Bathroom Mirror

It was impossible for her to ignore the reflection in the huge bathroom mirror no matter how hazed over by steam it became. Positioned directly across from the shower, she was forced to assess herself each time she pulled the curtain back and stepped out. Dripping wet and naked . . . she considered neither her best look. She moved with an agile grace to the exacting expanse of glass and wiped away the foggy traces with her bare hand while wrapping herself loosely in a towel.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I even fair at all?”

Examining the image presented there, she had to admit that yes, she possessed a beauty that wouldn’t be denied. Genetics had been kind. Her Eastern European heritage had gifted as much as it had cursed her. Appraising the face that peered back through the looking glass, she was not displeased with the firm jaw, defined cheekbones and porcelain complexion. Her mouth – well shaped, but without the currently en vogue, oversized, pouting lips – was rarely lifted in a smile anymore often than twisted into a scowl. Then, there were the eyes that never failed to illicit comments . . . sad, haunted, probing. High, arching eyebrows drew attention to her large almond-shaped eyes, an uncommon color, pale blue randomly flecked green with a nearly navy ring at the outside edge of the iris.

Her most defining feature was a mop of ash blonde hair, her crowning glory. If she were to freely admit to a vanity, that would be it. She knew her hair was lovely and worked to keep it that way. Still, she was careful never to over do it, to keep the mane reined in and conservatively coiffed. It hung naturally around her face in relaxed tresses that she piled up on top of her head to get out of her way or when the mass was predisposed to being an unruly cloud of wild curls floating around her head and shoulders. No matter how she tried though there were always those ringlets that escaped containment falling as they may, softening the slightly stern and rigid look the updo gave her.

Stepping back, she surveyed the curse of her heritage. She would never be a little girl. She wasn’t large, but at five and a half feet, she was sturdy. Scanning down, she had a long neck and pronounced collar bones. She pinched a bit of flabby skin on her upper arm thinking that she really needed to get into the gym and on a regular workout schedule . . . the only way to resolve that problem. It was her opinion she could stand to lose a few, maybe ten, pounds anyway. She thought she had seen a mailer with a special offer from a local place earlier in the week.

She let the towel slide to the floor and continued the critical inspection. She had no complaints with her breasts. They were small, but had not begun to sag as had those of many of her peers; consequently, they held their youthful form, might even be said to be perky. In the past several years, she had started to thicken a bit through the middle. Still she had a waist, her stomach was flat and there where no “love handles” to speak of. Turning to get a glimpse of her backside, she could not understand how an ass that wide could fit into her size 6 jeans. She would have believed the pants mismarked, but she’d had many pairs through the years and it was unlikely they had all been sized wrong. She considered that perhaps by some cruel trick of her mind, she would only ever see that aspect of her physique as larger than life simply as a torment or maybe a reminder.

Her long legs evidenced her passion . . . running. Long ago she had given up any hope of having slender limbs like those found on the fashion runways and in magazine layouts. Once again her ancestry dictated the strong, sculpted calves and thighs that had only become more defined by the infinite hours spent placing one foot in front of the other. Besides, she treasured her time on the track. She was physically exhilarated by the exertion and mentally soothed by the steady, easy rhythm of her feet hitting the ground over and over, mile after mile. It was the only time she felt truly at peace with herself and the world. Personally, she liked the way her legs looked. She felt they gave her body balance, helped minimize what had been laughingly referred to by a past lover as the ‘junk in the trunk.’

She grimaced as she recalled a time long past sitting on the low stonewall lining a boardwalk with an attractive, young man. “What was his name?” She mused aloud. Although the name eluded her, she would never forget how enamored she had been with the self-proclaimed, new age guru. He had been a small man only a couple of inches taller and probably weighing no more than she. It had been a divine day on the sun-drenched beach, the azure sky clear, a light breeze cooling the sweat from her skin as it formed. They sat as he talked and she listened to his pontifications, their shoulders and tights touching. When without warning of a change in subject, he was saying, “You’ve lost some weight haven’t you? It looks good. Maybe if you lost a few more pounds, your thighs might slim down a bit.”

Never one to be ‘shocked into silence,’ her sharp retort in hindsight was probably harsher than needed or even meant. Before thinking the words tumbled out of her mouth, “Maybe if you started visiting a gym and worked on your scrawny-ass, little legs, you might not be so intimidated by beautiful, shapely legs on a woman.” Needless to say, that relationship went no further. She snorted, “story of my life.”

She sighed heavily as she let go of the negative energy that had hitched a ride on that particular stroll down memory lane. Pulling her attention back to the physical inventory at hand, she determined the best word to describe her figure was athletic. She could live with that, but she was going to have to do something about the pasty, pale color of her skin, the result of a significant lack of sunshine to bask in. This dank, dreary place she had called home for the last several years had robbed her flesh of the warm, golden glow so presumed in her youth. She decided to do an Internet search later at work on tanning salons and the options. She’d been curious for some time now about the whole ‘spray-on’ tan thing. A giggle erupted.

The pretty, middle-aged woman in the bathroom mirror cracked a subtle, Mona Lisa smile and responded, “What will they think of next?”

