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The Telluride Post Card

by Stephanie Alfaia

Such intense eyes. The kind that greets you, entirely. The kind that notices any alteration in the wrinkles on your forehead when you feel uncertain. Eyes that ask, elated when your cheeks crinkle on a good day. No, it must have been the fullness of his lips. Peach pink and angel-like. He looked around and nibbled on his lower lip, disguising nerves – salivating. That’s the face I saw look straight up from his carefully served all you can eat dinner plate. “So, what’s your name?”

It was the tone in his voice. Confident but with plenty of room to pivot, adapt, adjust, or press further. His words vibrated – inquiring, curious, interested. That dot, dot, dot, that invites you to open up your entire being – crack open.

Crack open your chest!

I poured myself on the table. The way his long fingers wrapped around the utensils, made my veins burst. So firm, intentional. When I brought him home that night I had no intention to undress. We just agreed that going our separate ways was not an option. I blame the string. The intoxicating invisible pull.

Let me explain.

There was the statuesque figure sprawled on my bed. Muscles defined just enough to catch light and your attention, but tucked back, peering over long bones. It looked like strength. There was a certain comfortable, clumsy elegance about his limbs. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. How dare you think I’d defy circumstance and timing and connection and…

My clothes slipped off before I could finish my thought.

He was careful. That’s why. And I’m back there again, watching us. Alternating pressures, deep and long, short and playful. It was the flick of his fingers timed perfectly, with kisses on my cheeks. The waiting for high tide. He waited. He paddled along the shores of my curves until my thighs were flooded, reaching a moment he felt was just right to enter. And when he did, again it was confidence, but with plenty of room to pivot, adapt, adjust, or press further.

And again the eyes! Always locked on mine. Always inquiring, curious, interested. Inviting mine to peel open and let him in. That’s the key to good sex. You gotta enter every damn portal. Somehow, he knew that without touch, scent, without listening, feeling beyond hard shell, there is no orgasm. And so I did.

I gave myself one after the other. Every single time. I discovered what my body could feel. They didn’t mention orgasms in Sex Ed. Porn blends pain with pleasure. But deep pleasure is felt from the inside out, from the eyes. It spreads to the throat with every moan. To the chest, reviving the heart, fueling thrust after thrust. Genitals exist to remind us there is still a physical piece to an orgasm, they drag us back. Otherwise we would float inside ourselves, lost.

That’s the key. That’s why. The lesson. He created space for me to unlock myself,


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