On the floor, a tangle of legs and blankets. The fire is dead and it is cold the exterior, but inside and underneath warm with the accompaniment of tender embrace, soft caress.
She stretches, smiles, purrs, pets and preens.
'I am the definition of well fucked.'
'Okay, I think I can die now. I have completed the highest possible of achievement.'
She shoves me playfully, pulls the blanket away and gives me the wry once over.
'You are fucking white as snow Bobbie.'
'Hmmm, but my mind is so dirty. It will have to balance it out.'
We kiss right through her smile. Neither of us is ready to disengage. We lay silent. I stare at the walls, the ceiling, anything and everything as she sleeps a bit, or rests anyways, head on my shoulder, eyes closed and occasionally squeezing me about the waist in a way that is the definition of good. The feeling of peacefulness is an odd and foreign thing. It is difficult to deal with.
We talk then a bit on unimportant, casual and varied themes. I heroically brave the out-of-blanket elements to prepare coffee. On my return with two cups of black she shifts, stretches, hands clasped above and behind her head, revealing perfect small breasts that require a momentary pause in locomotion. We sip strong brew naked.
When asked she states languidly she has no idea the history and significance of her surname. Nor does she care. She stares indifferently when I mention the Stuart kings, and also the wonderful irony of her wearing orange the night before. She nods and kisses me, basically to shut me up.
Strong, dark beautiful, the liquid gold thief.
Her face is pale, freckled ivory, her eyes light grey in the morning light. They are nearly always difficult to read, and tainted or painted with hints of her own irony, mischief or wry conspiracy. Leaning back and against the bundled up blanket as I stir the fire to life, stretching elegant limbs and sipping coffee.
'I love white roses. Did you know that?'
'Yes darling. I know all about the Stuarts. My father would not shut up about it,' she states as she leans forward to light a long cigarette, fitted in that longer cigarette holder, the kind that only the drag queens use anymore.
Fire is good, warmth encroaches. And the coffee is reasonable. She is almost better than anything possible, anything I could ever want or desire. Almost. There are the dreams and also, the poisons.
'Call me Jaco. Everyone else does now.'
'I like Pamela, thanks.'
'Suit yourself Bobbie. Suit your ghostly bitch assed self.'
Pamela talks about Montelbann next, her ex lover and financial assister, and how she burned his thousand dollar suits after she caught him cheating with a younger woman. This gets us off and laughing.
'He just kept saying, "why the suits? You know I loved my suits."'
We laugh. She looks so good when she laughs.
'And then begging me not to leave him, begging me to stay.'
I start on breakfast. Eggs and toast and orange juice and Canadian bacon. She eats like a champion. The next three days are warm in physical and emotional zones. More of gossip and details of our lifes both toxic and comical.
Wine and cheer. Cigarettes and beer. A game of chess. She routs me with no hint of mercy or remorse. We discuss my research and the terrible dependence, and also the freedom and experience it provides. The horrors too. And the pleasures. We talk about the nature of need and my beginnings in fear.
‘All my trips are bad. It’s okay, I kind of don’t mind them that way.’
But we don't dwell on it. She reads the journals. We discuss symbolism of certain things in them. We grow weary quickly of this, however. We laugh and make fun of me to great, grinning howls of exuberance. There is much worship at the temple of her body. Her talents are endless. And I can't keep avoiding the touch of her skin on my hands and lips. To add to my already crippling desire Pamela very seldom is clothed. Walking around the place freely naked she is majestic and we frequently fall together and explore new ways and old ways into one another's pleasure. And it is very good.