Falling . . . Finding

 
 
 
I feel myself falling

 

Into his eyes

Green

Like I’ve never seen

Into his arms

Strong

Now where I belong

 

Into his touch

Lust

Made passion though trust

 

Into his heart

Love

That’s all I dreamt of

 

Into his soul

Peace

To him full release

 

I feel myself finding

 

More than I hoped

Sweet

Connection complete

 

More than I knew

Whole

White light I behold

 

More than I thought

Truth

My intellect seduced

 

More than I could

Sane

New balance maintains

 

More than I must

Fate

At last my soul mate

 

I feel myself falling in love

I feel myself finding true love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lust

Eyes closed, she lays back, waiting.  Waiting for the moist reminder of their impassioned embrace to evaporate from her bare skin.  Waiting for the incredible euphoria of their love making to let loose her mind.  Waiting for his breathing to slow and turn to the gentle sounds of slumber.  She feels his warm, soft whisper on her neck, “I love you.”  Her only response the gentle curving of her lips in a soft smile.  She knows he is closer to sleeping than waking.  No reply required. 

 

This is the moment she most dearly cherishes.  Infused with the rapture of their own creating, she glows with the light he casts into her.  Gone the anxiety and doubts.  The darkness abated.  He has again touched her such that she would have never imagined.  He penetrates her more deeply than any man.  More complete their abandon with each merging.  He strips her of her inhibitions and liberates the wanton animal that lurks just under her final veneer.  He frees her and accepts her in that freedom. 

 

The last vestige of waking slips from him and she feels his essence drift away. It is for her as painful as the loss when he withdraws from her body.  She releases the tension she still holds with a silent sigh of contentment and lets the sense of peaceful completion conquer her remaining fears.  Quietly, she slips from his arms.  Looking down at this magnificent creature in her bed, she is assailed with unaccustomed emotions.  There is as always the overwhelming desire like a fire burning through her sensual core.  Still more each day there is the aching at her heart’s center, a strange tenderness allaying the years’ hardening.

 

She caringly raises the blanket to better cover the body she is coming to know as well as her own.  Just the sight of him ignites an instant of lust in her.  She could wake him.  He would never deny her.  Still, a look at his quiescent face and she lowers the blanket assurance the cool, morning air will not chill him.  She grasps her hands to her breasts to contain the wave of passion passing through her.  Eyes closed, she takes several calming breaths, then turns and leaves the room.

 

 

Wanderer, Wonderer

I am not a seeker. I always thought I was. I thought that was the path I needed to pursue to become complete. I know it sounds corny, but I really can’t think of a better way to describe my pursuit. So I sought and searched, but as with anything that is not natural for me to do, I could never maintain it. I wandered off constantly. The journey always so much more exciting and wondrous during the detours, that I can never resist the little side trips. I’m finally seeing, however, that I have learned much more than I realized in my wanderings, through my wonderings.

I would set out after a thing. Still, somehow I never got out of it what I sought. Yoga, for instance . . . I did it for the stretching, the workout. It isn’t that great a workout. I suppose, if I applied myself, I could push to perfect my form and make it about the physical. Reality . . . my Down Dog is always going to suck and balancing poses are a long way off for me. It turns out to not be that important. That really isn’t what its about. It teaches you how to get in touch with your body and to be totally present in the moment. The physical is just a path to the spiritual. See, I didn’t get what I was searching for, but what I got . . . WOW!

I think I’m starting to get it. Karma, fate, providence . . . call it anything you will. Life provides. It seems I learn and grow at the oddest times, in the strangest ways, via the most unexpected vehicles. I’m sure that seeking is the path for many. For me, however . . .

Lost I may yet reach my goal
Without finding all that I seek
I may still be made whole

Unconditional Love

She never hears the jangle of the keys in the back lock or the slight squeak of the door as it opens slowly. It is either very late or very early depending on your particular point of view. She’ll have been dozing for several hours . . . essential if she is going to continue these rendezvous’ and keep the job she so desperately needs. The pattern has emerged. She rushes home after work and hurries through her chores and activities with an ardent ache for him growing deep inside her. Once she has done what needs doing – and if she is able to compel herself – she immerses her consciousness in fitful slumber for what hours she can before he comes again to take her . . . body and soul.

The first indication he has once more returned is usually the awareness of his naked, muscular body sliding under the sheet next to her, his strong arms wrapping round her, pulling her without resistance to him. No matter her waking state, his touch always evokes a passionate response in her . . . even his gentlest caress, like an electric shock straight to her erotic nucleus. The attraction to him so strong that the mere thought of him is enough to make her vibrate with desire, the sight of him to cause her breathe to caught and a damp warmth to spread out from her sexual nexus. Never has there been any other like him. Never has she yearned so deeply for another. Never has she allowed herself such vulnerability.

Time together all the more precious for the sacrifices made to find it . . . 3AM trysts . . . cherished hours spent in passion’s embrace. Terrible the pain she feels each time she must tear herself away from him, but necessary for her to continue the façade of a “normal” existence. Each morning quietly stealing away from her perfect lover, she forces herself back out into the world. One last time before leaving, she gazes on the flawless masculine form sleeping in her bed, the impression of her head and shoulder remaining on the pillow beside him. Truly he has become for her an obsession, an addiction, a necessity to being. For this man and this man only, there is nothing she will not do, nothing she will not give, nothing she will not be. For this man, the gift of herself is unconditional.