Solstice

In a Buenos Aires cafe where his-loose-collar leans into her-strappy-top and the last light of December summer shines on solstice shoulders, it’s crying time. Argentinos are perched on the slippery slide to shorter days. Get out the pañuelo, let your face break, is there anything sadder than the height of summer?

Up here, at the opposite end of the seasonal tunnel, we might cheer. But I’ll be honest, I’m bracing. Before we get to our sunnier season, we have some suffering to survive. 

Outside, low clouds pass overhead, black-streaked like a hornet’s nest. The field, shorn from the late cut of hay, splays for predicted snow. You and me, we den here like bears. Hemlock and barn wood walls frame the space, the woodstove pumps blood. Logs let out the light of many seasons. We might emerge after the spring thaw. It’s hard to know. 

Dinner on the solstice shouldn’t be austere. Hard Man Winter, that skinny fucker, needs soft edges to reach longer days. Fall field greens are fine, but make the salad small and double my portion of starchy grits with a drenching ladle of cassoulet. I need my softness.

You’ve poured glasses—large crystal Riedels—and filled them with a red so dark it looks drawn from an arm. They ring like bells when we clink. I have our dinner bowls—you’re already in your night clothes, snuggled under a throw on the couch. It’s 7:00. “Vermont midnight” in the cave. 

On your way to the couch you mooned me. Thumbs in your waistband, you stretched it down, just below the curves in order to say something with your lack of tan. 

Wind from the northwest crosses the Greens, compresses, and spins down the hill looking for a hollow to scrub. Winter presses against us. Wanting. Something. A leaf cartwheels—the last of a number nobody could count—then spins to catch up with the others. They are down the hill, I say, stacked wet and mucky in the berry canes. Hurry along. We eat, sipping our wine and taking edge bites. 

I think about you mooning me. And, I think about you mooning me, again.

Bowls cleared I consider dessert but return to the couch, sliding in next to you under the throw. You’ve sunk back, into the deep cushions, half-hidden, held in the folds; one leg up, one foot on the floor, face in your book.

“I saw what you did...“ I say.

“Uh-hmmm...” you reply, not looking up. 

I lean into the space where your hair warms your neck. You smell sweet—that golden spice-beeswax hit that never leaves you. “You’re teasing me--” I whisper in a firm voice.

“If you want something, say something...” you reply, not adjusting your gaze.

“You read your book,” I offer.

You nod.

I’m still thinking about your ass. When you dropped your pants, you stuck it out, then back as an exclamation point to the gesture. More than a pranky white moon, it was the full show. If you were fishing, the hook is in my lip.   

I look out the window. You read. Under the throw my hand moves through the split of your shirt and across the rise of your belly to your waistband. And under. Warm. No panties. 

Your skin here—the thin line of your hair as it descends and thickens—my favorite. I spread my hand slightly and cup you. Warm fingers wrap and rest on your lips. My thumb and pinky fit against the crease where your crotch ends and your legs begin. Heat rises past my arm.

A log in the woodstove pops in a shower of sparks, the wind pushes the window. A fox slips past the barn, pauses at the coop, then reenters the night trailing a snowshoe hare along the stone wall. Hunger.

You read your book. I feel a push for room in my pants, spit pools in my mouth. That novel had a slow start but it’s improving, I guess. My hand, the weight and warmth, the feeling of it on you is enough to make your insides tighten. You hold the binding more firmly than necessary.

I bring my hand up, the tip of my middle finger tracing from where you open at the bottom to your clitoris. I press for a second, rubbing a circle with three fingers and then move back down, letting my finger slip inside. Your wet pools. Normally I would go down on you immediately. But, this evening I’m following you. I’m playing it cool. 

I look out the window, you stare at the pages.

I keep my right hand in your pants and reach under your shirt across buttery skin. You’re warm. I hold your breast, feeling the weight in my hand, then move to your nipple and feel it tighten between my thumb and forefinger. Below, my finger slips in and back, wrapping your pubic bone, while others extend down to your ass. You are still except for your hips. They rock slightly, pressing me further inside. Your breath catches, the book moves closer to your face. Maybe you’re reading. Only, maybe.  

Winter in Vermont is a tunnel. Do not stop. Keep your eyes up, look to the horizon—focus on what approaches—and get your lights on. There is an end to this—we WILL exit. But for now we’re cut off. Hidden. Views of ourselves and the world around us, removed. Be careful in the tunnel.

With my palm above and finger inside, you get pussy and clitoris at the same time. It’s your jam...but you’re still reading. I smile. I pull up half your shirt and take your breast into my mouth. I’ve been gentle thus far—pretending like, “oh, it’s just me...fucking you with my hand...no big deal.” 

Kissing your chest, I show my cards. My left hand comes to my mouth, I wet three fingers then move back into your pants. I grip your breast, bringing the nipple to a point taking you into my mouth. My wet hand begins a steady rhythm. I stop now and then to fill you with a finger, then rub as my tongue rolls your nipple. 

The room is quiet. The woodstove draws air into the damper. Flames lick the glass. My finger makes a sucking sound in your wetness. Orion sits in the east above the dying apple. “The Hunter” as he is known. Looking for what?

