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Yes, More, Please, This

By Shea KeatingPublished 2 years ago 4 min read
Photo by Conscious Design on Unsplash

My fingertips trace the curve of a spine, and for a moment I am captivated at how smooth the skin feels. It’s the kind of touch you start and then don’t want to finish; I repeat the motion, slowly, and I hear a breath catch in response. It’s familiar but new; like finding a new rooftop in a city you thought you knew every part of.

It’s familiar because I have been in this bed, tracing shapes onto skin, listening for changes in breathing.

It’s new because the spine, the skin, the breath...belong to her.


I’d say it wasn’t my idea, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think it was hers either. Not everything, I am learning, has to be planned in advance -- mapped out, worried over, to the point of obsession. We don’t discuss it. Not just here, laying in bed together, but ever. It is simply a thing that needs no discussion or explanation. Some things can just be what they are, without question. She -- this -- is so very different from everything I’ve ever known that speaking of it feels like breaking a spell, so I don’t.

We are blurred lines. Not quite one thing and not quite another, but some smudged, softer version of both. We carry on with our normal lives, though “normal” is possibly an overestimation of the truth. In the quiet moments, though, the in-betweens of our chaos, we always find ourselves here.

There was a night at the beginning, with a bottle of whiskey and a game of truth or dare. I’d blame it on the alcohol, but it wasn’t; it was her. It was her beautiful mouth in laughter, and the curve of her cheek, and this small hollow below her ear, and the graceful line of her neck.

Clothes came off so slowly and casually that it felt natural, comfortable; then we were laughing until our lips collided to taste the alcohol on each other’s tongues. And in a moment so small I don’t think either of us acknowledged it for what it was, her hand slid around the back of my neck, and mine slid to her waist, and something shifted. We were on the floor and suddenly all I could think was

Yes More Please This.

Having my mind so quiet was so rare, it felt like release.

By Andrew Seaman on Unsplash

She is something new; undiscovered country. The shape of her spine makes me unable to focus on anything else. I spend my time memorizing her skin; the way it looks at sunrise and sunset. I use my lips to map out all the places that make her shiver; I use my tongue to discover spots that make her breath catch; I use my teeth to find the ones that will elicit a sound.

The sounds she makes are gifts; not compliments, but vulnerabilities. She shares all of what she is, exposes all of herself even when we’re clothed. There are days where there are hands gripping fistfuls of each other’s hair and we both have battle wounds at the end; what we lack in titles and commitment, we make up for in passion. Seeing her panting and sweating for me is enough to make me come apart. I’d know the sound of her scream anywhere, and her nails leave a pattern nothing else could.

By Ava Sol on Unsplash

But most nights, the best nights, are the quiet ones. Where it is more exploration than destination; where the end is not the goal. Where she lays still and I simply float over her skin like a leaf on the surface of a lake; lips touching here, causing a ripple there. When brushing her long dark hair to the side so my breath can skate over her shoulder blades, when my fingers tracing all the unique lines of her ribcage, are the only plans I have for the evening. Nights where she spends an hour tracing intricate patterns onto my stomach, or uses her tongue to make circles along my thigh.

There are certain sounds I keep only for her; she is the only explorer ever to have discovered them. She can get me flushed and shivering and wanting, and I have the exquisite joy of making her fall apart. It is a sort of symbiosis I have never experienced before. It is more sensuous and explosive and feverish and intoxicating than anything else I’ve ever done, and it doesn't have a name.

We are simply blurred lines, and

Yes More Please This.


About the Creator

Shea Keating

Writer, journalist, poet.

Find me online:

Twitter: @Keating_Writes

Facebook: Shea Keating

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