by Jeremy Edwards

As much as we enjoy getting it on at night, it is the morning that is our special time.  Nighttime sex is torrid and wild.  When our evening draws to an end and Lisa lands sprawling on the bed, I sometimes think her panties will evaporate into thin air from the sheer heat of her cunt. 

At night, we are fuckers. 

In the morning, our passion is quiet, beautiful, and intense.  We are lovers.

Though it’s almost too corny to be credible, we fell in love in Paris.  Our first kiss was in front of the Eiffel Tower, for crying out loud.  Perhaps this is why we’ve done our best to make the apartment resemble a little corner of France, within the great city of Cleveland, Ohio.  When no one is looking, we refer to the immediate neighborhood as the arrondissement.  The bookshelves are sprinkled with Balzac and Asterix.  Unassuming Rhône wines haunt the kitchen counter, echoing the mood of the lazy still life that freshens the living room with flowers and peaches. 

The bed in which we share love each morning sports Continental linens, which we launder in lavender-scented detergent.  The coffee whose aroma permeates our morning atmosphere is, bien sûr, a French Roast.  Amazingly, there is an authentic patisserie within walking distance, and I venture there for croissants each day while Lisa bathes.  As I return with the croissants she emerges, smelling like olive-oil soap in particular and delicious little French hotels in general.  If there should happen to be a dusting of Great Lakes snow on the topmost pastry, I choose to imagine that it transubstantiates into confectioner’s sugar as soon as the croissants and I enter Lisa’s warm sphere of influence.

We always awake hungry for each other, but also just plain hungry.  We breakfast from a rustic Provençal tray--at which true Parisian sophisticates would turn up their noses, but whose sunny yellow cheers us on winter days.  Keeping the flaky crumbs out of the linens has long since been declared, by mutual assent, a lost cause.  By now, I boast a prodigious adroitness with our handheld vacuum cleaner.

After croissants and coffee, our respective flesh mingles among the crisp linens.  The scents of our bodies bond with the coffee and bakery aromas.  In the mornings, it is customary for me to begin by stroking Lisa’s ass.  It is firm and tastefully lewd like the peaches in the still life.  She coos and wiggles, communicating the desire for my caress along its crack.  I, of course, fulfill this desire toute suite.  I alternate between pleasuring her ass and petting her hair, her back, and her thighs, watching her tremble as she enjoys anticipating my return to her bottom.  She folds her arms between her head and the pillow, relishing the passivity of being touched, and letting her ecstasy express itself through her legs only.  Her muscular limbs kick with exuberant bliss; they squeeze together and release, and her toes curl and flex.

When I sample the feminine confection between Lisa’s thighs, I feel as if I’m having dessert.  Dessert with breakfast, luxury of luxuries!  And when I coax her nectar down, it tastes as sweet to me as marmalade.  She takes hold of my baguette, where a drop of crème has already appeared.  (Yes, we indulge such transatlantic metaphors, in the poetic privacy of our bedroom.  I warned you that we were corny.)

Where her cunt tastes like sweets, her mouth tastes like love.  Our tongues communicate wordlessly, nurturing each other with tactile expressions of affection.  I want to lick and taste every inch of her, not in the raunchy way I devour her at night, but like a baby rabbit nibbling at the succulent vegetation that surrounds it.  “You’re my bowl of salad,” I sometimes whisper reverently in her ear, between nibbles.  I cup the satisfying roundness of her derrière, a perfect bowl, in fact, of sensuality.

And yet, no bowl bounds my conception of Lisa.  She is a horizonless landscape of delicious, sustaining beauty, from the buttery freshness of her little nose to the sensitive nook under each arm to the shiny daintiness of her toenails.  I want to frolic atop her, squirm into her, spurt all over her.  She is a picnic in the park and the softball game afterwards, a dip in the lake and a roll in the mud . . . the summer day that only wanes so that it may enchant you again as a summer evening.  I want to be totally embraced by her love, her acceptance, her cunt, her smile.  I want to pet, tickle, squeeze, lick and ride her till our nerves melt together into soup.  I want to see her nipples float on our sea of ecstasy and her lips mouth “I love you” from within the surf.

As we make love, I imagine that we are in Paris.  That there is a bidet in our bathroom.  That people are speaking French on the sidewalk below.  That around the corner is the little pharmacy where I had to resort to an earthy pantomime to indicate that I required a box of condoms.  Where the pharmacist, a handsome woman of about 35 with dark, humorous eyes, smiled at me when I paid for them.

“Tell me about the pharmacienne,” Lisa requested our last night in Paris, just as I was penetrating her slick hole with bedtime vigor.  “Fuck me and tell me how she looked at you.”  Lisa got off on the idea that the druggist had watched me as if she wanted to personally administer the dose of condoms she had provided.  She still asks to hear about it some nights, three years later.

On other nights, she wants to know all about the pretty Swiss tourist across the aisle on the bus.  The one that I’d noticed, out of the corner of my eye, subtly stroking her skirt while she adored a Degas nude in a gallery at the Musée d’Orsay.  Lisa likes to have me relate how this art lover delicately, but deliberately, flashed her blonde sex at me as our bus bumped along the boulevard, her smirking gaze fixed on my face.  As our own pleasure bus bounces lustily on the midnight mattress, Lisa and I give each other’s asses friendly slaps to punctuate my thrusts, and I talk to her in broken, abrupt sentences about the tourist who winked at me with her cunt.

But I digress.

The French Roast has heightened all my sensitivities.  My cock tingles for Lisa’s yawning love-hole, and my cerebral synapses fire like good old American popcorn at the erotic implications of her every sensuous motion.  In the faux-French Cleveland morning, the walls of Lisa’s cunt absorb each of my strokes so tenderly, yet with such solidity.  I feel totally supported by her intimate embrace down there, just as I feel completely supported by Lisa in every aspect of our life.  Her cunt understands my cock the way her mind understands my own and her emotions respond with such sensitivity to my innermost needs.  Pulsating inside her, I feel her so tangibly as the source of all my small and large joys.

We fell in love in Paris, but I had only an inkling of what I was falling in love with.  I fell in love with her laughter and came to know her kindness.  I fell in love with her acuteness and came to know her wisdom.  I fell in love with her sexy ass and came to know the ineffable rapture of being clasped every morning in her transcendent feminine grip.

Ask me to describe Lisa’s face, and I cannot.  I can no longer see her features discretely as eyes, mouth, nose, chin . . . all I see is the light, the personality, the embodiment of a compassionate intelligence that is my sun and my soil.  I can describe Lisa no better than I can describe the sensation of  water quenching my thirst, or the flavor of fresh air in my lungs.  I might as well try to describe what it feels like to be a living being.

In Paris, she was pretty as a picture.  Now, I rarely see her in two dimensions.  Still, there are those moments when I walk into the bedroom and observe a gorgeous creature splayed for me, waiting to be touched, waiting to have her oils made to flow, waiting to absorb me and acquire me once again . . . and I frame Lisa in my mind like a luscious painting.  A canvas, magically enough, that I can step inside.

Orgasm is inextricably associated with the aromas of coffee and pastry and lavender.  In the morning, we always come slowly, writhing in downtempo sensuality, savoring our shuddering moments in the unlocalizable places where ecstasy dances with love.  We are lovers.  We are lovers.  We are lovers this morning.

The End

For more on author Jeremy Edwards visit

http://www.myspace.com/jerotic

jerotic@gmail.com