Dale H West Menu

© 2006 Dale H. West. All rights reserved.

No portion of the text in this web site may be used or posted in any other site - regardless of whether the site is free or pay.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear Muse

Dear Muse,

I have been wondering why it is (was) that we waited so damned long to get to sex. We did an awful lot of alluding and creating outlets for contact (the simplest being motorcycle rides). I love having you sit in the saddle with me and holding on. *smile* How cool is that? I can feel so much of you, from your thighs to your arms.

We did go out, that one night, into a field with the guitar. And we did play footsie at the Daily Planet until they closed up the place and we went for a walk up and down Church Street.

Makes me flash back to when we were still in high school and you and I met up in downtown Burlington to go Christmas shopping.

Then there were some more frustrating times. I have no idea why I didn’t have the balls to ask to sleep with you when we went to Rochester or when you rented a hotel room in Rutland a couple years back. Were you secretly hoping I might stay?

I do remember that night at your apartment – I came and helped “fold and stuff” then slept on the pull-out bed. Sure I hoped we could share your bed then but I was waiting for you to give us permission.

Then – oh then, dear muse, I came to visit just to sleep with you. I know I’ve written this before but in my conscious head I had come there just to sleep. You knew better. Apparently so did he. That first night I was scared. The inhibitions began to melt away, but that night, I wasn’t so sure sex is what I wanted to share with you. My body wanted it. Yeah, my body wanted it very much so. It didn’t take long in replay for my mind to want to support my body.

So we have got to play some more. By far my favorite “thing to do” is to curl up, body to body, breasts pressed into back or legs entwined and hold and stroke and touch and explore. I love the way your body responds – to me, to my touch, to own your energy. You surprised me with the response you get from me – such a heightened sense of arousal. I don’t know for sure how much of my response is the newness of it all and how much is sheer sexual energy and pleasure. Do you?

I wonder, some times, how much the experience with you is because you are a woman and how much is because you are not him. One thing I notice is your body moves differently in response to my hands and other parts of me. There is a dance our bodies share in bed. A push and pull. A movement to meet, then leave only to return again in a pattern of motion which is at once beyond words, yet most instinctively attractive. It seems a dance I could never tire of. It is different than my dance with him. I ponder the body mechanics of desire in the dance and wonder if so much of your difference is because we both have wombs – which want to move and be aroused in a very particular way – that we move to receive. I can feel your motion with my body is one of receiving.

Often when I think about things like this I feel I am at a loss because of my lack of experience. Would I have fewer or more questions if I’d experience more lovers in my life?

I think of curling up behind you often. I think about how amazing it is to play with your breasts – of having my own understanding of how sensitive you might be to pressure and sucking and rubbing because I too love to receive that attention. But also knowing and celebrating a full awareness of how different we really are. Every part of you is a different size,  and shape, and taste, and smell. How could any woman be threatened by another woman? We are so gloriously different – in work and play and life and sex.

It amazes me that by rubbing your elbow and smelling your hair I can be so incredibly aroused. I think it amazes him too – but he usually likes finding me aroused and apparently he doesn’t care what gets me to that state.

Your body fits mine so differently than his. I keep trying to find words other than soft and yielding but there’s nothing wrong with those words. Soft – from your sheets to your touch of me, to how your skin feels to my fingers. Soft even when you are wet and I can slide my fingers through your legs and marvel in this thing we share. How can our bodies bring us so much pleasure and how can our minds and circumstances deny us?

I wanted to write to you again. This is an art form I do okay with – at best I feel confident it will be well received. I haven’t always been so sure. I know I have left or mailed words in the past and wondered what a fool I was. I always felt I had laid my heart bare and that maybe you didn’t feel the same way – that maybe I wrote too much – that my words and obsessions and desires were overbearing – that maybe because I am a woman and you did not share these feelings, these aches and pains.

But, as much as I felt so – I never laid my heart bare. I never gave myself to you and laid naked in body and spirit.

I feel I came closest on New Years. I fell I left down my guard – and I feel you met me. So it is with a decided sadness in knowing, for such a short time, what you looked like inside – what I could see of myself in what you reflected – and it was good.

Now I feel I need to get back there, but I don’t know how. Do you?

Now I don’t want to risk not telling you how I feel. I don’t want to get hurt, but I don’t want to lose or forget what we seem to have both struggled with for so long. What grace, what sheer beauty you have, muse.

I don’t know, but this letter almost seems like masturbating my soul against our past. It almost seems as though I’m trying to steal what once was. Is this a cheap trick - to steal these moments, to compose random streams of thoughts and let them flow with a springtime hurriedness over the rough stone bed of our love? Coursing and rushing – a backwash here or there because my mind sped ahead of my fingers or an eddy where I wanted to dwell a bit longer…

Now that I know there is more, I can still question myself and ask how I now that. Why would my muse love me? What have I ever done to be worthy of the love of a god or goddess? Is there more? Is this writing the highest form of honor – or is sex just the manifestation in our flesh of these dreams?

Will you open and read this with joy and anticipation? I know if you do, I will feel and live in that energy even as I am hundreds of miles away. The human spirit will transmit your response to me.

Will you reread certain passages – because you couldn’t make out the handwritten words or because they arose in you the same heat and passion which ignited them to these pages as I wrote them? Will you go about your day with the thought “I got a letter” and not necessarily remember on exact word or thought – but embrace the feel and weight of the envelope – the vessel of these words, the shape and flow of my letters, the rustling sound and feel of so many pages of paper transformed by a love you have lived in for twenty years?

Will you cry for me, smile for me, love even a bit for me because these words asked you to and your heart could never deny what was committed by pen to paper?

Will you fold these papers back up a hundred times only to unfold them and find that moment – those few words which lit your soul – or your sex – depending on your need at the time?

Will you file this away with all the others – only to be saved for a future rainy day? Read and cherished and remembered as the testament to the most unique love – and yet the love that transcends the ordinary. A million other authors and readers have done this. We are not alone. Maybe our letters should be framed and displayed on the walls in solidarity with all the other epistles of spirits meeting. I write, and I write on because, with few exceptions, I often never know if I have yet to commit to paper what it is I intend to ever say when I sat down to write to you in the first place.

Have I yet to express to you how deeply my heart, and my pussy, long for you? Have I instilled in you all the passion that is here that I can’t seem to ever exhaust?

I may never know.

There is a motive, also, that maybe one word or phrase here will inspire you to pick up a pen and paper, and return the favor in kind. Yet, this is an offering without expectation. I do wonder if I could ever demand anything from you.

Could I ask for a picture that I might look upon your face when I think of you instead of relying solely on my aging memory?

Could I get old words – ones written and never sent when we were both in a different time and place?

These letters seem as the ultimate rhetorical endeavor. You know I’ll write again even if every question herein goes unanswered. In fact, I can only ever ask questions I can be satisfied in never reading or hearing answers to.

Not that an oral forum would be any different. I don’t think I ever believed you could be interested in my body – and I never wanted to ask. I don’t think I handle rejection well – but then who does?

Is it morally wrong for me to desire you so? I can’t see, as much as I scrutinize my mind and spirit, how loving anyone can be morally wrong. There is a lack of love in the world – the balance sheet so skewed toward hatred, mistrust, hurt, greed, meanness… that I can’t see how any love brings more misery.

It has been pure joy sharing this time with my pen and paper knowing that soon you will read my words.

Peace, my love, my muse. May your day be filled with smiles and a warmth in your heart.

© 2006 Dale H. West. All rights reserved.