Yes and no. We know what each other’s likes and needs. We recognize the moans and groans and little cries, the state of each other’s bodies and our own. We know how to climax together, lost in our own raptures even as we are joined in esctasy. We are familiar. But each time is like a new discovery for me. Each time I feel I uncover a tiny bit more of her soul. And she heals a bit more of mine. I’ve never had this before, this soulful sex. I value it more every time.

S. has gone, away for the weekend to be with her family. We have been having some good new house sex, breaking in rooms, finding reasons to carnally celebrate. We were put off track a little last week while my family was here and there seemed to not be a moment or a corner of our home that was secure for the kind of passion we have been enjoying. We did make a great ruckus every night since Saturday, playing lots of catch up. But tonight I had to drive her to the airport and now the bedroom and our bed is only a place to sleep and shuffle back to work.

She will be back Sunday night and I am planning the most deviant things.

In the meantime, I can only turn warm, wet memories over in my mind.

We are celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven years of wedded bliss of the kind I thought would never be possible for me. But for the breath of Fate I would have missed you, and would never have known the wonderful life I have now with you. I can, with my hand on my heart and my soul laid before you, tell you I have not regretted a single day. It hasn’t been perfect, but it has been as close to perfect as I’ve ever had, or ever hoped for. Knowing you as a person has been a gift for me. Knowing you as a woman has been my privilege. Knowing you as a lover has offered unequaled pleasure and passion. Knowing you as my wife has made me a better husband and a better man. And I was already pretty good.

For seven years we have lived and loved, lost and gained, tried and failed, succeeded and grown. We have made love many times but every time it is special to me. If I have one prayer it is that I never take the gift of our couplings for granted. I give to you the focus of my desire and passion, and you open to me the doorway to your heart. When I’m with you and we both come it is like clouds part beneath me and I plunge into an ocean of love and peace. We have sex, we knock boots, we fuck like bunnies… we make love.

Can you remember the first time? I can, when we were trying to be all cool and spent hours playing around and tempting each other and trying not to be serious because we were just friends and we were only doing this because we both needed it and we liked each other after all and it would be okay since it wasn’t leading to anything. Then ”what the hell!?” we found it felt so right, it seemed so good, we meshed really well and maybe there was something going on here. Let’s try again… and again… and again…

And our wedding night, when we finally got to bed at about 3 am, sweaty from dancing, drunk on champagne, faces aching from grinning? We had decided to withhold from each other for three weeks before the wedding to make it special. That lasted about 30 minutes until I saw you standing by the dryer in just your t-shirt and panties, waiting for your jeans to dry. There was no way I was waiting 3 weeks and I don’t know if that dryer ever worked right again. We were so exhausted that night and my sister was in the guest bedroom (what were we thinking, houseguests on our wedding night?) but you were my wife and I was your husband. We set a land-speed record for consummation that night, I think, and we clumsily gripped each other’s left hands, wedding bands rubbing together before we fell away into deep remorseless sleep.

A year later we went back to the place where we had exchanged our vows and had dinner at the restaurant, able to choose from the “real” menu. We talked and laughed and gushed about the year and how good things were starting to take root for us. We still didn’t have a lot of money. We could pay for dinner but opted to park across the street so we wouldn’t have to tip the valet. We finished dinner and two bottles of wine and you told me you loved me and you wanted me, and you didn’t want to wait until we got home. We went to the car and had sex in the incredibly small back seat and even though it was a rather cold October evening we steamed up the windows and our sweaty skin stuck to the vinyl seats. Afterward you said you wanted some dessert so we went back to the restaurant, disheveled and glowing, and had chocolate cake and shots of bourbon. We went home and you laid me out and mounted me and took total control. You wouldn’t let me come for thirty minutes and when you did I almost blacked out, gasping as you roiled and heaved and took from me all I had to give.

