I am Ardor.
Ardor is the perfect record album and the most beautiful girl in the world, all in one magical night, in the same mystical moment in your life.
Ardor is the foggy intersection where all the metaphors of your life run red lights in a strange downtown city that you’ve always dreamt of, but never had a name for.
Ardor is that cosmic space where pure terror and beauty meets Joy.
Ardor is having no idea that when you kiss her for the first time, it will be the most perfect kiss you’ve ever had.
Ardor is what comes after your terrible nervousness to kiss her at your car, subsides. Ardor is what comes after the painful shyness wears-off and instead of letting her walk away – you chase her across the street and, standing off the curb, you reach up and sink into her lips under a waxing midnight moon. Ardor is that moment when you pull your eyelids apart, enough to look at one another for the first time after that kiss. Ardor is all the words you don’t have in your throat. Ardor is that breathy moment of unbelief.
Ardor is many things. However, I am fairly certain that LOVE finds its provenance somewhere around that time where you stumble away from the most-perfect first kiss, somehow knowing that the entire course of your life may have just, impossibly, changed – forever.
But then again, I may be insane – temporarily or permanently. For I have been infected with love. You know: LOVE. In capital letters, bigger than cities, like it’s screaming at you.
This is the first time and,
in the invisible dark she is laying below me, without any clothes on; naked, nude, and her ribcage is peeled back. It is so black that my vision has morphed into another sense altogether. In my desperate attempt to find her kiss, I let tiny little explosions of light lead me in to her holy lips.
My chest is stinging like a heart attack. For this is that moment I have thought about; that moment before my body presses into hers, for the first time. Like the first kiss all over again. A body kiss.
When our lips meet, I can feel her squirming and writhing. Her legs kicking. In-between explosions of kisses, she says that she can’t breath. She tries to articulate more, but words need breath to breathe and she is handcuffed by her swollen lips. Our swollen hearts, so close together.
As the intensity and frequency of our kisses escalate, I reach down, cupping her nipple for the first time, running my fingers up and over and down the curves of her lines. With my hand between her hips, I trace up and down her thighs. Instead of aiming for her wet heat, I reach all the down and below – to cup her ass with my hand. And,
She has soaked the sheets below us. My breath goes weak and so I cup my lips to hers and pull the little breath she has, all the way from her chest and into mine.
Then, I lean in a little closer and with as much surface exposed as can be granted in our positions, our bodies touch. Alas, our hearts are that much closer to being aligned.
I have spent years, nay lifetimes, in the forests of my heart’s strings and my head, and my life. I have heard the aspens quake. I have met riparian vegetation in the dead stall of winter, trunks creaking and talking in their rub on one another. For years, I have tread invisible paths in the winds of winter. Then, in one instant: I came into a green clearing where the sounds stopped; summer was suddenly much clearer there and,
There she was.
In ancient mythologies, The Fates were said to control the metaphorical destiny of all beings. The Fates are women. Of course they’re women.
Out of the winter of my life and,
We are sitting on summer’s empty neon concrete patio. Maples quake above. Light streams in through the branches, washing the girl’s face in limbs and hands and fingers of watery illumination. And I kiss the forehead of the most beautiful girl in the world because anything more may break the spell that I have her under/that she has me under.
We struggle to merely touch the exposed fronts of skin and try to breathe. We struggle against some unnamable, invisible torrent and complete indulgence; and the possibility of nights of sweaty, wet sex fading into the future of days. Because,
It is there. This heat. This possibility. That this could happen.
More than that, we both seem to know: there is a parallel between our sexuality and the reality of love. There is a correlation born in possibility. That when, come one, so too comes the other. In the least, they are related like twins separated by mere moments from the womb.
On the neon patio I order my last glass of wine for the night and I toast, silently, to The Fates and all the metaphors of the seasons and the light on her face. Then, the most beautiful girl in the world gently leans into me, with every fragility of our green love in full bloom between us and gently she tucks her fingers into my shirt – delicately brushing my chest with her knuckles and gentle hand.
I kiss the girl on her forehead and with a light head full of thought, I tell myself: Be careful what you ask for, you just may get it.
Intimacy is an unnamable torrent which rarely has a voice and typically is an apparition in the rare conversations it does appear within.
