I've Missed You

I can’t even remember the last time I felt your hand around my throat—gripping, firm, pulling my head back toward your mouth. The way your tongue would wet me from my collar bone up to my ear, where you'd breathe your hot whisper into me, raspy and low, “I’ve missed you.”

I can’t remember the last time I saw you, touched you, took you into me—it’s been years, but I still think of you often. As often as one can from the other side of the country. Sometimes I text. Once in a while, I’ll call. We met on Tinder when I was traveling. I can’t remember where I was headed that time, but I think I’d just left a pot farm I’d been working on in Northern California. Summers were for working the music festival circuit, fall was for harvest season, and after that, I’d pop up to see one of my best girlfriends outside Olympia, Washington, for a few weeks before my next overseas adventure. It was on one of those fall migrations that I found you.

When we met, you were living in your box van in the Pirate Garden—a little plot of the city you’d laid claim to, impressively holding it either unchallenged or victorious. You had a brace on your foot, but we walked around town anyway. You were staunchly anti-capitalism, but I’ve always been a slut for a good cup of coffee in a cute café, so you humored me. You clubbed along beside me, showing me an old railway bridge painted like a rainbow. We sat on it for a while, dangling our feet over the edge. I told you about myself—where I was from, where I’d just come from, where I was going next. I can’t remember now which foreign country I was off to after meeting you. At that point in my life, you’d be hard-pressed to catch me anywhere cold in the winter. Probably Mexico. Maybe Southeast Asia. I remember you saying, “Oh, so you actually travel. So many girls on the apps are like ‘I love traveling’ and then go to the Keys for a week in the summer. But you actually do it—you’re doing it.”

“Living it,” I replied.

You took me back to your box van after that. There’s something magically erotic about not knowing if you’ll ever see a person again. You were firm yet gentle. Respectful. Always asking for consent. I remember you didn’t even have a phone—you used Tinder on an old busted laptop with free public WiFi. When I left, you gave me an email address and deleted the app. I emailed you. Months went by. No reply. I thought I’d probably never hear from you again, but I couldn’t help thinking about you constantly. I was ecstatic when you finally wrote back.

I think you were in Arizona by then, working the gem shows. When you weren’t in Olympia or Quartzsite, you were in Norway mining thulite. Or riding your bicycle across China. Or Italy. Or wherever you were pedaling that time. Eventually, you got a phone again and gave me your number. Every fall, when I migrated west, I’d visit my high school homegirl and now, you.

I always wanted to cook for you when we met up. I made one of my favorite dishes with you for the first time—on my little butane camp stove, out of the side of my van. I’d sauté sweet potatoes in butter, massage coconut oil into fresh kale, sear lamb with curry, cumin, and turmeric, then sprinkle crushed almonds on top and finish with a squeeze of fresh orange juice. I’m not sure where I got the idea or if it was even that good—or if it was just the memory of you that made me crave it. I remember making it for you in the Arizona desert, the time we met there. We pulled the cushions from my van and laid them next to a campfire. We made love as the sun set, then lay awake all night, whispering with our fingers interlaced. In the morning, I took a picture of you beside a large saguaro cactus. I still look at it sometimes.

Another time in Olympia, you were house-sitting—some artsy older woman’s place. Maybe a friend of one of your parents? I made you dinner that night too, but not before you absolutely rocked me upon walking through the door. I loved the way you needed me—had to have me—like you might go crazy if you didn’t. I’d see it in your eyes, feel it in the vibrating energy bouncing between us. And then, you’d settle, and we’d have a quiet night together.

I remember the stranger’s shower, your hands on my back, pressing me against the tile. We tried so hard to fit you in my ass, but we just couldn’t make it work. Too big. I always smirk, silently remembering.

One time, you took me somewhere special—Cedar Creek Saloon is what you called it, in Olympic National Forest. You used to call it home. You had moved yourself into the middle of nowhere, built a bar from the forest around you, isolated yourself for months. You hosted a massive party there upon completion, with a menu of tequila, beer, acid, mushrooms, edibles. And then, you moved on. I loved that you brought me there, showed me what was left before the rainforest reclaimed it. We stayed for three days. Making love in the rain. Eating mushrooms. Wandering the forest. Discovering new colors. I can count on one hand the times I’ve felt so calm. When we weren’t ravishing each other, I felt the most calm with you.

I can’t talk about you without feeling full of love. I remember when you picked me up from the Seattle airport in your little Toy Tacoma. Definitely not road legal, but you took the risk for me. We bounced back to your mom’s house in Olympia and tore each other apart. I always let you do whatever you wanted to me—hold me down, pound me, pound me, pound me until we were both painting in a puddle of our juices, mixing together. And then, you’d touch me gently. Slowly. Steadily bringing me back up, teasing, winding me up, pulling back, winding me down. Edging me until I was panting for you to go harder, to just finish me. You loved it when I screamed. And screaming is something I can’t help but give into when I’m with you.

Last night, I couldn’t get you off my mind. I woke at 1 a.m., aroused. Remembering the way you needed me. Had to have me. I imagined you tied to a bed frame—wrists above your head, ankles to the bedposts. I approached. You never liked being tied up like that, but how we got there didn’t matter. You’ve always wanted the control, you’ve always wanted to use me how you wanted and I’d let you. I teased you first with my hands, tracing your body, as it gave and pushed back to me—my fingertips barely grazing your skin. First with the fronts of my fingers, then I caressed you lightly with the backs. I stroked you gently. Then firmer. I pulled back and watched as the look in your eyes became more crazed - then I started teasing you with my mouth, lightly licking your neck and down your chest, pressing my wet and hot tongue against each of your thighs, covering them in tiny little kisses before I took your whole cock into my mouth—slowly, hungrily. I held onto you with my lips, massaging the head of your penis with my tongue. I could feel how wet my mouth was making you as I started to taste you in the back of my throat. You writhed beneath me, and thrust your hips up, pressing your cock into the back on my throat—muscles straining against the ropes, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

And just then, the rope snapped. Your hands were free. You grabbed me by the throat with one hand and flipped me onto my back, untying your ankle with the other. You climbed on top of me and entered me in one stroke. A moan, raw and deep, ripped from my chest. A wave of heat rushed through me, from my toes to my scalp. You growled, breath hot against my skin, thrusting harder, harder. You growled and grunted as I took you into me, thrusting harder and harder, my screams growing more guttural. You flipped me over, your left hand around my throat, your right hand around my waist as you pulled my body firmly back onto you. Your breath hot, hot, wet and hot on my back as our breath and paints exhaled in unison. You took everything I had and I let you. I was growing wetter with every thrust and I felt the impending explosion building in you - you moaned loud, I screamed a roar that could have been heard down the block. You pressed your tongue against the back of my neck, and wet the side of my throat as you pulled it up to my ear, “Fuck, I’ve missed you” you breathed, as you filled me with your white-hot release, shuddering as I drowned in my own tsunami. We collapsed in a slick, tangled heap, breathless, painted in sweat and pleasure.

I gasped, moaning quietly as I pulled my hand from between my thighs. My heart pounded. A slow smile crept across my lips. A wave of calm washed over me as sleep took me again.