Our second anniversary we were in Savannah. We walked and shopped and took a horse-drawn carriage ride. We went right past the park bench where I proposed to you nearly three years earlier. We dressed and went to that really cool Japanese restaurant where you have to take off your shoes and sit cross-legged at low tables on cushions. You went to the restroom and when you came back you lifted the edge of your skirt enough as you sat down for me to see you had taken off your underwear. You sat opposite me cross-legged and I can’t remember what you said or what we ate or what was going on around us. I led you by the arm quickly back to our hotel and molested you with kisses and caresses on the elevator. We got into the room and I ravished you on the floor just inside the door, your skirt up but not off, my pants down but not off, fast and feverish and intense. Later we took more time and housekeeping had to rouse us the next morning, still naked and damp and drowsy and sated.

For our third anniversary we went to a nice, expensive restaurant. We could finally afford it and the tip for the valet. We wined and dined and celebrated not only our love and commitment, but a milestone for you, too. Your longest relationship of any kind, ever. You were in new territory now, and you couldn’t think what would come next. You were on the verge of believing I would not up and leave you out of boredom or fear or wanderlust or the grim knowledge of all your faults. I kissed your hand and the inside of your wrist and told you I was yours forever. We copulated that night in our own bed, slowly, with more love than raw passion. But you hooked your legs around mine and drew me deeply inside you and as I climaxed you clutched me and whispered in my ear “I want a baby” and it was like you told me you loved me for the first time again. We tried and failed, and tried and failed, many times. There are some measures of happiness God has seen fit to withhold from us, it seems. As I said, it’s not perfect. Not yet.

Our fourth year married was a few days before our big Halloween party and we were crazy with decorations and planning. We didn’t go out, I fixed us a gourmet dinner and you recounted the reasons that I was “a keeper”. It had been a difficult year but we were doing okay and we were happy and we had each other. We broke out our Halloween costumes and lit incense and candles. You were Cleopatra and I was Julius Caesar, or Marc Antony, or some manly Roman stud, and we were seducing each other on a silk strewn dais on the royal barge floating down the Nile. Nearly naked slave girls waved frond fans and peacocks unfurled their kaleidoscope tails. You held court over me and fucked me like you were a queen; proud, arrogant and royal. I held you down and showed you what it meant to be conquered. Vini, vidi, vici, then vini some more.

On our fifth anniversary we could not have intercourse. It wasn’t the right… time. You were disappointed and you hoped I was not too disappointed and of course I was. But we lit candles and played music and I took the bottle of almond-scented massage oil I had gotten you for your birthday. I laid you out naked on the bed and starting from you scalp and forehead with the oil on my palms I slowly and deliberately ran my hands and fingers over every inch of your body. In the creases behind your ears, around the nape of your neck, over the swell of your breasts, across the flat of your stomach, into the nooks of your elbows and behind you knees, the soles of your feet and in between your toes. I left nothing untouched. We cuddled and kissed and you put oil in your hand and brought me release and I felt I knew you better and loved you as much that night as I ever had.

Our sixth anniversary was the year we were going to New Orleans for the big Halloween bash. We were knee-deep in preparations and plans and coming back from the costume shop when I turned and asked you “Do you know what today is?” You told me it was Sunday like I was a dope or something. I waited until you figured it out and the look on your face was hilarious. We laughed because we had both totally forgotten. We were driving by Stone Mountain Park and I pulled in and parked. We took the blanket out of the back of the Jeep we had wrapped around the wooden chest you’d bought and took one of the trails through the woods and up the backside of the mountain. We wandered off the trail and found a place under some maples where the autumn leaves provided a thick layer over the ground. I unfolded the blanket and we made chilly, cold-assed love outdoors and under a canopy of riotous fall colors. It wasn’t totally private and we feared discovery, so you suppressed your moans and sank your teeth into my neck deep enough to leave a mark. But the risk and the thrill and the love made you come quickly and when we were finished we left and got cheap Chinese food for our dinner. You surreptitiously pulled a red maple leaf out of your hair and tucked it under your dinner plate.

