Get Down Girl, Go ‘head Get Down

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A year ago I slipped out of my last real relationship.

And suddenly – without the dark cloud it had brought – I could finally see.

That I had everything I had ever wanted.

That I was everything I had ever dreamed I could be.

That I was whole alone.

Time by myself felt decadent – like dark chocolate left to melt on my tongue.

But it wasn’t long before I was swept into someone else’s story.

Another version of the same old, depleting thing.

And then the day came when I awoke from what felt like a dream.

To reclaim my life once more

***

“You know what I want?” I told my friend the other day. “I want loving, healing touch. I want someone who can take care of me, for once. I have no idea if I actually want a relationship. But, JESUS! I need to be touched! And touched well!”

And then for good measure I spoke to my friend Susan who had just passed away.

Susan, I said. Please bring me a man. I need to be touched. And none of this junk food sex either – I want gourmet sex. Bring me the man and I’ll do us both proud, girl!

A few days passed – two? maybe three?

And then I received an invitation.

From someone I had never met.

To come to his home that evening for tea.

How lovely, I thought, as the weather had turned frigid. How cozy.

So I knocked on this stranger’s door, and he let me in.

He hugged me.

Twice.

And made me a cozy cup of tea.

In a heavy, warm mug he had made himself – with two handles, to warm both my hands at once.

I sat curled on his sofa and he covered me with a knitted blanket his great-grandmother made.

I nestled in, allowing myself to be well-cared for.

We sat facing each other.

“People are drawn to me,” he said. “And I help them. It’s just something that I’ve always had.”

“Me, too,” I said, opening to the possibility of receiving from this stranger.

And then something began happening.

A powerful thing.

A thing without words.

“Here,” he said, reaching out his hands. “Give me your feet … I am a massage therapist.”

Had we world enough and time, a hundred years should go to praise those hands.

Stronger than any I had ever known.

Ever.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “This is just what I needed.”

“Then come, turn around,” he said. “Let me have your shoulders.”

I moved between his legs and leaned into him.

He gathered me up in his arms.

And I curled into him like a cat being warmed by the sun.

Like a dry sea sponge, I soaked him up.

I drank him in.

And I melted into him.

He was giving me exactly what I needed.

“Can we sit like this for a while?” I asked, smiling softly, eyes closed.

“Of course,” he said quietly. “Your energy is so nice. So soft … and fiery.”

We were breathing in unison, this beautiful warm man and I.

And so I breathed him in.

“Mmm, your smell,” I whispered. “I think I manifested you.”

“I manifested you, too,” he whispered back, and kissed my forehead.

He sank his hands into my hair.

He kissed the nape of my neck.

And then the beautiful man with the hands and the butterscotch skin took me to his bedroom.

And restored me.

Deliciously.

Again.

And again.

Thank you, I whispered.

Again.

And again.

Amen.

 

 

 

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