In a recent one, I alluded to a particular evening I had with The Banker. I didn't think much of it, until I received a grudgingly envious message from one of my male readers. How is it, he wondered, that I have all these extraordinary misadventures, and furthermore, how could I be so glib about sharing them.
The latter sentiment has been expressed by others, who feel I do myself and my lovers a disservice writing about the intimate details of our...well, our intimacies.
I would disagree.
It has been said that the best way to conceal something is to hide it in plain sight.
I wholeheartedly live my experiences, lovingly wrap them in words, and craft them until they resemble colorful little packages tied neatly with a bow. You can shake them, rattle them, make out the general shape of what's inside--- but the true contents are known only to me and the other parties directly involved.
As for the "extraordinary" quality of my misadventures, I would say it's a matter of perspective. Like everyone else, I work, I play, I go out with friends occasionally. Even some friends, however, are surprised to learn that I spend a great deal of time at home, alone in front of a computer. (These blogs don't type themselves, dearies!)
No, my life is not extraordinary, I simply see the magic in the mundane.
The secret, I told this envious young man, is in the details.
To the average observer my evening may have looked like this:
The Banker and I went to Fred Meyer, bought some groceries and some inexpensive wine. We then cooked and ate dinner at his apartment, listened to music, then retired to his bedroom.
But...my friend The Banker is a fellow sensualist, though you might not know it to look at him. The above "date" is no more in his nature than it is in mine.
The seduction began in the produce section.
Together we chose red and green peppers, not because the recipe required them, but simply because they were beautiful. It was the same with the rainbow chard, the leeks and fragrant jasmine rice.
Once in his kitchen, we snacked on sweet-tart cherries. Soon the scents of peppery olive oil and garlic mingled and sizzled on the stove with plump scallops. Then tomatoes, and that elusive earthy scent of saffron.
He picked fresh herbs and chopped them with abandon, pausing occasionally to take a sip of wine. Even a modest wine tastes like the finest vintage when sipped from hand-made ceramic goblets.
When heat and time had worked their special alchemy, we had a beautiful paella.
We eschewed his dining table for a smaller one in his sun room. On our way there I saw a most inviting sight in his room. Spread across his bed was a luxurious alpaca blanket, and I couldn't help but smile in anticipation of feeling it against my bare skin.
We ate as we watched the sun setting, chatted, clinked goblets, and savored the complexity of the dish we'd prepared.
I kept thinking about that bed.
Once he cleared the dishes, I scooped up my goblet and made my way to that inviting expanse of alpaca fur. He followed, bringing his harp with him.
It was sensory overload, and I surrendered to it--- the food, the wine, the sound of the harp...
Those last notes just seemed to linger in the room and we became a tangle of fur and skin and limbs. Fur feels so lovely against bare skin...
And that, my envious friend, is called: living life with gusto. I highly recommend it.