Tonight we are celebrating our seventh anniversary in our new home. Not just a house, but a place for our spirits to grow and our lives to change. Not one day do I regret. Not one day would I change, save a certain couple if it would spare you pain and tears. I am not just happy, I am contented. We have opened the champagne and toasted our new lives as homeowners. It almost isn’t real, but here we are. I light a fire in the fireplace and as it crackles and pops we strip and kiss and join together before its flickering orange glow. You’re happy because you have never made love in front of a fireplace and if you had a list of 43 things to do, it would now be 42. For myself I feel like my chest has been opened and more love than I can hold poured in. You have healed so many wounds in my heart. You have blessed my coarse and rocky soul. You have bestowed upon me hope and vision and confidence and restored a gentleness I thought I had lost in the ravages of love’s wars. When I am with you, when I am in you, I feel I am within you. I feel I touch your most sacred spirit and the wellspring of your godhood. You are more than my partner, my spouse, my lover, my companion, my friend. You are my mate. You and I are mated. I love you and I am yours forever.

Of course one of the many pluses of being in a relationship is the opportunity to celebrate not only your birthday but your beloved’s, as well. Earlier in the year I was lucky enough to receive, this time I was privileged to give.

So while S. went off to cash in her pedicure and massage gift certificates, I gathered ingredients and prepped for a gourmet three course dinner with wine and candles. She came home to a dining room bathed in yellow candlelight, and the dinner table strewn with dried lavender petals and springs of rosemary (her two favorite scents). Dinner was a great success and perfectly portioned so that neither of us felt too full. The wine did go to our heads a little.

Presents were unwrapped and cooed over with much appreciation. Time to unwrap other, more sensual gifts…

Amidst kisses and caresses I pause to grab one of the digital timers from the kitchen.

“What are you going to do with that?” she asks.

“It’s for you,” I answer. “Select a time, and however long it is, that is how long I will make love to you.”

“Very bold… and confident. Do I get to select minutes, or just seconds?”

“Ha, ha. It has hours, too.”

“Oooh. How many hours?”

“Well,” maybe I’m being too bold. “It only goes up to ninety-nine, soooo….”

In the bedroom she keys in a time, but won’t let me see what it is. It is a hot August night, so we strip the bedspread and top sheet off, open the windows, and hope for rain. No rain, but our favorite love-making CD thrums, hums and drums in the darkness while the kitchen timer secretly counts down. True to my word, if not to the immediacy of my desire, I pace myself, going here, there, down, around… seeking any new embrace that will prolong and extend her pleasure. Somewhere along the way the CD ends and begins to repeat (I take note, since I know it is 54min & 38sec). The ceiling fan and open windows are insufficient to dispel the heat building up, and we are both parched and sweat-soaked. More wine fixes this, both over our lips and over our bodies. Her first two climaxes are selfish, as they should be. These are my gifts to her. I’m there, holding back, coaxing, touching, kissing, loving. Now she wants a mutual release as she begins to come again. Begging me for what she knows I cannot resist, fingernails deep in my back and breath hot and sweet on my throat, I am unable to restrain myself any longer. My universe expands, my consciousness opens, my world focuses to this moment, this instant, this vessel of nirvana. This is what the birth of stars must be like.

Sometime later, exhausted and layered with sweat and wine and kisses we lay sprawled on the bed and the digital timer goes off. I pick it up and peer at the numbers on the display.

“Pretty optimistic, there. Wouldn’t you say?” I asked, throat still dry.

“Well, there’s always next year,” she muses sleepily.

