Taming Gregory

I woke last night from a dream about rhythm. Sometimes I dream about flying, or singing, standing on a cliff with my voice soaring into the sky. It feels like freedom. I always wake up wishing those dreams were real.

Lately there is a less angelic longing burning inside me and I dream of rhythm, sexy, funky beats and deep vibrations, the way my bass feels against my body when I play. When a beat is good you feel it in the trembling space between your hips, it lifts you up by a hook in your pelvis and your body starts moving.

Gregory and I always play music when we play. Trance rhythms, tribal drums. I keep the bedroom hot and humid like a Florida swamp. It helps our muscles relax.

I burn a rich incense; copal, amber, or frankincense. There is a whole vanilla bean leaking tiny brown seeds into the massage oil, adding its aphrodisiac fragrance to the lush atmosphere. I rub him down with the warm oil, memorizing the shapes of his body with my palms and fingertips. It keeps his skin soft and stops the leather cuffs from chafing his wrists and ankles.

I’m not interested in “the scene”. There’s always a twenty-year-old exhibitionist dragging around her latest plaything by a leash, a shy beginner with a too-tight g-string cutting into her hips, a self-proclaimed Master with a penchant for ignoring safewords. I’ve been to the parties, run the cold tip of a knife blade around the nipples of a stranger who arched in exaggerated ecstasy, shown off my slave’s obedience to an appreciative audience, had my breasts fondled and my ass whipped by friends and strangers. I'm bored with it. To me, it’s not sexy, and it’s not intimate.

What I do with Gregory feels different. I couldn’t care less about the bondage equipment and the toys. I get tired of the setup time, the untangling of ropes, the unwieldy clanking weight of chains and straps and buckles. That’s not my fetish, but it is Gregory’s, so I do it gladly. He’s good at asking for what he wants, and I’d stand on my head if that’s what would get him off.

What interests me is the journey, and being the one to take him there. I’m the kind of person who is always doing ten things at once, but when I’m getting inside Gregory’s head, that’s all I’m doing. He holds my attention.

Gregory is a pretty boy with a face like a Rembrandt angel. When alert, he moves like a dancer, but when he’s tired, or stoned, he feels his way forward with his feet and hands – not looking but touching.

He likes to say that he feels the most balanced and at ease with three points of contact; both feet on the floor, a shoulder or a hand against the doorframe. It is a part of his sensuality that if he cannot be caressing a lover or a cat, he will occupy his hands with something, anything. He is a part of a circle of friends who are matched in their intelligence and hedonism, but he stands out as being the only one for whom sex is a primary fascination, second to all other interests.

He is insatiable, an adult with a teenager’s endless need for sex and a child’s need for attention. I give it to him. With Gregory in my lap and his mouth on my breast, I feel the same maternal warmth and satisfaction as I would with a baby of my own.

I invent new games and ways to please him; he asks to be spanked, and I put him over my knee, but I find a way to wrap my legs around him and slip him inside me. Every slap pushes him further into me. I give him his punishment and reward in one inseparable act. I can’t tell which he likes more, the pleasure or the pain.

He has an endless need for sensation, and I have an endless desire to provide it. The degree to which I can predict and control his response is astonishing and addictive. The rhythm of our encounters is the soundtrack to my life. He keeps me moving and I don’t want to stop. I need less sleep after I’ve been with him.

Yes, I have a life outside of our bedroom. but there is a boundary I wish I could break, the one that draws a line between love and sex and the rest of life. When I was a child, I wondered how people went about their day after a sexual encounter. Did they think about it constantly, or did they just think about the task at hand - the grocery list, the household chores?

The woman at the library might give a fantastic blowjob and later kiss her mother with that mouth. This hand has changed a baby’s diaper, sculpted the contours of a woman’s face in porcelain, and curled into a fist and slipped deep inside my lover, and the point is that all of these were acts of kindness - loving, beautiful acts. I know I am supposed to compartmentalize these experiences, cleanse myself of these thoughts the way I wash my hands in between activities. I just don’t have the knack of shutting this away as others seem to do. I think about him all day, my escape, my amusement, my muse.

My life outside our bedroom does not seem compelling enough to record. I have an office job, I make a living. I play bass in a local band. I have friends, and sometimes we discuss our sex lives, and sometimes we don’t, and I am left to wonder why. The rest of the space in my life is sacred, and it is for Gregory. My long-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful boy.