flashquake Nonfiction

CHOREOGRAPHED BY TIME
by Wayne Scheer

Ours is not the sex of X-rated movies. You know, the ones where the couple barely waits for the front door to close before shirts and pants, bra and panties, are tossed, like bread crumbs in a forest, as they scramble to the bedroom. There, they fuck standing up; she with her back pressed against the wall, legs snaked around her man, and he with his buttocks glistening and tightening and thrusting to an ancient, primordial rhythm.

No. Ours is the kind of sex that folds clothes neatly before hand. Carefully, we pull down the bedspread before slipping into bed, letting our bodies adjust to the coolness of the sheets. Choreographed by time, I lay on my back as you nestle your head on my shoulder and trace your fingers over my once-dark chest hair. We talk of the day's events — a misunderstood comment by a colleague, a flower bed that needed weeding — as I pull you close, delighting in the sensuality of your naked body pressed against mine.

Slowly, I rise on my elbow, allowing you to find a comfortable spot on the pillow. We kiss, then we kiss again, our mouths opening a bit more each time as our tongues, like bashful children peeking from behind a fence, become more brazen with each outing. I caress your breast, feeling your nipple harden in the palm of my hand; you massage me gently, animating my desire.

Our bodies aren't as supple as they once were. Still, we fold ourselves into familiar patterns like complex origami with each part interlocked and in place. Moans and sighs filter into our consciousness like echoes connecting the past to the present. I kiss you now and the first time we kissed sweeps by like a warm breeze; I see the birthmark just above your pubic area and I'm viewing that same spot as you lie in the back of my father's Buick.

We share a history of love — our Peace Corps plans, raising our son, careers that mattered and didn't matter, the death of our parents, the marriage of our son, heart disease and breast cancer and backs that ache, the birth of our grandchildren. A lifetime of love flashes by as we hold tight and finally release tears of joy and profound sadness.

But mostly joy.

Especially as we hold each other afterwards. I, on my back, as you, once again rest your head on my shoulder and trace your finger along my once-dark chest hairs. We pull the covers around us, warming us from the post-coital chill and protecting us from the unknown future. As we lay in each other's arms, allowing the past to once again settle into the present, we close our eyes and drift into that nether world where reality melts into the imagination like a Salvador Dali painting, and only the familiarity of each other's nakedness grounds us in the moment.

No, ours is not the sex of X-rated movies; ours is the time-tempered passion of longtime lovers.

Copyright 2003 by Wayne Scheer

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