“Well, there’s always later this year…”

The Peachtree Road Race had been run, the resiquite nap taken, fluids replaced, BBQ and hot dogs consumed. Rather than do something romantic and memorable like fight traffic and sit on the ground being devoured by mesquitoes, surrounded by drunkards and noisy children, waiting for dark to ooooh and aaaaah over a staged fireworks show, we opted to do a little oooohing and aaaahing with our own fireworks show. I dug out the black light and the fluorescent paint and we took turns painting little firework bursts over each other’s bodies. Paint brushes weren’t getting it, so we started to fingerpaint. But fingers on naked bodies tend to lead to other things and soon there was a revolution going on. Sweat, paint, wine and astroglide smeared together to form a kalidascope of color as we went in passionate pursuit of happiness (if I had remembered the handcuffs, liberty would have taken a backseat). In the distance fireworks boomed overhead of the drunkards and noisy childern, while we reached sparkling climaxes amidst bed sheets stained with riots of color glowing hotly under a UV bulb, celebrating our freedom and independence.

As lovers of and adherents to earthly spiritual traditions, the Summer Solstice is one of the holidays we give special attention to. We attended a Solstice Festival with some pagan friends where there was potluck, home-made wine and beer, drums, dancing, and a huge bonfire on private wooded acerage. Sex magic was not on the agenda but S. and I had an agenda of our own so while everyone else drummed and danced and sang and praised the fullness of the year, we stole away to just beyond the flicker of fire-light. With nothing to put on the ground but our sweat-damp clothes S. braced herself against a tree as we offered to Mother Earth a passionate sacrifice laid on the altar of love and pleasure. In honor of the longest day of the year we found no reason to hurry, taking time to explore, tease, tempt, and fulfull. The soundtrack of throbbing of drums matched the rhythm of our love-making, reaching a hammering crescendo at the same time. With gasps and moans and damn-near hollering we gave thanks to the goddess Vesta in the manner she most approved of at this sacred and sensual time.

Is Cinco de Mayo really any more of a holiday than St. Patrick’s Day? Isn’t it just another excuse for people to dress up in sombreros, get tequila’ed up and celebrate a date they don’t even really understand? Must be. We celebrated CdM at Sangria’s, consumed mucho margaritas, sang along with the mariachi band, stumbled home and consumated Mexican Independence with a couple of hours of vigorous love-making.

“Te gusta esto, pappi?”

“Si, me gusta todo!”

Viva la Mexico!

Of all my birthday gifts, this one was the best. Okay, its a cope-out gift, but everyone likes to get it on their birthday. And the older you get, the more you look forward to that wild, passionate, crazy hour that reinforces that you are only as old as you think you are. Plus, what is more provocative than your most significant other naked except for a ribbon, some stratigically placed icing, and two little candles dripping wax and waiting to be blown out?

What to do when all the lights are off, including the TV and computer? Earth Hour 2009 offered opportunites for a little nude chase around the house, armed with squirt guns. Not shooting water, but scented massage oils. When each of us had accumulated enough “hits”, candles were lit, oily bodies merged in frictionless passion and we were seeing stars, alright. Maybe not the one’s overhead, but burning bright, none the less.

S and I had a great Valentine’s Day. We were both off work, we enjoyed a nice couple’s massage at a nearby spa. I prepared a sumptious gourmet dinner with the fattest, sweetest, sexiest strawberries I had seen this year. We exchanged our gifts. While she cleaned up the gift wrap I set about the bedroom decorations.

Dozens of red, pink, and white candles all around, on almost every flat surface, gave the room a warm romantic glow. I put on the music. One of our favorite meditations CDs also makes a good “sex CD” since it starts off with lots of sensual singing and moved into some dramatic drumming tracks. A week earlier I absconded with over 100 roses left over from an event we did at work (I got permisssion). I secretly pulled the petals from every flower, almost two grocery bags worth. These I spread across the bed in a thick layer, then laid a deep trail from the hallway to the foot of the bed. S never had a chance. We made love passionately, keeping pace with the music, petals flying. We ended the same time as the CD, not bad since it takes about 57 minutes. I hit the repeat button on the remote and we began again for another hour. Fell asleep under the glow of candles with rose petals stuck all over our sweaty bodies.

(We did put out the candles later to avoid any tragedies. But we were sweeping up rose petals all of the next day.)