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You are here: Home / Dreams / The Life I Do Not Lead

The Life I Do Not Lead

December 11, 2009 by D. A. Wolf 24 Comments

Come closer.

There is a dab of Chanel between my breasts. I have poured myself a drink. I am spread out on top of the bed covers, propped against red pillows in tangled sheets, caught in the turbulence of my sleeplessness, my nightly storm. Outside, the wind howls and releases, limbs bend and then relent, leaves scatter and branches scrape the window panes and sunlight will ultimately hold its own against shadow, but not just yet.

Nature in her hubris.

I will tell you again: Come closer.

* * *

What is mine for the taking: another sip so we may drift together in the black brew, in its jolts and fingertips, only a little dangerous, only moderately electric, only crackle and buzz as I stretch my legs and point, reminding myself there is still movement and control, parts that sustain their beauty.

And now, what is not mine: I am waiting and my eyes are closed, my pulse points perfumed, my blindness a willing companion so I may persist in the life I do not lead though these memories are real or perhaps I only imagine them; perhaps some are real and others, the splint of this alcohol that distorts recollection. But there are objects and I can touch them, even in this life I do not lead.

I wear the little black slip and you know the one – from the boutique near rue des Archives, and the light jacket with its draping that follows the curves of my breasts and the contours of my waist and hips. We are not required to bare all; spinning sugar into burning.

* * *

I cling to the trappings of the life I do not lead, the life imagined, the life once tasted, the life in another time and another place and you know that it is Paris, Paris where I own my certainties and my illusions, Paris where I know the difference between the two, Paris where I have been content, Paris where I have cultivated, jostled, reduced, polished, reconstructed, and shuffled into a fitting and unfitting mosaic in the making, always in the making – your spark, your ember, your spark.

Now there is this fiery drink and your voice that is lavish and never leaves me. There are remnants of luxury, an entirety of us in nine pages of a loose-leaf binder, hardly a beginning and still no ending. Perhaps this is the telling of a tall tale, a hard confection to be melted on my palate.

* * *

I touch the trappings of another life: dresses and shoes, scarves and gloves, earrings and bracelets, paintings and books, yes books more than anything, my wealth of books.

I tender the trappings of another life: manners and mannerisms, the transformation of speech that illuminates with the flick of a switch, that flows from my adaptive self, my chameleon self, my survivor self, the dreamer, the woman who lives elsewhere, who knows no address, who accepts without names although these too, I possess here in the depths of whatever I say we are to become, here in the way you write me, here in the life I do not lead, here where hunger swells and will not diminish, here where you enchant me, here where you are smoke and invention, and you are not here at all.

It is hotter now and I could blame it on drink but know it for what it is: you open the window, your arm weighs heavily on my shoulder as you sleep, but I will not wake you even as I hold our heat.

* * *

I sip fire and want more: I seek another source, a stronger source, an infinite source, a shared source so I may pour out a sweet excess and offer you a home in our pooled resources – the avid, the famished, the insolent, the impudent, the insistent, the delicate, the docile, the remote, the most proximate tip of flesh and spirit.

This is the life I do not lead.

* * *

In this life I do not lead I take inventory – un stockage de tout – china and crystal in the armoire, silver from my grandmother, etched florals on cordial glasses for after dinner port. These are trappings and mementos, objects that honor memory and I am the designated caretaker.

There are tomes and I allow their continuing entry. If only I could sprawl on this bed and read them all as you keep me company, memorizing my lines with your gaze on me and your palm on me as we abandon everything but our own alphabet: the undocumented spirit – birthed and swaddled, here for intimate gatherings of poets and painters, of artisans and shamans; here wherever here may find us.

In this life I do not lead I am the conservator of volumes on shelves and in stacks; they lend their structure to each corner in each room where they stand, teeter, tower, and proud in their imperfect bodies, so human in their lean pillars and spirals, books and more books for pointing to passages, for the volupté of their papers and inks and ideas, their palliative possibilities for whatever ails me. But now we are deep into the drink together, deep into my truest faith where you will find my sweetest senses: this, the life I do not lead, this, our sensory script, this word-sex that punctuates our pauses and your lapses in speech as now our breathing hitches and stops, alternating its patterns of teasing and release.

Your voice is undermining my resolve and I say yes and continue to say yes: yes to the moon that darts from behind the clouds, yes to the moan that cannot be stifled, yes to the shudder that lingers in our laughter, yes to the unidentifiable letters offered along a glittering line, yes as you begin again and again I sip and you press your salty mouth to my wrist, its kiss seeded and flowering on my forearm and then my shoulder, and now you are kissing the nape of my neck and I whisper closer, here in this crackling heat, here in these red pillows, here in this jumble of covers, here in the life I do not lead.

