Back to the grindstone. I have been wallowing in the play of truth telling. Just a game, truth or dare. I have been picking the easiest path towards truth. Now is the time to hunker down and dare myself to think about the craft of it. My craft. My only superpower which is sex.
Leaving space. I think this might be the first rule. Space for the reader to sink into. Space for you to slip into my skin. You want to touch what I touch, bite down into flesh or slip your fingers into one place or another. You want me to lead you to the adventure and to stay with you, see you through it all. If I were to leave before the deal is sealed you will be left with this lover that you do not know and perhaps nothing would come of it. Like that time I set it up for you and it untangled one drunken thread at a time when I left the building.
But I must hold back in the actual act. I must slip in one finger and allow you space for two of your own. I must kiss one breast and leave the other free for your mouth. Sometimes our lips must touch over a single nipple. Writing like doing. Leaving space for the other. Raymond Carver does it. James Salter does it. We will do it together, you and I in the same heady tussle. You and I make love to them.