TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY BREAST
I could tell you all the story of my breasts, I ‘d be less embarrassed to talk about them, if I had your hand entwined around mine complementing my courage. (Don’t think it’s that easy or that painless to speak like this.)
Calmly plunge a hungry look in my neckline but, please, don’t look at me afterwards as if you could read my thoughts.
I would also like it very much, if I could see even if only for a brief second, my image reflected in your iris as if I were part of you. To simultaneously see your image entering through my eyes, that is, me in you and you in me, in a fascinating infinite projection.
(Let me speak, even if I seem foolish. Let me speak freely of my desires and expectations without any discipline at all. Without any criticism, allow my thoughts to wander. Could it be that the breasts are the one basic element of my anatomy that makes me feminine and differentiates us?)
Touch me. Feel how quickly my heart beats.
Over my heart are two elevations of my geography which rise with the sole purpose of provoking you, specially when I wear a certain black blouse held together only by a strap. Then, I engage your fantasy and I imagine that if you pull down the lace, everything is going to show and I will be nothing more than a morsel of a woman at your disposal. ( Perhaps, through them we have a link. An atavistic feature, for wasn’t it from some breast that we first fed?)
Go beyond fantasy and enjoy me. You want me and I need you.
At that point, if you don’t agree, I will show you my intentions in details. I will discard all garments, as if throwing off the wrapping of a present in order to bring about the happiness of the one receiving it. It is important to free oneself from all the secular prisons that limit us. I will retire the old corset, or the not so old brassiere, an attire that squeezes my flesh and makes me tense. — I am not able to undo so many hooks alone, I ask you to help me. With your assistance I will be almost naked. (These pieces are barriers trying to separate us when we embrace).
Look at my uncovered breasts, unprotected, entirely at the mercy of your cruelty or benevolence. They are all yours.
It will be a perfect moment that one when you — after unbuttoning me, seating on the edge of the bed — will encircle my waist, fitting your profile perfectly in the hiatus existing in between, right there. With a shy, somewhat embarrassed gesture, feigning a lack of commitment, I will move so that your mouth brushes one of my nipples. (My intention, however, is to feed you. To feel you dependent, turned into a baby.)
Suck me my love, while I let out a faint moan. Shape my pleasure with your lips. You can nibble at them, but not too hard.
Breasts are like fruits with transparent and fragile peels. Those who want to play with them must be quite refined and exact. Even when desire is mingled with impatience one must be careful. I remember that day when you caressed them a little roughly. My eyes filled with tears. I was neither being coy nor excessive. It’s just that I’m always more vulnerable right before my menses. (An essential component in breast metaphysics.)
Let’s lie down. Once lying, hide your nose in them, almost causing you to asphyxiate, or to drown, since for you they resemble the sea.
Besides being the sea, they can also be two drunk and disorganized moons swinging when I move trying to entangle myself with you, only to feel the delightful sensation of your hairy chest rubbing against them. You like to entertain yourself with these moons, especially on Sunday mornings upon awakening. And I want nothing else from all the Sunday mornings I am yet to have for the rest of my life than this undulation, this laziness, this closeness. ( An area in which your talent will never be forgotten; even when we are no longer together.)
I am ready to love; however, I am in no hurry. Let me first finish talking: I want to propose a different game. One that mirrors our image, our resemblance.
It’s because of this and of so much more that this simple woman allowed herself to invent a new game to give you as a present. Don’t be afraid, it is a beautiful game. In love all playfulness is permitted. Come here. Let me hold your sex as if I wanted to place it over my heart. I am returning the fondling you gave me. Therefore, rub me. From the friction of our skins, who knows I’ll be able to harvest the intensity of your brilliance in one little moment and to spread the produce on my neck, face, belly, underarm and several parts of my whole.
In the final lengthy squeeze, your drying semen will softly bond us together, uniting us. — How marvelous it is to be like this: to be two. (Because as a rule we are solitude; together, we make the exception.)
Copyright © by Joyce Cavalccante
United States Literary Representative is Veritas Literary Agency.
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