* * *

I am left to this: I barter with whatever is at hand –  the lair, the echo, the unread passage and its promise. I do not want a palace and you know it, only space enough for a selection of objects with which we may entertain. There are friends to welcome into conversation, so perhaps it is a palace after all, but for variation on the drink, the texture of your skin, your long limbs, your fur-covered chest where I may bury my face for hours and I cannot tell where lovemaking begins and stories end because lovemaking forgets its table of contents and burns its coda, and lovemaking is not sex. But this is sex and lovemaking, storytelling and lovemaking, and something else again where there are no answers and there are no questions. Here, there are nine pages of notes, nothing to confess and no shred of regret; we spill into each other in the life I lead and the life you lead, and I am the vessel that yields and expands, receptacle for wine and slumber, once drenched in the work of everything, now slowed in the torpor of mid-summer as you sleep and I wait until we begin again, here in the jumble of mess and books, here where you remind me that my fingers are crafted for Braille, my tongue for Braille, my breasts and my sex for Braille to read you over and over and one last time as you say that Braille was French and I laugh and we are friends most of all; lovers who must say goodbye, lovers who whisper come closer and we burrow inside our hard, bright blindness, each a bride for the other, a bride to say yes and accept goodbye.

* * *

In this life I do not lead there are poppies. In this life I do not lead I refashion landscapes. In this life I do not lead, we bathe together and drink together and shed disguises, abandoning our inventories and braving the hand without its pen. Instead, we store sensation in the barrels of the body, in cells and singing.

I close my eyes and sip again, your words lapping me, assembled to recreate me in your turn, here as I imagine you, here pooling and breathless, here as I stumble to architect whatever is necessary so we may persevere, here in the trappings of a life I do not lead, here in the selves I hasten to pin together into something that functions: a backbone erected to stand and fight, vertebrae fused to bend for survival, my supple form yielding to the wailing wind as I pray to trial by fire and fire by drink and the fire of your mouth, my limbs losing force and cradled only by your secrets and my red pillows as I recreate the life I lead from the life I do not lead and say to you now, come closer.

 

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Filed Under: Dreams, En Français, Sex Tagged With: eroticism, érotisme, half-drunk challenge, le vin pour une vie sexuelle épanouie, Sex, sexe, the life I do not lead, writing, writing exercise, Writing Under the Influence

Comments

  1. Aidan Donnelley Rowley @ Ivy League Insecurities says

    December 11, 2009 at 1:33 pm

    “In this life I do not lead, we bathe together and drink together and shed disguises. We abandon inventories and brave the hand without its pen. Instead, we store sensation in the barrels of the body, in cells and singing.”

    Wow. This is stunning, sage, slippery stuff. Scented with experience and lust and longing.

    I am floored by the personal nature of these words and their concomitant universal gloss. Each of us has but one life. A life we know intimately and yet don’t understand at all. And then. Then there is the life we do not lead. The life we imagine. The life made from bits and pieces of dreams. The tapestry of truths that are not ours. And this world? It can seem very real. It can *be* very real. So real we can taste it. And we try to taste it, to live it, to make it ours, don’t we?

    Reply
  2. dadshouse says

    December 11, 2009 at 2:58 pm

    I can definitely feel the heat. Wonderful stuff. Paris is calling. If only in dreams.

    Reply
  3. Kristen says

    December 11, 2009 at 4:35 pm

    Is it hot in here?

    Your staggering gift for writing is at its peak here, my friend. While reading this stunning piece, I thought of Michael Ondaatje. Have you read him? There is a rare beauty in your words that I feel when reading Ondaatje’s descriptions of bodies as landscapes, lovers as flavors.

    Absolutely exquisite. And more. I lack adequate adjectives.

    Reply
  4. jassnight says

    December 11, 2009 at 4:44 pm

    Ok, this was MORE than enough to get me Hot, Hotty, Hot!!!!

    Excuse me while I open a window (whew!)

    Reply
  5. Nicki says

    December 11, 2009 at 4:49 pm

    Amazing writing. So heated, so true.

    Reply
  6. Lindsey says

    December 11, 2009 at 5:34 pm

    I agree with Kristen and Aidan – there aren’t words to express the heat and gorgeousness of this, the longing and loss that suffuse each sentence.
    The truth of what every moment of our life IS holds within it all the things it is not, and the mourning for those things. This post makes me think of that most of all.
    Thank you.

    Reply
  7. Keith Wilcox says

    December 11, 2009 at 7:38 pm

    Sounds like you’ve got some unfinished business. I’m no literary guru, but I think it’s clear you spend a good deal of time contemplating all the angles of life. I, for one, am not like that — sort of a full steam ahead kind of guy (not much contemplating going on here).