I unbuckle and unzip with my left, pressing my jeans down just enough to be unconfined. I move up onto the couch. You stare into the pages, so bookish. I kneel in the cushions with your face at my crotch. I trace the line of your mouth with my tip. You open. I dip in, gather your spit then apply the shine like lipstick. Your tongue flicks out and circles me, you turn the page. I feel the suction of your mouth.

I put my right hand into the cushions behind your head. With short movements I slide in, past your lips, across your tongue then out again. My hand continues below, rubbing, in and out, spreading the moisture that’s pumping out of you. 

You collapse, turning off like a light. The book drops to your side, your eyes roll back. I look closer, in shock. The edges of your mouth curl upwards. You move nothing—your eyes open slowly and catch mine. “I’m dead,” you say without moving your lips and, “Do you want to fuck a dead person?” You almost get the whole sentence out with a flat expression, but don’t make it and start to laugh. Good one.

“If I didn’t, I do now.” We laugh and you flip over onto your tummy. Your arms hang off the back of the couch, knees press on the sitting cushions. Your ass sticks out and back, I stand, coming behind you. You look over your shoulder, still laughing. 

“Should we get curtains?” I say, as I drop your pants like a magician doing the tablecloth trick. With a snap they’re at your knees. I move in, grabbing your cheeks, I spread them to taste you. I push past labia, down to your clit, my whole mouth covering you, my tongue inside with your ass at eye level.

You’re vulnerable in this position. Everything is exposed. But, while I’m the one in motion, you are the one in control. Close to you, smelling, seeing, breathing the heat coming off of you, I’m yours. You have me wherever you want me. Fly by wire..

The grandfather clock chimes eight. I smell the galette I baked today warming on the woodstove; cinnamon, butter—the smell of your crotch on my face. Heaven.

Your low back is concave with a dip where the swale of your butt crests. My hips press into you, a bead of spit forms in my mouth—I let it fall in a clear stream. It lands, pools in the hole of your ass, and spills over into your pussy. I wet my thumb and make circles in the spit. 

You look back. Wispy hairs cling to your temple and cheeks—moisture comes from every pore. I move more spit onto me—I don’t need it but slick entering slicker is nicer. 

The earth rotates on an orbital axis of 23.5 degrees. Day length, warmth, ice caps—everything from the waves in Maine to shipping routes—take cues from this alignment. Solstice, from the Latin, “Sol-” for sun, and “-Stice” from the verb, Sistere, meaning “to stand still.” We have been moving and now, after the midpoint, we turn towards home and the longest day. 

So, we are still and also moving. On the couch the back of your thighs matches the angle of the planetary axis—your ass, slightly forward, I can see where you open. I place my tip right on it, press gently, and watch your skin stretch and take me in. The sensation is worth repeating. I come out and go in again before giving shallow strokes. You look back, our eyes lock, I lean forward over your back and pull you towards me as I come in all the way.

We kiss with a mash—it’s not playful, there is no parry, no slow tracing of lips with tongue, it’s like we haven’t eaten. Locked, my chest against your back, we fuck hard. You make a noise that escapes, unintelligible. Words, emotion, a cry. I hold on for dear life.  

I want to be here, inside of you, kissing, locked as one, for a geologic age. Let the mountains behind us reduce to a stream bed—let an ice age come and cover us. Let fucking fossils form.

I gently pull out and hold your ass in my hands, gripping flesh at the sides. My tongue reaches inside then up. I circle your ass, then find the center. I feel you relax, letting me inside in tiny increments. My arm wraps your leg and rubs your clitoris. The hand moves, the tongue moves.

Almost. You are close—it’s all I can do to hold off. But I do. In honor of the solstice and holding—waiting, standing still on the precipice before we begin the second half of our 93 million mile journey. 

On my feet I enter you again and wet my thumb. I slip in your ass up to the knuckle. It’s just enough to add a feeling of fullness. Your hand reaches under and adds the clitoris. I give long strokes, watching skin stretch as I come out and then reverse course. Underneath my thumb, millimeters away, I can feel me moving in and out. 

You turn over, and unbutton your shirt. My eyes eat you alive. You grab the backs of your thighs and bring your knees to your ears. Hard against you, right in the middle, I slide backwards slightly, then forward. The intimacy of face-to-face breaks my heart. “I love you.” 

I move steadily, gripping, my whole body flexing. “You’re gonna make me come,” you say with desperation, like we’re about to jump out of a plane. Please don’t, but also, please do. 

Knowing you’re on the edge I can finally let my guard down. All the information from all the nerves that I’ve been trying to ignore can now flood in. Tight pressure builds. I hold my position—rubbing against a deep corner inside you. You tighten, bracing like that moment before the roller coaster tops the first hill. Locked, mouth on your neck, we rock like we’re fighting until I feel you break. And come in waves, your tossing body bucking, tears at the corners of your eyes as I scream something guttural and continue moving, pumping, moving, moving, moving. And slowly, slowly, slowing. 

Still inside I kiss your face, tender, lingering, my lips against your forehead. Salt on your brow blends with fluid on my face.

I come out and tuck in next to you. Like spoons in the drawer, there is no gap; your ass against my midsection, legs tied together, my chin at the base of your neck, arms entwined. We’ll need the blanket, but not yet. 

The fire wants a log. While coals have a glow we need more light, and heat, and bites of that warm galette to survive the tunnel. We can eat it off the tray—stay here, I’ll be right back.