We have not had sex, yet.
But, we have been passionately intimate. For seconds at a time: with our bodies, our limbs, our words and yes – our emotions. Mostly, with our emotions. It has been gradual, a process, a climb, an ascent – towards climax. As though she is the best lover in the world, she is moving me closer and closer towards something illuminated. As though we are suited to be one another’s greatest lovers – everything, absolutely everything, has been wildly intimate.
The elements that we so often surpass to stand atop our ascent are all the little things that we have relished: learning how to hold her hand; tiny little kisses; sharing the vulnerable legs of our lives and some of the open wounds; her looking at me like in a way that I have never known, ever before.
We lay in her bed, clothes on. She is shy and turns away to undress herself. She keeps the sheet tucked under her as she lays on my chest, listening to my heart – nay my entire life – beat, because:
These steps of intimacy take our breath away. Every little thing is alive with a meaning that we feel more than we know.
I am ardor. I am here. I am now. I am alive. I am blessed. I am love. I am The Provocateur. I am not. I am red lust. I am pure terror. I am joy. I am intoxicated. I am thrilled. I am me. I am here. I am not. I am there. I am with her. I am not. I am missing her. I am craving her. I am aching for her. I am kissing her behind my eyes. I am Jonathan. I am a little boy. I am the man I have worked to become. I am not. I am better with her inside me. I am thinking of her, right now. I am not listening to you. I am paralyzed. I am taken. I am mystified. I am drunk on her. I am blown away. I am falling for her. I am blown away. I am falling for her.
Falling. Blown away. Paralyzed. Alive. Love. Lust. Ardor. Close to her.
Draw a picture of the perfect girl. List qualities. Traits. Idiosyncrasies. Possibilities.
Blink three times and then roll over into this moving picture:
She is in your bed.
The girl with the coconut hair and the baby powder body has her arm over her head and is trying to sleep. The sun is coming up and you haven’t slept much since the light has come into the room because you only want to watch her and relish in the unbelief, the possibilities, the idiosyncrasies.
When she wakes, you will lick her armpit and kiss her morning breath because you are certain that everything about her is perfect. When she wakes, you climb on top of her, delicately and sweetly because you do not want to disrupt the dream. She touches your hips, cups your throbbing sex from way down underneath, and sighs as though she is in pain. She looks into your eyes as though she had blind for her whole life, hitherto.
You blink three times and the gentle morning touching and delicate smiles become pressing and kneading and prodding and hands move up to throats and the fury of everything you have built together is boiling and the sucking on the skin becomes biting and the playful clit becomes the soaking wet cunt fucking your finger and your hard cock drips with her juices and yours and you finally, finally, finally press your sex into hers and you flip her over and bite and suck on the back of her neck and you are sliding on her slick heat, sometimes pounding into her and her back is arched upward and she is looking back at you with her head raised and there is a hunger in her eyes like there is starvation in your soul and you sometimes stop the movement just so you can hear her shoot heavy, violent jets of breath out her nose and mouth and eyes and ears and still, despite your animal fervor and inability to think about anything else in your life with clarity or duration, still, you do not slide your sex inside hers, for this is as intimate as you can handle with your small grasp right of divinity now, and the day is coming and she has to leave soon and you already miss her anyways and can’t wait for the lovesickness and the sightings and comparisons of her everywhere, absolutely everywhere, because all you do is think about her all day long and the next day until you see her again and feel her lips for that first time, that time.
And you are terrified when she disappears because you may just be completely crazy. And, in love. And you want to give her your heart – but you wonder, quietly and with manic breath: have I already given it to her? Does my heart belong to her?
You are so insane about her and sick with love that you have conversations with your heart when the girl is away. The strange thing is that your heart replies. Your heart says things like:
In the musical 4/4 time of your life, I will skip one beat every measure when she is not around. This silence is where Joy is. This silence is the reminder that this is love. That this is grave. This is your caveat and your achtung! Achtung! Achtung! This is where all the metaphors of your life become real. The lessons, manifest. The blessing, a holy gift.
Each night before I pass into my sleep comas, I praise my heart for its odes and canons and the fight that has never dissipated in its musical pumping of my body’s blood. I picture myself, these days and nights, smiling – for my heart is a fucking poet at the touch of her.