    Reply
  8. Natalie says

    December 11, 2009 at 7:46 pm

    Damn.

    Reply
  9. Daily Connoisseur says

    December 11, 2009 at 8:15 pm

    Oh la la! Very provocative- great writing…

    Reply
  10. TheKitchenWitch says

    December 11, 2009 at 8:57 pm

    Can I hi-jack your sex drive? I’m ashamed to say that I’m a 2-3 times a week girl (if there’s no other assholery afoot in my life), and you seem to have a lot more endurance and enthusiasm. You are NOT allowed to meet my husband. 🙂

    Reply
  11. Elizabeth says

    December 12, 2009 at 12:10 am

    Have you ever considered writing erotica for intelligent people? Seriously. I know it doesn’t do justice to the passion or truth behind the words, but you do have a gift.
    Or these posts may reflect a season in your life?

    Reply
  12. Timothy says

    December 12, 2009 at 7:56 am

    You explore the membrane that separates the physical from the spiritual and you attack it. It is in all your writing. It is a gift to your readers. Powerful and beautiful writing.

    Reply
  13. BigLittleWolf says

    December 12, 2009 at 8:29 am

    Glad you guys enjoyed. And happy to raise the heat a little. It’s winter – a way to keep the energy bills down, and still stay warm? I thought it would be fun on that last bit of alcohol-fueled writing challenge, just closing my eyes and headed in that direction.

    Reply
  14. Elizabeth says

    December 12, 2009 at 10:37 am

    This post reminds me of Baudelaire — the residue of a Brooklyn Heights prep school education 😉

    Mon enfant, ma soeur,
    Songe à la douceur
    D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
    Aimer à loisir,
    Aimer et mourir
    Au pays qui te ressemble!
    Les soleils mouillés
    De ces ciels brouillés
    Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
    Si mystérieux
    De tes traîtres yeux,
    Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

    Reply
  15. BigLittleWolf says

    December 12, 2009 at 11:04 am

    L’Invitation au Voyage – how delicious!!

    Reply
  16. Natalie says

    December 12, 2009 at 11:22 am

    Look, I found the wardrobe for the life we do not lead: http://www.secretsinlace.com/product/460/Fully_Fashioned_Stocking

    Reply
  17. BigLittleWolf says

    December 12, 2009 at 11:30 am

    Uh, actually… I am familiar with Secretsinlace. Beautiful, and well made, and made for real women with real (post-baby) bodies. You should add a few tidbits to your list for Santa, and ask him to leave them in your, um, stocking. (Note: Your husband is equally likely to enjoy.) So glad you dropped this link here!

    Reply
  18. TheWildMind says

    December 12, 2009 at 12:22 pm

    Wow! Wow! You did a great job with that! I wish I’d known about that Half Drunk Challenge earlier! It would have been so fun to participate. LOL! In order for me to get my half drunk post in by the deadline, I’d have to start drinking now in order to just get the rough draft out! Then editing becomes a real task… and drinking at ten in the morning… sigh. I’m out of Bailey’s. It isn’t happening today. Damn! Dealing with these east coast deadlines really bites sometimes.

    Okay, this is one genre, I am most definitely uncomfortable with writing. It is such a challenge to, as you said, “nudge the words where you want them to go”. It’s also a challenge to walk that tightrope of remaining sexy and erotic without falling to the net of complete sleaze below. You did a fantastic job of maintaining the enticing sexiness without debasing the entire effort as so many can do… as I probably would do. LOL!

    Excellent writing! Excellent topic… wonderful, savory stuff!!!

    Reply
  19. Goldfsh says

    December 12, 2009 at 10:44 pm

    Again: stunned. This is gorgeous and rich and heavy, and you do this without making it too much. You never tip the balance. You write and pull back and write again… even your pacing is sensual. Layers of beautiful writing.

    Reply
  20. Cathy says

    December 14, 2009 at 2:57 pm

    Your writing always takes my breath away. This is absolutely beautiful.

    Reply
  21. Vanna says

    December 20, 2009 at 10:51 pm

    Intangible and compassionate!
    I have wondered how sex is like for other blind individuals other than myself, but haven’t had any luck.
    By the way, I’m new to your blog.

    Reply
    • BigLittleWolf says

      December 20, 2009 at 11:05 pm

      Welcome. Make yourself at home.

      Reply
  22. Pauline says

    July 24, 2012 at 1:39 pm

    When are you writing the erotic novel?

    Reply
    • BigLittleWolf says

      July 24, 2012 at 1:50 pm

      🙂

      Reply

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