Bed Exercise

I have to make a confession which is not going to please many people. Even the more lenient of you and the ones understanding my Frenchiness will take a big deep breath. You guys know I am not the most reserved person, I have done things to my body that even my dentist is grinding his teeth at hearing some of my stories. Several of you have participated in my escapades and experiences. A few die-hards are asking for more. Two or three can’t survive without at least a daily intake of my last foolery, frolic or rollick. But this time, I’m afraid, I went too far for you guys. I’ve slept with my friend. Yes, I spent the night in bed with my confident. Consciously and voluntarily. It had happened before but it was by accident and I often dismissed it as a youth error or because cognac was involved; who pays attention nowadays to a one-night stand, really? Specially when you travel in the deep south with your sister, or your aunt, or your uncle George; everybody knows that it’s OK as long as it stays in the family – what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, depending on your family status and the weight of your wallet. I’ve always been pro-choice for that matter: if I don’t disagree, it can happen to, with and for other people. But last night, I deliberately took my soul mate to bed. Just like that. I said “Let’s go upstairs.” And we went. The kitties knew something kinky was going on, they refrained from following us, and I swear to god I heard a couple of wanton remarks coming from under the wooden dinning room table. We ignored these lower-class vassals, we threw ourself on the king-size bed with complicity and improbity, daring the world over and over, panting to exhaustion, you know these heady moments, like a hangover without the over, where the body rocks to and fro as if dancing at the sound of the birds chirping and the breeze blowing; and then the air gets really cooler, but not from the evening, because of a storm perhaps or maybe on account of the chills doing the elevator thing at all the floors of the spine, visiting and rubbing the walls of the vertebra of the moment, moving haphazardly along the backbone, or so it appears until... until the elevator reloads a ball of fire in the groin, stamping in the coccyx for good measure before climbing, like mercury in a thermometer, through the steps, levels, floors, whatever, and the very same frenzy of sensations we’ve been trying to resist to wins the battle with the elevator hitting the cerebellum where it explodes in a thousand fragments paralyzing the central nervous system in a paroxysmal blast triggering a chain reaction of what is known as pleasure, ecstatic pain of pleasure diluting in the extreme spasm. And so we did it, me and my journal, we surrendered, panting from exertion with this exercise of style.